PENGUIN BOOKS
Ted Kosmatka has worked as a zookeeper, steel mill worker, lab technician and video game writer for the extremely successful studio Valve, publisher of mega-hits such as Portal and Dota 2. His work has been nominated for both the Nebula and Theodore Sturgeon Awards and won the 2010 Asimov’s Readers’ Choice Award. Prophet of Bones is his second novel. His first, The Games, was published in 2012.
No book is an island. This one in particular owes an immense debt of gratitude to a great many people. I’d like to thank the many biologists, archaeologists, geneticists, and anthropologists throughout the years whose combined body of knowledge I have been the fortunate recipient of. Without their scientific efforts, this novel could never have been written. I’d like to thank the scientific thinkers John Hawks, Razib Khan, Carl Zimmer, Dienekes Pontikos, and Blaine T. Bettinger, whose blogs are amazing repositories for cutting-edge thought in the fields of genetics and anthropology. This book would have looked very different without their influence. I’d like to especially thank the archaeological dig team who did the real work on the Flores fossils. I’ve never met you … and nothing about this book was meant to intersect in any way with anyone associated with the real find … but without the discoveries made in Flores this work of fiction would have lacked a factual foundation to build upon. You have my respect and gratitude. If at any point in the novel I got the science wrong, it is nobody’s fault but my own.
I’d like to thank my writer friends Jack Skillingstead, Michael Poore, Nancy Kress, and Marc Laidlaw for hanging out with me and talking shop during the time I was writing the novel. I’d like to thank Patrick Swenson and the Rainforest Writers’ Village for giving me a quiet place by the water where I could finish the book. I’ll be back. I’d like to thank the entire Seattle-area writer community for being so open and supportive toward a new member of the kindred.
I’d also like to thank Aaron Schlechter, my editor, who believed in this novel and took a risk on it. And, of course, my agent Seth Fishman, and the Gernert Company, who got the book into the right hands and made the sale possible. I’d like to thank my parents again, in this book, too, because you can never thank your parents enough. I’d like to thank Jonathan Long for the great discussions on science and religion back when we were lab partners. I’d like to thank St. Patrick’s Elementary School and the old church where I was an altar boy. I have fond memories of those days. And Bob I’d like to thank for walking the ice all those years ago. You did fall through. And you pulled yourself out.
Arka, I. W., and J. Kosmas. ‘Passive without passive morphology? Evidence from Manggarai.’ Australian National University conference paper (2002), available online at http://hdl.handle.net/1885/41059.
Behar, D. M., M. F. Hammer, D. Garrigan, R. Villems, B. Bonne-Tamir, M. Richards, D. Gurwitz, D. Rosengarten, M. Kaplan, S. Della Pergola, L. Quintana-Murci, and K. Skorecki. ‘MtDNA evidence for a genetic bottleneck in the early history of the Ashkenazi Jewish population.’ European Journal of Human Genetics 12, no. 5 (May 2004): 355–64.
Bertranpetit, J., and F. Calafell. ‘Genetic and geographical variability in cystic fibrosis: evolutionary considerations.’ Ciba Foundation Symposium 197 (1996): 97–114.
Biello, D. ‘Searching for God in the brain.’ Scientific American Mind 18, no. 5 (October/November 2007): 38–45.
Clan Donald USA website. Online at http://clan-donald-usa.org/CDCMS/index.html.
Clarey, M. G., J. P. Erzberger, P. Grob, A. E. Leschziner, J. M. Berger, E. Nogales, and M. Botchan. ‘Nucleotide-dependent conformational changes in the DnaA-like core of the origin recognition complex.’ Nature Structural and Molecular Biology 13, no. 8 (August 2006): 684–90.
Currie, L. A. ‘The remarkable metrological history of radiocarbon dating [II].’ Journal of Research of the National Institute of Standards and Technology 109, no. 2 (March/April 2004): 185–217.
Cuthbert, A. W., J. Halstead, R. Ratcliff, W. H. Colledge, and M. J. Evans. ‘The genetic advantage hypothesis in cystic fibrosis heterozygotes: a murine study.’ Journal of Physiology 482, pt. 2 (January 15, 1995): 449–54.
Derenko, M. V., B. A. Maliarchuk, M. Wozniak, G. A. Denisova, I. K. Dambueva, C. M. Dorzhu, T. Grzybowski, and I. A. Zakharov. ‘Distribution of the male lineages of Genghis Khan’s descendants in northern Eurasian populations’ [article in Russian]. Genetika 43, no. 3 (March 2007): 422–26.
Deshpande, O., S. Batzoglou, M. W. Feldman, and L. L. Cavalli-Sforza. ‘A serial founder effect model for human settlement out of Africa.’ Proceedings of the Royal Society B 276, no. 1655 (January 2009): 291–300.
Dienekes’ Anthropology Blog. ‘Forbidden DNA sequences.’ Available online at http://dienekes.blogspot.com/2007/01/forbidden-dna-sequences.html.
Doughty, B. R. ‘The changes in ABO blood group frequency within a mediaeval English population.’ Medical Laboratory Sciences 34, no. 4 (October 1977): 351–54.
Electric Scotland, ‘MacDonald Genetic Project.’ Available online at http://www.electricscotland.com/webclans/m/macdonald_genetic.htm.
Electric Scotland, ‘The Norse Code.’ Available online at http://www.electricscotland.com/history/articles/norse.htm.
Fehér, O., H. Wang, S. Saar, P. P. Mitra, and O. Tchernichovski. ‘De novo establishment of wild-type song culture in zebra finch.’ Nature 459, no. 7264 (May 28, 2009): 564–68.
Founder Scots DNA website. Online at http://www.ourfamilyorigins.com/scotland/founderscots.htm.
Gabriel, S. E., K. N. Brigman, B. H. Koller, R. C . Boucher, and M. J. Stutts. ‘Cystic fibrosis heterozygote resistance to cholera toxin in the cystic fibrosis mouse model.’ Science 266, no. 5182 (October 1994): 107–9.
Hammer, M. F., A. J. Redd, E. T. Wood, M. R. Bonner, H. Jarjanazi, T. Karafet, S. Santachiara-Benerecetti, A. Oppenheim, M. A. Jobling, T. Jenkins, H. Ostrer, and B. Bonné-Tamir. ‘Jewish and Middle Eastern non-Jewish populations share a common pool of Y-chromosome biallelic haplotypes.’ Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 97, no. 12 (June 2000): 6769–74.
Hampikian, G., and T. Andersen. ‘Absent sequences: nullomers and primes.’ Pacific Symposium on Biocomputing 12 (2007): 355–66.
Kirsch, J. ‘Moses Unmasked.’ U.S. News & World Report special issue, Mysteries of Faith: The Prophets (2006).
Kwiatkowski, D. P. ‘How malaria has affected the human genome and what genetics teaches us about malaria.’ American Journal of Human Genetics 77, no. 2 (August 2005): 171–92.
Morwood, M., and P. van Oosterzee. A New Human: The Startling Discovery and Strange Story of the ‘Hobbits’ of Flores, Indonesia. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian, 2007.
Nebel, A., D. Filon, B. Brinkmann, P. P. Majmuder, M. Faerman, and A. Oppenheim. ‘The Y chromosome pool of Jews as part of the genetic landscape of the Middle East.’ American Journal of Human Genetics 69, no. 5 (November 2001): 1095–1112.
Nebel, A., D. Filon, M. Faerman, H. Soodyall, and A. Oppenheim. ‘Y chromosome evidence for a founder effect in Ashkenazi Jews.’ European Journal of Human Genetics 13, no. 3 (March 2005): 388–91.
Oriá, R. B., P. D. Patrick, H. Zhang, B. Lorntz, C. M. de Castro Costa, G. A. Brito, L. J. Barrett, A. A. Lima, and R. L. Guerrant. ‘APOE4 protects the cognitive development in children with heavy diarrhea burdens in Northeast Brazil.’ Pediatric Research 57, no. 2 (February 2005): 310–16.
Page, M. Book review of C. M. Woolgar, D. Serjeantson, and T. Waldron, Food in Medieval England: Diet and Nutrition. English Historical Review 123, issue 501 (2008): 419–21.
Pestana de Castro, A. F., P. Perreau, A. C. Rodriques, and M. Simoes. ‘Haemagglutinating properties of Pasteurella multocida type A strains isolated from rabbits and poultry.’ Annals of Microbiology (Paris) 131, no. 3 (May/June 1980): 255–63.
Peters, F. E. ‘Abraham’s Miraculous Journey.’ U.S. News & World Report special issue, Mysteries of Faith: The Prophets (2006).
Sheler, J. L. ‘The Lure of the Prophetic Word.’ U.S. News & World Report special issue, Mysteries of Faith: The Prophets (2006).
Sykes, B. Adam’s Curse: A Future Without Men. New York: W. W. Norton, 2004.
— Blood of the Isles: Exploring the Genetic Roots of Our Tribal History. London: Bantam, 2006.
If this is the best of all possible worlds, what are the others like?
Voltaire
There has existed, since the beginning, a finite number of unique
creations … a finite number of species, which has, over time, decreased
dramatically through extinction. Speciation is a special event outside the realm of
natural processes, a phenomenon relegated to the moment of creation, and to the
mysteries of Allah.
Expert witness, heresy trials, Ankara, Turkey
Nature does nothing in vain.
Aristotle
For Christine
The Prophet set his nine-millimetre on the kitchen counter.
He leaned forward, bleeding hard into the sink, the only sound a rhythmic tap of blood on stainless steel. The blood struck in little dime-sized drops, bright red, gathering into a pool on the metallic surface. He hit the knob with the back of his hand and cold water swirled down the drain.
Behind him, feet crunched on spent shell casings as two men entered the room.
‘My disciples,’ the Prophet said. He did not turn. ‘I knew you’d find me here.’
But his disciples, for their part, remained silent. They pulled chairs out from the table and sat. They cocked their weapons. First one, then the other, making a point of it.
Somewhere in the house a TV blared daytime talk, or something like it … intermittent applause, and a deep male voice saying, She a damn lie, that baby don’t look nothing like me, and the crowd hooting and hollering its approval.
The Prophet splashed cold water on his face, trying to clear the blood from his eyes. Head wounds bled like a bitch. They always looked worse than they were. Well, not always, he thought. He remembered the guard at the lab and clenched his eyes shut, willing the image away. Sometimes head wounds were exactly as bad as they looked. Sometimes they fucking killed you.
The Prophet peeled loose his tattered white sweatshirt, revealing a torso lean, and dark, and scarred. Tattoos swarmed up both arms to his shoulders … gang symbols across his deltoids, a crucifix in the centre of his chest. He wiped his face, and the shirt came away red. The Prophet was not a big man, but wiry muscle bunched and corded beneath his skin when he tossed his stained shirt across the room. He was twenty years old or a thousand, depending on who you asked. Who you believed.
The Prophet turned and regarded his faithful. A smile crept to his lips. ‘You look like you could use a beer.’
He walked to where the dead woman lay against the refrigerator. He kicked her body out of the way enough to open the door. Glass bottles clinked. ‘All they have is Miller,’ he said, a kind of apology. Blood trailed across the yellow linoleum. Not his blood, he noted. Not this time. He carried three beers back to the table and collapsed into a chair.
His faithful did not smile. They did not reach for their beers. They sat in their dark suits and black sunglasses; they sat perfectly still and watched him. The first was young, blond, baby-faced. A white scar ran diagonally across his upper lip where a cleft lip had been surgically corrected in childhood. If anything, the scar made him more boyish. The one imperfection in an otherwise perfect face. He held his gun casually, arm resting on the table. His white shirt collar was open at the neck, black tie loosened. The second man was older, darker … all jaw, chin, and shoulders. The hired muscle of the pair. But Babyface was still the one to watch. The Prophet knew this at a glance.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the blond.
‘Does it matter?’ the blond answered.
The Prophet shook his head. ‘I guess not.’ Babyface was right after all. In heaven there would be no need for names, for all are known to the eyes of God.
‘We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Manuel,’ Babyface said.
The Prophet leaned back in his chair and took a long swig of beer. He spread his hands. ‘My followers,’ he said. ‘You have found me.’
‘You’ve cost a lot of money,’ the blond continued. ‘Which is something our employer could forgive.’ He took off his sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked up, and his eyes were a bright baby blue. ‘But you’ve also caused a lot of trouble, which is something he cannot.’
‘I never asked forgiveness.’
‘Then we’re agreed on the issue. None asked. None given.’ The man’s pale eyes bore into him. He leaned across the table, pitching his voice low. ‘Tell me something, Manuel, just out of curiosity, between you and me, before this thing goes the way it’s gonna go … what the fuck were you thinking?’
The Prophet wiped a runnel of blood from his face. ‘I was called for this. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Oh, I suspect you got that right.’
The Prophet sipped his beer.
‘So then where is it?’ Babyface snapped, seeming to lose patience.
The Prophet didn’t answer.
‘Come on, Manuel. We came such a long way. Don’t give us the silent treatment now.’ He tapped the muzzle of the gun on the table.
‘Our most holy is resting.’
‘Most holy?’ Babyface laughed and shook his head. ‘You know, I thought that bullshit was a joke when they told me.’ He turned to his partner. ‘You hear this shit?’
But the muscle only stared, jaw clenched tight. Babyface turned back around. ‘Or maybe this is all just some game you’re playing. Some elaborate con that didn’t work out the way you wanted. I heard you’re one to play games.’
‘No game,’ the Prophet said.
‘So you believe it?’
‘I do.’
‘Then you’re out of your mind after all.’
The TV droned on, filling the silence, the deep male voice cohering again from out of the background noise … I told you she was lying about it. I told you.
‘Where is it?’
The Prophet lowered his eyes. ‘I laid him upstairs on the bed. It’s peaceful up there.’
Babyface nodded to his partner. The second man stood. ‘You don’t mind if we check, do you?’ Babyface asked. The second man turned and disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His footfalls crossed heavily above them as he moved from room to room.
Babyface stared from across the table, his blue eyes deep and expressionless. The gun never wavered, held casually in a soft, pale hand.
The footfalls stopped.
The Prophet took another long pull from his beer. ‘I fed him every three hours, just like I was supposed to.’
‘And did it matter?’
The Prophet didn’t respond. In the distance, the TV broke into applause again. Theme music, end of show. The footfalls crossed above them, slower this time, coming down the stairs. A moment later, the second man was back, carrying a dark form wrapped in a blanket. The bundle didn’t move.
The blond man flashed his muscle a questioning look.
‘It’s dead,’ the big man said. ‘It’s been dead.’
The blond turned to him. ‘It’s not your fault, Manuel,’ he said. ‘Most of them die in the first few weeks. Sometimes their mothers eat them.’
The Prophet smiled. ‘He will rise again.’
‘Perhaps he will,’ Babyface said. ‘But I’d like to see that trick.’ He raised his gun.
The Prophet took a final, cool swallow, finishing his beer. Blood dripped from his forehead and fell to the stained Formica table. He glanced around the room and shook his head. He saw broken dishes, stained wooden cabinets, dirty yellow linoleum. He looked at the dead woman, resolute in her silence. ‘Nothing good will come of this,’ he prophesied.
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ the blond man said. He smiled, and the old surgical scar curled his lip slightly. ‘This part will make me feel a whole lot better.’
‘Though you strike me down, there will be other prophets after me. I won’t be the last.’
The muscle placed the body on the table, and the blanket opened at one end. A small, dark arm swung free of the blanket … a tiny distorted hand. A hand not quite human.
‘I’ve got a secret for you,’ Babyface said. ‘God hates His prophets. Always has.’
‘God cannot hate.’
‘That’s blasphemy,’ the blond man said. He lifted the gun to Manuel’s face. ‘God is capable of all things.’
He pulled the trigger.
Paul liked playing God in the attic above his family garage.
That’s what his father called it, playing God, the day he found out. That’s what he called it the day he smashed it all down.
Paul built the cages out of discarded two-by-fours he’d found under the deck and quarter-inch mesh he bought from the local hardware store. He gathered small scraps of carpet, odds and ends of plywood, a bent metal bracket that used to belong to his mother’s old sewing machine table.
Paul drew the plans out carefully on graph paper during the last week of school.
Two weeks into summer break, his father left town to speak at a scientific conference. ‘Be good while I’m gone,’ his father warned him as they stood in the foyer. ‘Keep studying your verses.’
‘I will.’
Paul watched from the window as the long black car backed down the driveway.
Because he wasn’t old enough to use his father’s power tools, he had to use a handsaw to cut the wood for the cages. He used his mother’s sturdy black scissors to snip the wire mesh. He borrowed hinges from old cabinet doors, and nails from the rusty coffee can that hung over his father’s unused workbench.
That evening his mother heard the hammering and came out to the garage.
‘What are you doing up there?’ She spoke in careful English, peering up at the rectangle of light that spilled down from the attic.
Paul stuck his head through the opening, all spiky black hair and sawdust. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re doing something; I can hear you.’
‘I’m just playing around with some tools,’ he said. Which was, in some sense, true. He couldn’t lie to his mother. Not directly.
‘Which tools?’
‘Just a hammer and some nails.’
She stared up at him, her delicate face a broken Chinese doll … pieces of porcelain reglued subtly out of alignment.
‘Be careful,’ she said, and he understood that she was talking both about the tools and about his father.
The days turned into weeks as Paul worked on the cages. The summer wore on, Lake Michigan humidity cloaking the region like a veil. Because the wood was big, he built the cages big … less cutting that way. The cages were enormous, overengineered structures, ridiculously outsized for the animals they’d be holding. They weren’t mouse cages so much as mouse cities … huge tabletop-sized enclosures that could have housed border collies. He spent most of his paper-route money on the project, buying odds and ends he needed: sheets of Plexiglas, plastic water bottles, and small dowels of wood he used for door latches. While the other children in the neighbourhood played basketball or wittedandu, Paul worked on his project.
He bought tiny exercise wheels and cedar chip bedding. He pictured in his head how it would be once he finished: a mouse metropolis. Rodent utopia. The mice themselves he bought from a pet store near his paper route. Most were white feeder mice used for snakes, but a couple were of the more colourful, fancy variety. And there were even a few English mice … sleek, long-bodied show mice with big tulip ears and glossy coats that felt slick under his fingers. He wanted a diverse population, so he was careful to buy different kinds.
The woman at the pet store always smiled at him when he came in. She was in her sixties, with bright, bottle-red hair and a pleasant, chubby face. A bell above the door would ring as he stepped inside the shop, and then he’d walk to the back, bend low, and stare through the glass at all the mice for sale. He’d tap his finger on the glass. ‘That one,’ he’d say. ‘And that one over there … the brown one in the corner grooming itself.’
‘Those are good ones,’ she always said, no matter which mice he picked. ‘Those are good ones.’
Then the woman would pop the lid and reach inside the cage while the mice ran in berserk little circles to avoid being caught. Catching the mice wasn’t easy. Paul understood their fear. For most of them, when that hand came down, it meant death. It meant they were about to join the food chain. He wondered if they sensed this, if they sensed anything at all. He wondered if they thought the hand was the hand of God.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispered to them, willing them to be still. ‘Not this time.’
The woman put the mice in little cardboard travel boxes so he could carry them home in his paper-route bag. Later in the evening, when no one was watching, he snuck them up to the attic.
While he worked on their permanent homes, he kept his mice in little glass aquariums stacked on a table in the middle of the room. He fed them scraps of food he stole from the dinner table … chunks of buttered bread, green beans, and Ritz crackers. During the last weeks of summer break, Paul stood back and surveyed all he’d created. It was good. The finished cages were huge, beautiful habitats. He’d heard that word, ‘habitats,’ when doing research about zoos. Paul understood that his cages weren’t natural habitats; they didn’t have plants and rocks inside them. But Mus musculus wasn’t a natural animal, not really. Maybe for a mouse, a habitat didn’t have to look like nature. Maybe it looked like this.
In the attic, Paul opened the lids on the aquariums and released his mice into their new enclosures one by one. The mice advanced cautiously, sniffing the air … the first explorers on a new continent.
That afternoon, to mark the occasion, he set out on his bike to the local grocery store, where he bought a head of lettuce as a treat for the mice. He brought along his pad of graph paper, stuffed into his paper-route bag, and on the way back stopped at a park a few blocks from his house. The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees. The park was mostly empty. A few older kids hung out on the bleachers near the tennis courts. Kids his own age played near the swings.
Paul looked down at his graph paper and studied his designs. Already he could see ways in which the habitats might be improved. He put pencil to paper, bent over his work, and so didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.
‘What you doing?’ The voice came from directly behind him.
Paul turned. It was Josh, a kid from his school, two grades older.
‘I said, what you got there?’
‘Nothing,’ Paul said. He knew Josh well. Knew his tactics from the school yard, all smiles and friendly until it turned bad.
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Let’s see.’
Josh grabbed for the notebook and Paul jerked it away.
‘Leave me alone.’
The older boy slammed the pad out of Paul’s hand and then kicked it, scattering the pages across the ground. He laughed. ‘I didn’t really want to see it anyway,’ he said, and walked off.
Paul bent to pick up his drawings. The pad had split apart, and the papers were drifting away in the wind. On the bleachers, one of the older kids cackled. Paul had nearly gathered the last of his drawings when a sudden gust carried the final sheet toward the swings.
A narrow, sandalled foot came down on the paper, catching it.
‘That guy is such a jerk,’ came a female voice.
Paul looked up from the sandal. A girl from the neighbourhood. He’d seen her around but had never spoken to her. She didn’t go to his school. He could tell by her long hair and dress that she went to Nearhaven. You could almost always tell Nearhaven kids that way. Just as they could tell the public school kids. And there beside her, on the swing, was a small boy. She bent, picked up the paper, and handed it to Paul.
‘Thanks,’ he told her.
‘You’re as big as him. Why’d you let him do that?’
Paul shrugged. ‘He’s older.’
‘I’m Rebecca, and this is my cousin Brian.’
‘Paul.’
Rebecca turned and looked toward the bleachers. ‘We should go,’ she said. Josh was talking to the bleacher group now, glancing meaningfully in their direction.
Paul followed Rebecca and her cousin out of the park, riding his bike slowly as they walked beside him. The cousin, it turned out, was a quiet, gap-toothed boy of seven who was staying with Rebecca’s family for summer break. Paul had no cousins, and he felt a momentary pang of jealousy. He had no family other than his parents.
When they arrived at her house, he was shocked to find how close she lived. On the other side of the street, one block down.
‘We’re practically neighbours,’ he told her.
Paul rode his bike up her driveway. The screen door squeaked as she opened it, but she didn’t step inside.
‘Those papers,’ she said. ‘What were you drawing?’
For a moment, Paul wasn’t sure how to answer. She must have sensed the hesitation. ‘You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,’ she added.
Her saying that made it possible. So he told her.
‘What do you mean, “cages”?’ she asked. She let the screen door close and sat on the stoop.
He pulled the pad from his paper-route bag. ‘Here,’ he said.
Rebecca took the papers, and her cousin leaned close.
‘Construction plans, I guess you’d call them,’ Paul said.
She flipped to the next sheet. This one showed his largest cage, drawn out in intricate detail.
‘You built this?’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t that hard.’
‘It looks hard to me. Where is it?’
‘In the attic over my garage.’
‘Can we see?’
Paul glanced in the direction of his house. ‘No, I better not.’
Rebecca flipped the page and studied the final drawing carefully. ‘It must have taken you a long time to put all this together.’
‘Months.’
‘What are they for? I mean, if these are cages, what’s supposed to go inside?’
‘Mice.’
She nodded to herself. ‘Mice,’ she repeated under her breath, as if it made perfect sense. ‘Where’d you get the stuff? All the wood and nails.’
Paul shrugged. ‘Here and there. Just scraps, mostly. Other stuff I had to buy.’
The little cousin finally spoke: ‘My parents don’t let me have pets.’
‘Neither do mine,’ Paul said. ‘But anyway, the mice aren’t pets.’
‘Then what are they?’ the boy asked. He stared over his cousin’s shoulder at the drawings.
‘A project,’ Paul said.
‘What kind of project?’
Paul looked at the graph paper. ‘I’m still working on that.’
The bell rang at two thirty-five.
By two forty-nine, school bus No. 32 was freighted with its raucous cargo and pulling out of the parking lot, headed for the highway and points south and east.
Paul sat near the back and stared out the window, watching the Grand Kankakee Marsh scroll by. Around him, the other kids talked and laughed, but only Paul sat silently, fidgetting with the large blue textbook on his lap, waiting for the road to smooth out so that he could read. As they crossed the bridge, he finally opened his life sciences book.
Today Mr Slocam had gone over the study guide for the test.
Figure 73 showed two ellipses graphed like a crooked half-smile between an x- and a y-axis. The caption explained that the first slope represented the number of daughter atoms. The second slope represented the parent atoms. The point of intersection of the two slopes was the element’s half-life.
‘You will need to know this for the test,’ the study guide declared in bold heading, followed by a series of bullet-pointed facts.
The study guides were always like this.
Need to know this for the test. The common refrain of the public schools, where academic bulimia was the order of the day … and tests simple exercises in regurgitation. Paul knew the drill.
The bus made several stops before finally pulling to rest in front of his house. Paul climbed out.
His father was out of town again, at another scientific conference, so dinner that evening was a quiet undertaking. Later that night he went up to his room and copied his study guide onto a series of flash cards. Just before bed, he found his mother in the kitchen. ‘Will you quiz me?’
‘Of course.’ His mother’s doll face shattered into a smile.
They sat at the dining room table, and his mother flipped the first card, on which was drawn two crooked lines on an x- and y-axis. ‘Describe the point of intersection,’ she said.
‘It’s an element’s half-life.’
‘Good,’ she said, flipping to the next card. ‘When was radiometric dating invented?’
‘In 1906, but the results were rejected for years.’
‘Rejected by whom?’
‘By evolutionists.’
‘Good.’ She flipped to the next card. ‘In what year did Darwin write On the Origin of Species?’
‘In 1859.’
‘When did Darwin’s theory lose the confidence of the scientific community?’
‘That was 1932.’ Anticipating the next question, Paul continued: ‘When Kohlhorster invented potassium-argon dating.’
‘Why was this important?’
‘The new dating method proved the earth wasn’t as old as the evolutionists thought.’
‘When was the theory of evolution finally debunked completely?’
‘In 1954, when Willard F. Libby invented carbon-14 dating at the University of Chicago.’
‘Good,’ his mother said and flipped another card. ‘And why else was he known?’
‘He won the Nobel Prize in 1960, when he used carbon dating to prove, once and for all, that the earth was fifty-eight hundred years old.’
Paul wore a white lab coat when he entered the attic. It was one of his father’s old coats, so he had to cut the sleeves to fit his arms. Paul’s father was a doctor, the PhD kind. He was blond and big and successful. He’d met Paul’s mother after grad school while consulting for a Chinese research firm in Nanjing. Paul’s mother had been one of the scientists at the university there, and she sometimes told Paul stories about working in a lab, about her home in China, and about meeting his father. ‘He was so handsome,’ she said.
After they married, they’d continued to work on the same projects for a while, but there was never any doubt that Paul’s father was the bright light of the family. The genius, the famous man. He was also crazy.
Paul’s father liked breaking things. He broke telephones, and he broke walls, and he broke tables. He broke promises not to hit again. One time, he broke bones; and the police were called by the ER physicians who did not believe the story about Paul’s mother falling down the stairs. They did not believe the weeping woman of porcelain who swore her husband had not touched her.
Paul’s father was a force of nature, a cataclysm. As unpredictable as a comet strike or a volcanic eruption. Over the course of his childhood, Paul became an expert on his father’s moods. He learned to interpret the tone of a brooding silence, could read whole volumes of meaning into a single blue-eyed glance around the side of a clenched periodical. He had two fathers, he learned. One who smiled and charmed and made people laugh. And another, who stormed. The attic over the garage was a good place to retreat to when the dark clouds gathered.
Paul studied his mice like Goodall’s chimps, watching them for hours. He documented their social interactions in a green spiral notebook. At first he gave them names, borrowed from characters from his favourite books. Names like Algernon and Nimh. Later, as the population grew, he started giving them numbered codes instead, saving names for only the most special.
Mice are social animals, and he found that within the large habitats, they formed packs like wolves, with a dominant male and a dominant female … a structured social hierarchy involving mating privileges, territory, and almost-ritualized displays of submission by males of lower rank. The dominant male bred most of the females, and mice, Paul learned, could kill each other. Mice could war.
Nature abhors a vacuum, and the mouse populations slowly expanded to fill the new territories he’d created for them. The habitats thronged. The babies were born pink and blind, and as their fur came in, Paul began documenting coat colours in his notebook. There were fawns, blacks, and greys. Occasional agoutis. There were Irish spotted, banded, and broken marked. In later generations, new colours appeared that he hadn’t purchased, and he knew enough about genetics to realize these were recessive genes cropping up.
Paul was fascinated by the concept of genes, the stable elements through which God provided for the transport of heritable characteristics from one generation to the next.
Paul did research and found that the pigmentation loci of mice were well mapped and well understood. He categorized his population by phenotype and found one mouse, a pale, dark-eyed cream, that must have been a triple recessive: bb, dd, ee. Three gene pairs lining up in just the right way, each diluting the coat pigmentation by a certain quantum, until you were left with a mouse with almost no coat pigment at all. But not an albino, because albinos had red eyes.
In November the school sent home an announcement about the science fair, which would be held in the spring.
‘Are you going to participate?’ his mother asked him as she signed the parental notification.
Paul shrugged. ‘If I can think of something,’ he said. He knew instantly that his mice were the answer, though he wasn’t sure how exactly.
It wasn’t enough to just have them, to observe them, to run the Punnett squares. He’d need to do real science. He’d need to do something new. And because real scientists used microscopes and electronic scales, Paul asked for these things for Christmas. His parents were pleased with his sudden analytical interest and bought him what he asked for.
But mice, Paul quickly discovered, did not readily yield themselves to microscopy. They tended to climb down from the stand.
The electronic scale, however, proved useful. Paul weighed every mouse and kept meticulous records. He considered developing his own inbred strain … a line with some combination of distinctive characteristics … but he wasn’t sure what characteristics to look for. He imagined that his special new strain would be useful to science someday, a genetic model destined to play a role in some far-future discovery, but he didn’t know where to start.
He imagined winning the science fair. He imagined his father proud of him, clapping him on the shoulder with his big hand.
Paul was going over his notebook when he saw it. January-17. Not a date but a mouse, January-17. The seventeenth mouse born in January.
He went to the cage and opened the door. A flash of sandy fur, and he snatched it up by its tail … a brindle specimen with large ears. Over the previous several months he’d become good at handling the mice. It was a knack you picked up without realizing it … the ability to hold the mice softly, so that you didn’t hurt them, and yet firmly, so they couldn’t get away. This mouse was not particularly fast or hard to catch. There was nothing obviously special about it. It was rendered different from the other mice only by the mark in his notebook. Paul looked at the mark, looked at the number he’d written there.
Of the more than ninety mice in his notebook, January-17 was, by two full grams, the largest mouse he’d ever weighed.
In school they taught him that through science you could decipher the truest meaning of God’s word. God wrote the language of life in four letters: A, T, C, and G. A family of proteins called AAA initiated DNA replication, genetic structures conserved across all forms of life, from men to archaebacteria … the very calling card of the great designer.
That’s not why Paul did it, though: to get closer to God. He did it because he was curious.
It was late winter before his father asked him what he spent all his time doing in the attic.
‘Just messing around,’ Paul answered.
They were in his father’s car, on the way home from piano lessons. ‘Your mother said you built something up there.’
Paul fought back a surge of panic. The lie came quickly, unbidden. ‘I built a fort a while ago.’
Paul’s father glanced down at him. ‘What kind of fort?’
‘Just a few pieces of plywood and a couple blankets. Just a little fort.’
‘You’re almost twelve now. Aren’t you getting a little old for forts?’
‘Yeah, I guess I am.’
‘I don’t want you spending all your time up there.’
‘All right.’
‘I don’t want your grades slipping.’
‘All right.’
‘Your grades are what you should be focussing on right now, not screwing around with kids’ games in an attic.’
Paul, who hadn’t gotten a B in two years, said, a third time, ‘All right.’
The car slowed to a stop at a red light. ‘Oh,’ Paul’s father added, almost as an afterthought. ‘There’s something else. I don’t want you hanging out with that girl from up the street.’
‘What?’ Paul said. ‘Who?’
‘The Nearhaven girl.’
Paul blinked. He hadn’t realized his father knew.
His father added, ‘You’re getting too old for that, too.’
The light turned green.
They rode the rest of the way in silence, and Paul explored the walls of his newly shaped reality. Because he knew foreshocks when he felt them.
He watched his father’s hands on the steering wheel.
Though large for his age, like his father, Paul’s features favoured his Asian mother; he sometimes wondered if that was part of it, this thing between his father and him, this gulf he could not cross. Would his father have treated a freckled, blond son any differently? No, he decided. His father would have been the same. The same force of nature; the same cataclysm. He couldn’t help being what he was.
Paul watched his father’s hand on the steering wheel, and years later, when he thought of his father, even after everything that happened, that’s how he thought of him. That moment frozen. Driving in the car, big hands on the steering wheel, a quiet moment of foreboding that wasn’t false but was merely what it was, the best it would ever be between them.
Winter stayed late that year in the land of marshes and highways. A mid-March storm came howling down across Lake Michigan, laying waste to an early spring thaw. Murdered stalks of corn jutted from the snow, turning roadside farms into fields of brown stubble.
On most days, Paul lingered inside after school. But on some afternoons when his father wasn’t around, Rebecca would meet him, and on those days the two of them ventured into the woods. They explored the frozen marshes that sprawled behind the back fence of the subdivision … a wild place beyond the reach of roads and sidewalks and parents.
Instead there were cattails, and sway-grass, and old-growth oaks. Dark water hidden under whole plains of snow. And the marshes extended for miles.
On that cold Saturday afternoon, Paul and Rebecca walked the trail down to the river. The morning had dawned cold and windy … northern gusts raking through the trees, a twenty-degree temperature drop from the day before. Their breath made smoke on the frigid air. They didn’t speak as they walked; it was too cold to speak. They rounded a final bend in the trail, and the river lay before them: the Little Cal … a blank white ribbon that cut a swath through the heart of the wetland snowscape. Stubborn patches of dogwood and black oak clung to the riverside floodplain. In the spring, Paul knew, whole acres of lowland marsh would be transformed, submerged, become river itself. But in the cold months, the river retreated to its banks, dug deep, and capped itself over in ice.
It was a crazy thing to do, to play on the river ice. They knew this.
‘Come on,’ Rebecca said.
‘I’m coming. Hold your horses.’
They walked the ice like a winding roadway.
Even in winter, the wetlands teamed with life; you could read the signs all around … animal tracks like lines of grammar on the snow. Sometimes deer came bounding through, graceful as dancers … just another shape in the woods until a white flash of tail drew your attention. Where one ran, the others followed, by some instinct staying clear of the ice.
Months from now this place would be unrecognizable. A burst of foliage, and the low shrubs would hide their bones in green. Everywhere he looked, Paul saw it … the endless cycle of birth, growth, and senescence. A cycle old as the first day. Old as God saying, Let it be.
The children’s feet crunched on snow. They hunted lures that day, knives in hand, serrated edges making short work of twenty-pound-test line.
For three seasons of the year, the river belonged to fishermen … casting their lines into coffee-coloured water through a web of low-hanging branches. Inevitably, some lures got hung up, and the fishermen would curse and pull on their lines, until those lines snapped; the lures would dangle over the river like unreachable, low-hanging fruit. The anglers fished three seasons of the year, but winter belonged to the children.
So they walked the ice like a roadway, serrated edges parting twenty-pound-test like strands of spider silk. They gathered red-and-white bobbers, and colourful spinners, and desiccated egg sacks wrapped in white nylon mesh.
The first to see the lure earned the right to claim it. There was no running on the ice. No rush to grab. They moved slowly, six feet apart to disperse their weight. They respected the ice and worked hard to learn its rules.
Paul was larger and heavier than Rebecca, so some lures only Rebecca could dare.
That Saturday, they walked the river south.
Here are some of the rules of ice. The ice is thinner near the shoreline, so getting on and off can be difficult. The ice is thinner near bends in the river, where the water moves quickest. In places where the snow cover is darker, slushier, the ice beneath is sure to be rotten and soft.
Last year, when walking alone on the ice, in that last leap to shore, Paul had broken through, his leg plunging into frigid water up to his knee. He’d been close to home, but by the time he’d been able to peel off his boot, his foot had been blue. A warm bath had brought it excruciatingly back to life.
But today he wasn’t close to home. Today they were miles out to the south, and the day was colder. Today they walked in the middle of the river, like it was a roadway, knives drawn, tempting fate.
‘Do you have science fairs at your school?’ Paul asked as they rounded a curve.
‘Yeah, every year,’ Rebecca said.
‘Have you entered?’
‘No, never. Why are you asking?’
‘Because I’m going to enter this year. And I’m going to win.’
‘You sound sure.’
‘Sure enough,’ he said. His steps slowed. ‘Be careful, the ice is weak here.’
Their feet made crunching sounds on the snow.
Rebecca touched his arm. ‘I see one.’
Paul stopped. He looked to where his friend was pointing, up the river, near the bend. ‘Yeah, I see it. Green spinner bait.’
They walked slowly. Rebecca moved ahead.
‘Getting thin,’ Paul warned.
‘I know.’
‘Slow down.’
‘Come on, Grandma. Don’t be a wuss.’
They inched forward. Paul stopped again. He studied the ice with his feet. Like Eskimos, they had a dozen names for ice, their own private language … the jargon of ice walkers. There was slick ice, and new ice, and chalk ice. There was rotten ice. There was ice-you-did-not-walk-on. You could feel the give, the gentle flex, a kind of sag. Ice on the river didn’t break without warning. It wasn’t like the movies: one minute you’re standing there, then a loud crack … and splash, you’re under. In reality, the ice had flex. And the sound … the sound was more of a creaking, like old leather, or the sound a tree makes in the two seconds between when it starts to fall and when it hits the ground … the low cry of rending fibre, of nature bending, failing. Of that which had been structured becoming unstructured.
In truth, you only heard a loud crack when the ice was good and strong. That’s when you hear the cracks like gunfire, invisible beneath a layer of snow … a shotgun sound that propagates forward so fast that you hear it beneath you and up ahead at the same time.
They advanced.
Near the bend, the snow was darker, revealing a cycle of freeze and melt.
Paul walked until the ice creaked like old leather. Rebecca looked back at him. The wind blew through the trees, clacking branches against branches.
‘You should stop,’ Paul said.
‘It’s not much farther.’
‘No, you should stop.’
Paul spread his feet. He watched his friend; he listened.
Rebecca inched ahead. The ice groaned. She turned and made eye contact with him, her cheeks rosy with the cold. Long brown hair spilled out from beneath her knitted hat. She smiled at him, and something fluttered in his stomach, and it occurred to him at that moment that she was pretty. Her smile shifted into a look of determination, and she turned back toward the lure.
The lure dangled just ahead of her, ten feet forward at chest level.
Ten more feet and she’d have it.
Rebecca shifted her weight and took another step as the ice creaked like an oak in a storm. She paused, as if unsure of herself, before stepping again … a slow, gentle sag forming beneath her feet, barely perceptible. She stopped. You’d only see it if you knew what to look for, but Paul did see it … the way the whole area beneath her seemed to give, just a little, as she stood balanced in perfect equipoise. A bare centimetre at first, then more, a slow downward flex of the ice. There would be no warning beyond this. Rebecca shot Paul another look, then shifted her weight again …
… and took a long step back.
And another, and another. Backing away, accepting defeat.
The lure would stay where it was for another season.
‘Next time,’ he told her when she was back on the thick ice again.
She shook her head. ‘It was this time or nothing.’
Paul clapped her on the shoulder, and together they turned and headed for home.
As they walked, the sky darkened, evening coming on. Paul looked at his friend and imagined what it would be like to die that way, to drown in the cold and dark, carried forward beneath the ice by the force of the current.
He imagined crawling out on the ice on his stomach and reaching for her through the hole, because he couldn’t have left her there to drown, not without trying … and he imagined the ice breaking and both of them going under.
The dark and numbing cold. An end to everything.
It wouldn’t be so bad.
An hour later they were at her door, shivering from the cold.
‘Shut your eyes,’ she said. It was dark now. The only light came from the streetlamp on the corner. Her face was a shape in the shadows.