II
Like the clock itself, the muted cry of the alarm verged on the antique. The ancient digits on its primitive face read 5:00.
The beeping woke a tired man who had long since ceased to be concerned about the latest, the newest, the most technologically advanced version of anything material. His entire world, his entire existence, had collapsed around him.
Unconcerned by such considerations and now equally awake, the dog clambered joyfully over him and the woman who had been sleeping next to him. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, she was more beautiful than the day they had married. She watched as he rose quickly. They did not speak. Speaking would invariably lead to the subject that concerned them most, that had all too swiftly come to dominate their lives: a shared heartbreak they could scarcely handle.
The pain that shone in his eyes did not arise from his back or any other part of his body. The ache that circumscribed his existence came from elsewhere. It could not be assuaged by medicine old or new, by physical manipulation traditional or unconventional. He only knew that he could not live with it. There had to be a fix. There had to be. Otherwise he knew that while his body might live on, his spirit would die.
Under normal circumstances, the silence that now filled the bedroom would have been comforting. That was no longer the case, and had not been so for some time now. Only one thing would now comfort the man. Maddeningly, that one thing was completely outside his control. He was a spectator to the slow, agonizing demise of his own soul, and could do nothing about it.
The knowledge of his own helplessness in the face of the tragedy that loomed over him tore at his gut every waking hour of every day.
Turning, he found himself gazing into the face of his wife, his life partner. They had been through everything together. Despite the anguish that now consumed them, their love held strong. If love could fix the present situation, all would have been well and done with months ago. But what they faced could not be healed by love.
It’s all in the hands of others, he thought morosely.
Where his eyes flashed impotent rage, hers revealed a lack of sleep. Plainly she had been awake much of the night. Watching him, perhaps. Or staring off into the distance, hoping to see a savior and finding instead only four walls on which was painted nothing but desperation.
He shambled slowly to the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was modern yet comfortable, clean of line without being stark. He performed the usual ablutions. He treated his teeth. In the mirror, a half-dead man stared back at him.
Have to do better than this, he told himself. For her, if not for yourself. Appearances. Morale. Pull it together, man.
He splashed water on his face, and the cold shock helped. So did the attentive presence of the dog that watched and wondered and, by his casual canine indifference, helped to remind his master that the world outside had concerns that went beyond his own.
A glance through the window restated the dog’s assertion. The towers of London soared skyward in the soft light of early morning. Some were of recent vintage, reflecting advances in building materials as well as shifts in architectural taste. Others lingered from earlier eras, refurbished to contemporary standards or preserved as structures of historical importance. Aircars both public and private soared between the towers. The Celts would not have recognized the skyline, nor would the Romans or the Vikings or any of their successors. London was every bit as much an eternal city as Athens or Rome. Bustling with triumphs and tragedies, it would go on no matter what.
As he headed back to the bedroom and to his waiting, silent wife, the man was not at all sure the same could be said of himself.
The rural thoroughfare down which the sleek silver hovercar hummed was not equipped with a guide strip embedded in the surface, thus forcing the man to do his own driving. The effect of the lush English countryside through which he and his wife were speeding did everything to try and improve their mood, and failed. Actually there were three passengers, if one counted the plush bunny that reposed in his wife’s lap. The gentle permanent smile on its fuzzy face was not replicated on the visages of the two human passengers. In the distance behind them, loops of suburban London sprawl curled across the green hillsides.
By now the turnoff among the trees was all too familiar to them, as was the sign they whipped past: ROYAL CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL.
The original Victorian estate was well preserved and the extensive modern additions indistinguishable from their architecturally important predecessor. After parking underground, the couple made their way up to a corridor with which they had also become far too familiar. Alerted to their arrival, Dr. Ainsworth was waiting for them. He glanced at the bunny that the woman clutched to her chest like a plate of medieval armor, and began to speak. Softly, knowingly, but not reassuringly. He desperately wanted there to be a surrogate for the truth. That was something all physicians had wished for since the beginning of time. For this couple, he had none. No substitutes for a harsh and uncaring reality.
As he spoke, air gurneys driven by hospital attendants drifted quietly past them while nurses moved from room to room. His calm but unyielding words were, unfortunately, nothing new to both of them. Occasionally they nodded without comment as they listened, long since numbed to what had become a sorrowful, unyielding litany. No change. No improvement. There being nothing more he could do, the doctor left them to their grief. There is a point in medicine when more words become not only useless, but counterproductive. Experienced as he was, the doctor knew that point had been reached.
The girl on the bed was eight years old. Cocooned by the most up-to-date equipment at the disposal of modern medicine, she lay motionless, breathing slowly and evenly, her eyes closed. Her skin was soft and the color of fine cocoa. What remained of her long black hair was combed neatly away from her face. The disease that was devouring the raven strands along with the rest of her body had rendered her even more slender than usual. She was barely clinging to life. She would not see her ninth birthday.
Her mother lifted the little girl’s too-thin arm and slipped the bunny underneath it, willing herself to believe that her daughter could feel the touch of synthetic softness. She looked for a smile, a twitch, a reaction of any kind. There was none—only the soft hum and occasional beep of the attentive but emotionless devices that were keeping her daughter alive. Bending, she gently stroked the girl’s left cheek and kissed her lightly on the forehead while with her left hand she tightly grasped the delicate fingers of the girl’s right hand. As always, there was no response. Having held back as long as she could, the mother began to cry. Outside the hospital room window, a country breeze stirred the leaves in trees that kept watch.
Unable to keep it together any longer, her grief-stricken father turned and fled the room.
It was peaceful on the old stone deck outside the hospital. In the distance, the towers of Greater London pierced the horizon. Here and there, patients sat alone in chairs, enjoying the fresh air. Nurses and attendants wordlessly pushed less mobile patients from place to place across the carefully landscaped yard, sliding them among rows of flowers and shrubs like ships between green waves. Birds called—against all odds, wild birds still dwelled in the English countryside. Even that cheerful chorus could do nothing to impact the man’s misery. Complete, utter, and overwhelming, his despair was matched only by his sense of powerlessness. His daughter was being taken from him, her life draining away as surely and steadily as liquid from a punctured bottle, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
“I can save her.”
Startled and uncomfortable at having been observed in such a vulnerable position, the young man turned.
“What did you say?”
The stranger who had spoken looked to be about the same age as the distraught father, though it was difficult to tell for certain. His hair was neatly combed, his body beneath the unremarkable clothing svelte and solid. His face was narrow, his eyes remarkably penetrating. Grief-stricken father and enigmatic visitor stood eyeing one another. At the moment, there was no one within earshot—they were alone with the grounds, the hospital, and each other.
“Your daughter. I can save her.”
There had been no hesitation in the stranger’s voice, no uncertainty. It hinted at an unshakable confidence that would extend to everything upon which it might choose to comment. The stranger had been stating a fact, one his tone suggested was incontrovertible.
A ridiculous claim, Tom Harewood knew. All the best doctors had been consulted. International specialist sites had been queried. There was nothing more that could be done for his daughter. And yet . . . and yet . . . there was something about the oddly imposing stranger that deserved, if not confidence, at least a question.
“Who are you . . . ?”
He broke off. The stranger’s expression was one of silent, unspoken presumption. Harewood struggled to focus on it, but it was difficult to see anything save the face of his wife, and of an eight-year-old girl whose condition had degenerated beyond anything resembling encouraging.
Those faces and not the words of the stranger kept Harewood from simply turning and walking away.