13.
Moral Migraine – The New Adoption – Not a Promise We Want Him To Keep – The Orchid Flowers – Metaphysics, Because The Island Is Like That
Ben kept careful watch on Hurley out of the corner of his eye as he stirred another mug of oolong tea. Kyra's empty mug sat by the sink, forgotten as the informant herself had slipped out to prepare for her coming departure. Now the little home was filled with the quiet sounds of Ben's activity in the kitchen and the mutters of Hurley as he rested on Ben's low-seated burgundy couch, an arm slung across his eyes.
Hurley claimed he had a major headache, which had been obvious enough from the expression on his face when he had charged in earlier. Recalling it, Ben's gaze flickered to the slender Nokia that now rested at the far end of the counter, pushed away as if it might bite. It was not Penelope Hume that had called back a little while ago, but Richard, explaining in tones of surprise what had occurred in Los Angeles. Feeling some of the same shock that Penelope had felt – though he would never know it – Ben had thanked Richard for contacting him and then set the phone down with numb fingers. Hurley didn't ask about the phone call.
He didn't need to. The corner of Ben's lip twitched in thought. This place changes us, each of us in some way. For good or ill. What has it done to him? He tilted his head slightly at another groan from the couch.
"Dude, this is like an epic migraine. I think I'm gonna hurl."
Ben kept his tone low and comforting. "It's a hardwood floor and I have a mop. It might shock you, but I am moderately accustomed to sickness. Young children have very sensitive tummies." He shoved away the thought of a sweetly smiling little girl and dosed the tea with a touch of honey. A moment later and he was crouched next to Hurley, offering the sweet-smelling mug.
"Whassat?"
"Tea, Hugo. Oolong. It has a little honey and I brewed it with a touch of ginger. It will help your stomach."
"It's dirty water, dude." He sounded hesitant.
"So's that atrocious soda you drink. I can make a case for the worth of this. Sit up, please." The image of little Alex rose again, and he pushed it away again after a moment's contemplative thought. In a way, Hugo was now his latest ward. A soft voice at the back of his mind murmured that this time, we will do better and then drifted away, leaving him with a sense of discomfort at that aspect of his role. He glanced down at his reflection in the mug then up as Hurley shifted into a sitting position. Hurley was giving him yet another odd look as he took the mug offered. "It's nothing, Hugo. I was thinking of Alex."
"'Kay." Hurley fiddled with the mug, then took a careful sip. He made a face, but then continued to work at the liquid. "You said this'd make me feel better, right?"
Like a boy on bitter cough syrup. "Yes, Hugo. I believe so. Is your headache the only thing bothering you?"
It was Hurley's turn to drop his gaze into his mug. "Did I do the right thing today?"
Ben arched an eyebrow. "You saved Mrs. Hume's life. I would be hard pressed to call that a wrong."
"Yeah, but… I used you to do it and what if I shouldn't have poked in at all? I mean, yeah, Des and Penny are our friends and all and I want to help everyone, but it's… I mean, I kinda pushed things around doing it."
Ben looked at him for a long moment before the light dawned on him. He almost laughed. "Hugo. You're not Jacob. You will never be Jacob."
"You can't promise me that, dude! People change." Hurley's face tensed and then dropped into a lonely little frown. "And I didn't even really understand it while I was doing it. It's like a piece of me knew what was going to happen and I just reacted and what if that piece isn't me?"
Ben coughed out an odd, bemused noise that was still not quite a laugh. "You're not possessed. By Jacob or the spirit of the island or whatever it is you fear. It's just you in there. I'm certain of it. You reached out and helped someone because you could and because you care for your friends on their own merits, not what you believe those merits should be or become."
"But what if I do become like him in a while? Decades, or something?"
"I would measure a metamorphosis like that in centuries, Hugo."
"Yeah, but, what if? What if I weird out and start just manipulating people like crazy because I think I should?" Hurley was looking at him with earnest concern.
Ben shook his head and took the half full mug away from Hurley, setting it on the coffee table. He then leaned forward and looked into Hurley's eyes with wry openness. "Then, Hugo, if it makes you feel better and I am still present, I'll stab you to death, too. Would that help?"
Hurley looked back at him for a long moment and then leaned back, heaving a nervous, embarrassed laugh. "Dude, I should not find that funny." Another great rumble through the belly. "Because this time you're probably not joking."
Ben sighed and leaned back again. "No, I am this time, as well. I doubt I have it in me for another great treachery of that magnitude, Hugo. Nor could I possibly believe that you, of all people, would deserve it." He stood up, taking the mug with him back into the kitchen.
"Then what am I? What am I gonna be?"
Ben turned his head to glance back over his shoulder. "Just you, Hugo. Always you."
. . .
Like the change of seasons, almost every man-made aspect of the island had been altered in the short time since the protectorship changed hands. Cabins were torn down and remade, entirely new, old memories swept away for fresh ones. The docks were rebuilt; the airstrip properly updated for its visitors, and many of the old Dharma stations had been at last fully dismantled and left to decay in the wilderness. Save one – deep in rich smelling jungle, the old greenhouse still stood, cared for by the residents and home to a floral display of colors of all kind. In the corner of it rested a shiny new elevator, dedicated to carrying its guests below to the secure and thoroughly updated Orchid research offices.
The old station was separated into several parts; some used for mineral testing, some for simpler historical research (now smelling of must and paper and the soft perfume of the archaeologist, Renee), and the biological instruments and scopes left in an ascetically kept corner lab by Dr. Ellis. He whiled away most days examining personnel files, plant samples, soil samples, even the water itself for clues about what Mr. Reyes and Mr. Linus referred to as the 'special properties' of the island. Neither had clarified the phrase to him, explaining that they wanted his fresh and unbiased opinion. Ellis, thus far, had no full theory he wanted to put a name to.
As a biological and human immunity researcher, he crosschecked environmental possibilities while paying careful attention to the health history of those local files he accessed. In interests of extra privacy, each file went unnamed (although in many cases he could figure out what file meant what resident) and he abided by his personal medical oath to not discuss particulars with anyone else. Under the letter of his contract to the current job, he may not have been required to abide by HIPAA, but he was going to anyway. May as well; much of it was strange and would probably get laughed out of serious journals.
He could find no trace of why, but in all cases – save two, and each was curious in its own right – residents of the island found themselves gifted with increased recovery from ills that would have taken far longer on the mainland. No connection, save location. No hints in the environment save an increase in the background electromagnetic readings and a slightly stronger mineral signature in the water. Nothing very unusual; trace magnetic elements, extreme purity of the water itself, high oxygen.
Each day he came down to the lab, puttering with instruments, checking and rechecking readings. He grunted to himself, wordless noises of thought without regard to his surroundings, looking up only occasionally as Renee (she would laugh at any attempt to call her Dr. Kircher) passed by. It was his new rhythm, and he found his own sort of comfort in it. Also, she was a nice view. He'd been entertaining the idea of asking her to dinner, although his taut nerves would likely never allow it.
It was an early evening, and far above and far closer to the beach, Hurley was nursing his headache and his moral dilemma. Meanwhile, below, Dr. Ellis passed between the two folders that had caught his interest, dark-skinned brow knitted under darker hair. He shook his head now and again, finding no correlation. No idea of why these two were different, only that they were.
"Something being a pain in the ass?"
The voice startled him out of his thoughts and he jerked his head up to see the archaeologist leaning over a high counter towards him. She grinned, looking rueful. "Sorry about startling you like that. I've got a stone sample from the foot getting crunched through the system, thought I'd wander around for something to do."
Dr. Ellis put the folders down and tilted his head at her. "Anything odd there?"
She shrugged. "Nothing worth pointing a finger at and screaming 'Holy shit!' Trying to figure out where they got all that rock to carve the silly thing; it would go towards telling me either how this place was first colonized, if it was colonized again after an initial arrival by early Mesopotamians, or just confuse me further. Probably that last one. You look like you're in the same boat." She jutted the chin at the folders.
He hesitated, then sighed. No harm in vagueness. "My expert opinion at this time is that this place is weird. Immunity is way up. Recovery rate for all sickness or physical distress is up. Pregnancy, curiously, is low." He looked up at Renee's furrowed brow. "I have multiple case histories on the topic. Until recently, pregnancy was almost always a fatal or near fatal event. Now, I've got normal background radiation and a whole lot of unusual electromagnetism, plus something else crazy-"
She cut in. "Does that 'something else crazy' include a bump in some surface radiation?"
He laughed a little. "Yeah. Like a nuke got popped here at some point, but it's not enough to still be causing these sorts of fetal and maternal fatalities."
"It was a nuke. Big guy blurted something about it. Back in the late seventies. Doesn't match the soil record, though. Lot of energy went totally nowhere."
He blinked at her. "This is getting all very Star Trek."
She gave a rough little chuckle. "You're telling me. So what's up with those two?" She flicked a finger towards the files.
"Two separate cases of slower than normal recovery." Another hesitation. He licked his lips and considered. It would be good to think out loud, if he were careful.
Renee gave him a bright smile. "If it's medical privacy on your mind, that's cool. But if it's just weird, I'm all ears."
"Between the two of us. And don't press me for personal details. Both files are anonymous." He waited for her nod before continuing. "One is an older file; spinal tumor that got within a hair of the shady side of inoperable. That in itself is weird – I have a testimony about recovered brain cancer, of all things. That cancer moved in off the island. This was an on-island case where no other cancers develop. According to the history, it was operated on, tumor fully removed, but then the patient continued to heal relatively normally. Off of here, that'd be wonderful. Here, it's an anomaly. Based on the pattern of recovery, the patient should have been rock climbing just a few days later." He looked up at Renee. "So what's up with that? Island houdou suddenly decided to not work?"
"Hunh." A flash of a smile. "Useful answer, I know. The other?"
He bit his lip. He had to be careful with this one. "More current. I have someone with a prion disease who, according to these checkups, is stabilizing. They are not, however, in full recovery. Just stable. A miracle anywhere else, but again…"
"Prion disease?"
"It's a kind of broken protein. It transmits to you, the body doesn't know what to do with it, and so it builds up and leaves more broken protein in its wake. All prion diseases affect the brain tissue, so far as we know. All of them are thus far incurable and fatal. You'll have heard of one – bovine spongiform encephalopathy."
"Mad cow." She scratched her chin.
"Lord, I hate that term." A touch of the Alabama ghetto boy came out in the drawling invocation to God. "But yes. I've never specialized in prion immunity, but I have a colleague who does and it's maddening work."
"So someone around here has-"
"No. There's some other infections or diseases that crop up. This one is very specific. Genetic. And… that's all I'm at liberty to discuss." Fatal familial insomnia. Saying it would identify the victim immediately. By the look of the Indian gentleman's file, he was in the second stage of the disease. The third would be the one to eventually kill him – and yet, meanwhile, he was stable. He was not, however, cured. An anomaly. The brain cancer victim had tested full recovery at least twice.
Renee straightened up to stretch and recross her arms. She appeared to think for a long while, then leaned down towards him again. "Maybe – I'm just throwing shit out there, I do this with my girl when we're brainstorming – maybe it's not all up to the island. You're not finding anything because there's not something to find."
He leaned back in his chair, looking at her. "How do you mean?"
"Okay, you and I are kind of working on the same line; that this whole place is seriously effed up. But it's not just the place, is it? The people have as much to do with it, don't they? I mean, I've got people here going back thousands of years and they stayed for something. Everyone points to them believing in something with the kind of fervent dedication that gives you holy men with funny hats."
"I'm Catholic."
"So you know what I'm talking about." She slid right by the topic, complete with moving her hands across the countertop in a swishing motion.
Ellis picked up one of the folders and tapped it against the bottom of his chin. "So it's faith?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Another pause. "My girl – she's another digger. Northern Africa, though. She's been trying to graph the actual spread of the Carthage Empire and we have it in our heads that it may have connected with remnants of both Akkad and the Indus and I'm fucking diverting again." She cleared her throat. "Her hobby is going to these new age fairs, because every time we're out doing a talk the rainbow kids start showing up and selling geodes and tin ankhs and she loves that crazy stuff."
"Your daughter, then?"
Renee paused, mouth open and ready to continue on her monologue, then stopped and blinked at him a moment. "Ah, no."
Ellis froze, recognizing the magnitude of his blunder. "Oh." He covered it with a friendly smile and a touch of disappointment followed by another, almost humiliating sense of relief. So much for dinner. "Sorry to interrupt."
She took the apology with an unruffled grin. "No problem. So we were at this one a couple years back, and it's the usual crap. Coverless von Daniken books marked up an extra five bucks, plastic skull rings, and lots of the Disinformation people hanging around. And she sees this guy. Big as shit, bald as sin, and he just cuts through that crowd like a shark in an aquarium. Nice thing is, for all that, not a single threatening sense about him. She – Annelle, I should mention – recognizes the guy. Grant, or something. Long story getting short, turns out the guy is big into this… flake alert… ritual movement called 'chaos magic.' Whatever, but he talks about some stuff that makes some sense."
He looked at her with a bland expression.
"Yeah, I know. I'm totally busting out the idea of a logical story after the words chaos magic. I know. He had this idea of consensus reality. That in history, and even now, collective human belief and absolute strength of the will can change what we know as reality. What was once is no longer so – because people wanted it that way. Only in this place, on this isolated island, that consensus comes from a smaller pool. Maybe that consensus is sometimes in the hands of the people that have taken care of this place. And maybe sometimes it's in someone's own hands."
She paused. "I promise I don't do drugs."
Dr. Ellis leaned back after an abrupt chuckle, absorbing the concept. She was right, it was just an idea thrown at a wall, but there was something resonant to it. He couldn't adopt it entirely; it wasn't something he could touch with the scientific method, but if he had to go so far as to accept the unexplainable, it was a theory. He was not, however, that far yet. Still. They weren't cured because on some level they – or someone else - felt they're not ready to be cured. "Metaphysically interesting."
"And about as useful as a piece of cowshit at a craft fair. I know." Another grin. "See, this is why I should just stay in my little hole when I get bored. I ramble."
"No, it's fine. Plenty to think about."
"Happy to provide. Meanwhile, I think my rock test is done. I tell you what, if it came from a quarry in Arizona, they're going to have to lock me in a little padded room." She popped him the thumbs up. "You'll get your shit figured out. You look like the type to keep at it till it's over."
He grinned, surprised at the compliment. "Here's hoping."
She flapped a wave at him as she vanished. After she was out of sight, Albert Ellis leaned back and stared up at a featureless ceiling, losing himself in thought about the dying man aboveground, always lying awake in his little cabin.