Trees by N. D. Hansen-Hill

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Blurb
BOOK ONE OF THE TREES SERIES
Trees is a story of accidental mutation, ancient traditions, and love that endures on the brink of disaster. It is designed to celebrate the unexpected, in a world where everything that can go awry, will. Confusion and frustration reign as good and evil, science and myth, battle to triumph.
In Trees, heroes are found in the most unexpected places.

Trees

Book One of The Trees Series

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

***

copyright 1996
N. D. Hansen-Hill
New Zealand

First published by:
Parade Books
Argyle House Press
New Zealand
***

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the love of my life, who has enriched my world.
To my four children, who help me to see beyond the boundaries.
To my parents, who taught me to reach for the stars,
And to my teachers, who have given me the means.

***

Trees

Seeds of destiny, unconsciously cast,
Rich with coded remnants of their past;
Fragments of incongruous matter,
Soil-bound rubbish, lost mid earthen tatter.
*
The release - to free the embryonic wealth -
Was triggered in dark and littered stealth,
In the tangled leavings of long-gone lives,
Mingling past with present, the seedling thrives -
*
Rooting deep into this earthly plane,
Sending shoots aloft to further gain
From a yellowed star, and its shafted light -
Twisting light to life in survival's fight.
*
An interface from earth to skies,
A link of worlds whose essence vies -
Contorted, erratic growth at odds
With the stable growth of earth-bred pods.
*
Their wealth bestowed to nurturing earth -
The world that sustained them from their birth -
Is the gift of altered limb and life,
Mutinous upheaval, internal strife -
*
Earth's native creatures, newly changed;
Tissues shifted, cells rearranged;
To promote a joining of world and place,
Mutated empowerment of a new-borne race.
*

by N. D. Hansen-Hill
***

Prologue

        Unfleshed, he drifted through the trees - dark and massive against the skeletal whiteness of the cold bark. His ragged contours shifted, subject to the fickle breeze, while his dripping remnants fed the Earthen soil.
        He had little strength here. His substance was no more than a gelid parody. Still, the sight of him - of his skull-like visage and dangling tissues - was enough to chill the spirit of his would-be prey.
        His empty eyeholes stared in uncaring disdain at the glitter of this world. Unseeing of the dew-drenched leaves, or the moonbright pastures, he had vision only for that which would satisfy his needs.
        The most important of these was hunger. An insatiable hunger, which made no distinction between domination and dining. For was not consumption the ultimate form of dominance?
        A hiss of satisfaction curved his gaping mouth in a caricature of a grin, that was somehow far more frightening than its death-head stillness. The creature's cravings took him drifting up a slope, to peer in the windows of an empty house. A snarl sliced the night as sharply as his claws could sometimes rend flesh. His purpose had been thwarted by time and distance - a taunting of memory on the breeze, or perhaps, an enigmatic taste of what was to come.
        He floated away from the white dwelling, to seek better feeding grounds. Another place where he would have solidity, and mass, and the ability to consume that which he most craved.
        But, as he melted into the forest darkness, the black eyeholes cast a backwards glance - a glitter of awareness momentarily brightening them with a silvered-purple glint. The white house, the trees, the promise of future success - all were lodged in the wisps of his memory. And the formidable retentive abilities of his kind were legend. Offend him once, and he would never forget. He would come again, at another time, in another place, to claim you as his own.
        Somewhere in this place lay the promise of a rare delicacy. The flavour of a prize that was as difficult to catch, as it was pleasurable to consume.
        The creature's salivation fed the dripping residue of his already leaking tissues. The taint of his brightly-aura'd prize lay on the breeze, on the old wood of the dwelling, on the grass heads that shivered beneath his feet. If its prey had visited here so frequently as to leave its imprint upon this place, then it would come again.
        It would come, but it would not leave.
***

Chapter One

        The storm raged, rattling the old glass in its wooden frame. The wind pillaged the grounds, eating the soil and gravel, then flinging them back against the house, to pellet the shivering windows in a harsh staccato beat.
*
        Trevor took a long look at the drooping ceiling, the peeling wallpaper, and the downhill cant to the lounge floor. Peter, what have you done? he thought. Turning quickly to hide his expression, he peered out the window at the dark night. "And you say Katy agreed?" Trev forgot to hide the sceptical note in his voice.
        It made Peter squirm. Somewhat defensively, Peter told him, "Of course she would've loved to see the place beforehand, but when I told her about the auction, she said okay." He grinned as he remembered the other, less mentionable, things Katy had whispered. "She trusts my judgement."
        Trevor gave a sarcastic snort. "Judgement has nothing to do with it. She just likes your -"
        Another blast of grit hit against the glass. Trevor jumped back, letting the curtain drop. Lowering his voice to a hollow moan, he told Peter, "Someone's rapping at your window -"
        "Someone's going to rap at the side of your head if you don't shut up," Peter said, grinning. It was his turn to move the curtain aside, and stare out the window. His smile faded. "Seriously, Trev - what do you think?"
        "I think I hate it when you say, 'seriously, Trev'. It always means you're actually going to listen to my opinion - and if I don't get it right you'll be worrying about it for days."
        "Bullshit."
        "'Bullshit' nothing. You know what your problem is?"
        "You?"
        Trevor grinned. "Close. But I'm a complication, not a problem."
        Peter hid his amusement behind a snort of disgust. "You're both. Anyway, I didn't ask for your opinion -"
        "Yes, you did!" Trevor interrupted. "Don't you remember, 'Trev, what d'you think'?"
        "Of this place, you moron - not me!"
        Trevor flopped down in one of Peter's big wing chairs. Its fraternal twin nestled closer to the smoking fireplace. Trev opted for breathing space over warmth. He sighed. "Okay, Pete - I'm ready. Do your worst. Bring on your questions." Trevor looked around the room, seeing the moisture marks in the plaster, borer holes in the wood, and numerous small repairs that he knew Peter wouldn't have noticed. A note of amusement crept back into his voice as he added, "Only one thing -"
        "Only what?" Peter asked, raising his eyes to the heavens in a bid for patience. He knew it was a gesture that always annoyed Trevor.
        "Only - do I have to tell you the truth?"
        Now that Peter was about to get Trevor's opinion, he wasn't sure he wanted it. When another blast of grit shuddered the glass, Peter used it as an excuse to look out at the storm. As always, his eyes seemed to wander of their own accord toward that weird stand of trees at the bottom of the slope. Trevor joined him, welcoming anything that would distract Peter from an honest appraisal of his new purchase.
        "Those have got to be the ugliest trees I've ever seen!" Trevor put his face against the glass, straining to get a better look at the monstrosities in the distance.
        "They're ancient," Peter told him, his voice mingling a hint of awe with an undertone of proprietorial pride.
        Trevor snorted. "So's my grandmother." He looked out the window again, frowned and flopped the curtain in Peter's face. "If they're half as old as they look, they must've been planted by Cro-Magnon man."
        Peter lifted the curtain and wedged the material between the rod and frame, so Trevor couldn't drop it in his face any more. He didn't expect Trev to appreciate plants - any more than I'd enjoy fiddling with electronics, Peter thought.
        Peter studied the trees, his brain ticking away. Now that he was looking at them - really seeing them, the scientist side of him was drawn by certain features: by the way the trees stood stiff and resolute, even though the rest of their surroundings were being blown to hell and back. By the way they seemed to glow in the black of the rainslick night. By the way the lightning revealed deformed and grotesque contortions in their trunks.
        "Uh-oh," Trevor remarked, seeing the expression on Peter's face. "Here we go."
        "Huh?" Peter said, not really listening. The trees loomed swollen and misshapen, each one an individual distortion. Moonlight rifted through the shrouding clouds, emphasising abnormalities - pouring lingering pools of shadow into the curvature of a limb or a deformity in the bark. In a flash of lightning, this one was a woman, with great swollen breasts, and that one a pitiable hunched old soul - sexless, but nevertheless potent. In the wet and slick, the flashing and the shadow, they were monstrous, a deviation from the norm that was somehow unacceptable.
        What could have caused them to grow like that? The fact that he'd never seen anything like them was enough to stir Peter's interest. He'd thought he had a fairly good grasp of the regional plant species - but these trees were something new to his experience. They can't be a new hybrid that I'm not familiar with, he reasoned. They're too old for that. Could they be some stand that had naturally hybridised years before? Or maybe - the idea made his blood tingle - they're manifesting some new plant disease.
        "You know, Trev - I bet there's some potyvirus at work here."
The thought obviously didn't thrill Trevor the way it did Peter. "Judging from the look of them, it's working overtime."
        "No - I'm serious. You're looking at some fantastic examples of distortions caused by cell proliferation. Some fungi can cause distortions, too, but these are so extensive, I'll bet they're viral," he added, half to himself.
        "I'm sure this is all very interesting - to someone else," Trevor told him impatiently. "You can't get around the fact they're creepy, Pete," he added, glad to be able to criticise something other than the house.
        The distraction worked. Peter tried to reason with him. "Granted, they're not your picture window view, but think of them as viral hosts, Trev. That'll make you feel better."
        "They look like hosts for ghosts to me," Trev told him jokingly. "I wonder what Katy will think."
        A blinding flash of lightning made Peter flinch. For the first time, he saw the trees as Trevor did - and as Katy would. He frowned. "She'll probably think I've lost my mind," he said unhappily. "Or, worse, that I bought this place because of those trees."
        "Maybe she'll find some artsy-fartsy value in them, Pete."
        The next lightning flash left Peter with a residual picture of black contortions on screaming white. "Now you've got me seeing them the Katy's going to," he complained. "I just hope it's not raining the night she arrives."
        "Don't take this wrong, Pete," Trevor told him. "But it's kind of like having a graveyard on your front lawn."
        "Is there a way to take that right?" Peter said, exasperated. "Here, I'm all worried about making a good impression on Katy, and you come up with that."
        "Okay, tell me I'm tactless, tell me I'm insensitive. I can take it."
        "Yeah, but can I take you?" Peter muttered.
        Trevor flopped down in the chair again. "All right. I'll be practical. Cut 'em down."
        Peter was appalled. Whatever the cause of the aberrant growth patterns, it had made these trees unique - at least different from anything in Peter's experience, which, in the area of plant science, was pretty extensive. And that singularity was worth studying before any decision about destroying them could be made. "Cut them down?! Are you serious?"
        "No. But that's your alternative." He snickered. "Unless you think you can hide them somehow." Trevor patted Peter on the back.
        "I guess I'm just worried Katy won't like it here."
        "What's not to like? Just because you bought a derelict house in the suburbs - of the ends of the earth, that is -"
        "Nothing like boosting my confidence, you fool." Peter hesitated, and the expression of disappointment on his face made Trevor wish he could take back his remark. "It's just that I was so sure -"
        "Pete, this place is great. Katy'll be crazy about it." Trevor could tell Peter wasn't buying his attempt at sincerity. He tried again, this time throwing in a little humour in hopes that Peter would believe it. The last thing he wanted was to burst Peter's bubble. "It's old enough to have character, or whatever it is people like in crumbling ruins. And it's got three-quarters of a great view."
        Peter smiled.
        Good, Trevor thought, relieved. "Think of it like this: the artistic side of her will go ape over the thought of living in a garret."
        "How would you know, Trev? You're about as artistic as good old Morty." The dog looked up from the hearth rug and wagged his tail.
        Trevor snorted. "Yeah, if I'm as artistic as Morty, then I'm one up on you."
        "A garret?" Peter recalled Trevor's comment. He looked confused. "I thought that was an attic-type thing."
        Trevor looked slightly smug. It wasn't often that he had to explain a reference to Peter. Slowly, as though speaking to someone with limited understanding, he explained. "It's symbolic, Pete. The starving artist syndrome. It's supposed to liberate your artistic side or something."
        In another flash of lightning, Trevor's eyes were once again drawn to the spectre of the trees against the landscape. He stared at one which boasted an astonishingly well-endowed distortion resembling human breasts. "Hey, Pete! Your trees may have some redeeming features -"
        Peter took a look and grinned. "I call her Delilah." Trev chuckled. "I don't think, Trev, that Katy'll be as appreciative as we are."
        "Well, it's raised my opinion of the place."
        "Is that all it's raised?"
        "And you call me crass." Trevor tuned in to the growling of his stomach. "Hear that? Those are my organs screaming. Didn't you promise me a five-course meal?"
        Peter gave him a shove in the direction of the hall. "No - only a coarse meal. Let's eat."
*
        The kitchen was a large, dark monstrosity five steps lower than the rest of the house, with three heavy block walls. Looking around, Trevor remarked, "You could always rent cell space to the local prison, Pete. This room is not one of your house's redeeming features." It was cheerless, bizarre and out of sync with the rest of the house.
        "What are you saying, Richmond? That it wouldn't make the cover of 'Better Homes and Gardens'?" Peter gripped Trevor's shoulders with false menace and practically growled in his face, as though daring him to dispute his words. "The real estate lady told me this room has potential."
        Trevor pushed him away. "It's potentially dangerous. If that door sticks, how are you going to get out of here?" He moved the door on its squeaky hinges. "You better get that guy - what's his name? Henry - to fix it for you. Or, better still, I will."
        "What do you mean, you'll fix it? I'll fix it. I don't need Henry to do a little job like this."
        Trevor just stared at him. Peter might be great with a microscope, but his fix-it skills were nil.
        Peter didn't notice Trevor's expression. His own was excited. "That's one of the reasons I bought this place, Trev! This is my chance to develop all those skills you claim I don't possess." He moved the door back and forth, gritting his teeth as it groaned in protest. "A little soap, and I'll have this thing moving smooth as silk," Peter said happily.
        Trev shook his head in dismay. A plane to take off the swollen, bulgy wood would have been more appropriate. But the eagerness in Peter's face stopped him. "Sounds good, Pete," he said amiably. "Just do it soon, okay?"
        "Afraid I'll get stuck in here with one of my culinary masterpieces?" Peter grinned.
        "Or, worse still, one of Katy's."
        Peter elbowed him. "Since I'm about to feed your face, maybe you'd better close the lower half of it. Otherwise, I might be tempted to experiment."
        "Say no more. Remember, I know how much you love playing with fungus." Trevor looked down at the darkened walls, the heavy wooden table and the feeble attempts at modernisation. He shivered, feeling the cold in the large, dank room.
        A massive old iron cookstove had been left "decoratively" along one wall. Trevor pointed to it. "There's the perfect stove to take on those trees," he said jokingly. "Bring one of those mothers in here, chuck one end into the fire, and let that sucker eat 'em alive. They suit each other, don't they?"
        "Too well." Peter was looking down at the cold iron of the stove. He said, "Somehow, I prefer it if that thing stays cold, Trev." Then, feeling foolish, he grinned. "For the moment, anyway. Tackling that monster is even less my speed than fixing that squeaky door." Peter slapped his friend on the back. "C'mon, I'm starved. Let's see what haute cuisine Peter the Great can rustle up."
*
        After they'd eaten, Peter looked over at Trevor, who'd decorated the surrounding tables with the leftovers from his meal. There was one of Katy's fine porcelain dinner plates still sprinkled with nacho crumbs, a plastic bowl dripping the remains of a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream, and a nearly empty mixing bowl of popcorn. "I think you only visit me, Trev, for the quantity of my cooking," Peter said.
        Thinking of cooking reminded Peter of the state of his kitchen. "Y'know, the trouble with the kitchen is the lighting. No windows to let in the daylight. It'd be one hell of a job to knock a window into that heavy block, but lots of basements are made to look light and airy with bright paint and extra lighting."
        He stood up, grabbed his plates, and nudged Trevor's feet where they rested on his coffee table. "Cleanliness may be foreign to your nature, but I'm going to be a good influence on you. Get your butt up and clear your plates so I can keep it nice for when Katy gets home."
        "Peter," Trevor complained, "you've got a week at least. Plenty of time to clear these plates." At the look on Peter's face, he quickly gathered up the remains of his dinner. "Okay, okay, make me a slave to cleanliness. Is this how you treat all your guests? Don't you even clear for them, offer them coffee and after-dinner cognacs and stuff? How about those little wrapped after-dinner mints - got any of those?" They reached the kitchen, and Peter shook his head as he once again took in the grimness of the room.
        Trevor realised it was bothering him, and forced himself to sound enthusiastic. "You're right about what you said earlier, Pete. This place has definite possibilities. And wrecking it would cost heaps, what with all this block. I would say," as he used an empty beer bottle to gesture, "that you need something to brighten the corners, and," the bottle pointed toward the heavy wooden door, "that door should be replaced - maybe with an archway." He looked at Peter. "Was this room built as a bomb shelter, do you think?"
        Peter glanced around and said, "I don't know, but I don't think so. It's too old for that." He walked over and slapped his hand against the wall. "This is actually stone, not block. My guess is that someone was trying to keep the cooking area both separated, and cooler than, the rest of the house." He gestured up the small flight of stairs, toward the more habitable regions. "The remainder of this place is what Katy would call 'charming'." Tilting his head back to glance at the heavy timbers overhead, he chuckled, admitting, "Katy is really going to hate this room."
        Peter rummaged in the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of beer, which he tossed at Trev. "Your brewski." Then he opened a jug of chocolate milk and took a long gulp. "Ah-h! The drink of champions!" As Trevor was unscrewing the cap on his beer, Peter snatched a bag of plastic-wrapped sourballs out of the cupboard and chucked them in Trevor's direction. "Your after-dinner mints. Who says I'm not the perfect host?"
        Trevor grabbed the candy bag off the floor and eyed Peter sourly. "Juggling is not in my resumé." He looked with distaste at the hard candies. "Did you expect me to eat these?"
        Peter smiled. "Of course. Nobody else will. I think we've had those things since the last time we moved -" Trevor threw them back at him, and Peter ducked, then raced up the stairs.
*
        Later, in the lounge, Trevor stared at the top of his beer, obviously deep in thought. When he spoke, it was with uncustomary sincerity. "You know, Pete - you're right."
        "It must be the first time. What did I do now?"
        "You are the perfect host." Peter looked amused. Trevor, seeing it, told him, "I'm serious. Look at this." He waved his hand to indicate their surroundings. "You're all worried about it, but this really is a nice house, Pete - and Katy'll love it."
        "Don't get maudlin on me, Trev. You haven't had that much beer."
        "If maudlin means sappy, then I won't. It's just that I realise how together your life is now. You've got Katy - though I still can't figure out how you managed that one - and now, you've bought yourself a house." He hesitated. "And then there's me. I've been so busy mingling that I'm beginning to feel lost in a crowd. Do you think I have a sheep complex?"
"Sheepish? Never."
        "No, you fool! Sheep complex - one of the herd. Run-of-the-mill." Smiling, he added, "Worse. A sheepskin rug. For people to walk on."
        Peter laughed. "No one would dare walk on a rug with a mouth as big as yours. And it's your mouth, Trev - among other things - that'll always keep you from getting lost in a crowd. I don't think you should worry about it."
        Trevor grinned. "You don't worry about it because half the time you don't even notice the crowd is there." He looked at his watch and stood up. "Time for me to go. Otherwise, I'll be so tired my car will have to drive itself home."
        Peter looked worried. "Did you want to stay, Trev?"
        They'd reached the porch, and Trevor took a long look at the distorted trees, then said jokingly, "No, thanks. You may see those critters as viral hosts, but I still see them as haunts. I'm going home where it's safe." He climbed into his car. "You should get your plant pathologist's ass out there tomorrow and see what ails them."
        Now that the storm had passed, Trevor could see Peter's smile in the moonlight. "How'd you guess?"
        "Because I know you. You're too damn curious." He started the engine. "See ya, Pete! Have fun with your fungus -"
        "G'night, Trev." Peter was still smiling as he watched Trevor's taillights turn the corner of the driveway.
***

Chapter Two

        The morning burst forward with streams of eye-burning yellows and reds. Peter stepped out on the porch, took a deep breath, and stared with longing at the out-of-doors - especially those trees that had looked so grotesque the night before. They didn't look nearly as bad in the dawn light - just a little eerie.
        With a sense of resignation, Peter turned around and forced his feet back into the house. He dodged boxes, wondering where to start in sorting out his and Katy's bits and pieces. One way to get Katy to like the place was to make her feel like it was home. The furniture was pretty much in place already - at least in the places it would sit until Katy came and re-arranged it all. Peter placed furniture for convenience, whereas Katy placed furniture where it would look good.
        There were heaps of boxes everywhere. Looking at the mess, Peter couldn't figure out how all this junk had fit into their old place. Did they really need this stuff? He opened the first box and found an article on fungal endophytes and part of a soil test kit, some of Katy's tubes of paint, and a ceramic something-or-other that Katy had made during her student days. He shoved it all back in and closed the lid. He hadn't a clue what to do with this mess.
        He worked for several hours, filling closets to the brim, then put the rest of the boxes along the walls in the rooms he thought they'd eventually end up. Still discouraged with the way it looked, he pulled out several sheets and blankets which he artfully arranged to cover the stacked masses of cardboard. That's better, he thought, pleased. Finished. If I make it look too perfect, then Katy won't feel she can make it hers.
        By the time he reached the porch again, all thoughts of moving and boxes were forgotten. He sat down on the porch step, leaning back against a wooden post, and thought about Katy instead - a smile on his face.
        When the owner sold the place he and Katy had been renting, they'd decided to find a flat or small house to move into, figuring that the house would come into their lives when they were ready. He and Katy had packed up things days before the moving van was due, and Peter suspected that Katy had planned it that way. Because she didn't intend to be there when the moving day actually arrived.
        Her business trip had been just a bit too coincidental. Peter was sure it was intentional. Katy hated saying good-bye to anything, especially the little house where they'd spent so many happy times together. Not that she'd left him all the work. No, she'd made certain all was done a week before she'd actually left. Guilt, probably. He remembered the way she'd looked at him, sheepishly, hoping he'd understand how it was with her. He did, of course. And he'd said all the right things about how she couldn't help it if her company needed her in Sydney right now, and that he could find a flat and rent it on his own. And, yes, he knew she trusted him to find a place that would suit them for a while, until they bought a house...
        Well, Katy had flown off, and he'd found this place. It struck him that it was perfect for them. Only the auction wouldn't wait for Katy's stamp of approval. So Peter, feeling very daring, had bought it on his own.
        Peter took a few steps off the porch, scrunched his eyes closed, then turned, opening his eyes wide in hopes of seeing his house without any preconceptions. It didn't work. All he could think was : A little paint would do wonders, along with Isn't it great?
        Peter sank back down on his step. He couldn't figure out why the hell Katy stayed with him. Right now, with insecurity sitting at his back in the form of a peeling semi-derelict investment, he hoped that whatever myopia blinded Katherine Ryder to his faults would extend to the house he had chosen. Trevor hadn't spent so much time changing the subject last night for nothing.
        At least, I didn't touch any of Katy's money to buy it. The thought soothed away some of his anxiety. Katy didn't have much in her account, but she could save it for whatever she wanted. Knowing her, he felt sure that she'd want to set up her studio. There had never been enough room at their old place to paint as much as she liked. It always seemed to get in the way of everything else.
        He frowned. Also knowing Katy, as much as she wanted a studio, she'd probably want him to set up his laboratory first. At the same time he'd be trying to buy her an easel or a skylight, she'd be trying to get him a microscope. It had happened before. Which is why, most of the time, neither one of them had any money.
        Well, this is her wedding gift. Thinking of it that way made him feel a little less guilty that he'd made such a big decision without her input. Will it be homey enough to convince her that it's our place? Peter wondered. He knew what Trevor's response to that would be: did you say homey, or homely? Peter grinned. He made a mental note not to give his friend that kind of opening.
        Peter's smile faded. It would take Katy to make this place feel like home to him. He was glad she was coming back soon. I really miss her, he thought, feeling once again that dull ache being without her always seemed to bring.
        Determined not to let the feeling of loneliness get to him, he stood up, to get a better look at the trees below. Today, Peter would welcome the nearly obsessive absorption that seemed to overtake him whenever he was interested in something. And nothing could draw his attention as strongly as a puzzle in his field - some plant disease manifested in an odd way, or that no one else could figure out. Peter's glum look brightened as he considered the convoluted growth patterns of the mini-forest. Excited, he gave a flat-handed smack to the post beside him, then cringed as his head was dusted with wood crumbles.
        The crumbling wood made Peter think cut wood which, in turn, made him think pruning. His excitement was momentarily dimmed. This might not be a plant disease at all, he realised. The distortions might result from years of bungled pruning. He made a mental note to get some background info from Henry, the gardener.
        Henry would be here soon. Not that Henry was much of a gardener. The flowers encircling the porch looked as though they owed their existence to years of self-sowing, rather than to any intentional effort, and Peter suspected that Henry had done most of his "gardening" infrequently, using the ride-on mower.
        Peter scuffed a toe in the gravel of the drive. I hope Henry hurries, he thought impatiently. He looked at the blue skies, interrupted by only a few scuddy clouds that sat fat and quiet in the moisture-scented air. The storm had blasted itself out, or at least, moved on to torture someone else. Not a bit of wind, but the touch of the sun and the sweet trilling of birds lingered on the air. Some insect was buzzing across the field. Peter inhaled deeply, and fingered the post he'd smacked the moment before, admiring the scroll-work that was his now. He stopped to enjoy the feeling that swept through him - that swelling somewhere in the diaphragm that moves up into the chest, then somehow makes its way to the eyes to moisten them, before sending a tingle down the arms - that "pride of possession" feeling.
        He eyed the stand of trees again, but this time with scientific detachment. Leaning against the weathered post, his arms crossed loosely in front of him, he studied the topography, looking for any differences that could account for an environmentally-induced variation in the growth pattern. The grounds (roughcut expanse, more like) gradually inclined from there up to the house, but there were no odd growth patterns in adjacent stands, at least that he could see from here. Next he tried to give a specific identity to the trees in question, but they weren't easy to categorise. They looked rather like birches - but not birches. The bark appeared to be white, or of some light colour, which limited the choices. I don't even know if they're deciduous, he thought.
        As if on cue, Henry drove his motorcycle up the drive with a grand flourish. Yes, Peter thought, Henry is definitely of the if-it-can't-be-done-with-a-machine-it-can't-be-done type.
        Henry's leather jacket was discarded and painstakingly folded and placed atop the bike. No helmet crowned the long flying locks, but a band across the forehead was removed and used to tie them back. Henry was ready for work.
        "G'morning, Henry."
        "And to you, Peter." Henry turned toward the shed, revealing the latest John Grisham novel wedged into his back pocket. Henry always brought along something to do when he was at work, Peter had already noticed.
        It didn't bother Peter. Henry might not be much into landscaping, but he'd been terrific about getting the house ready for Peter to move in. Not that Peter had noticed much beyond a hole in the step and a leaking tap, but Henry had fixed those right away. In Peter's mind, the big jobs had already been done by Henry. The "little" jobs remaining he wanted to claim as his own.
        "Henry, I know you're keen to start mowing before it gets too hot, but I need to ask you something."
        Henry retraced his steps, and stood waiting impatiently for Peter to speak.
Must be a good book, Peter thought. He'd already noticed that Henry always managed to get through a few chapters while he was mowing. He wondered if he took the same liberties on his motorcycle.
        Peter pointed to the trees. "I'm curious about any work that's been done on those trees. I'm going to take a look at them this morning, but I thought I'd talk to you first. Have they always looked like that? You know - all swollen and distorted?" He hesitated to ask about the species of tree. Most people thought a plant pathologist should be able to identify any plant that came his way off the top of his head, particularly something as big as a tree.
        Henry looked down at the ground, uncomfortable now. He scuffed small patterns with the toe of his boot while he thought about his answer. Peter tried to control his own foot from tapping so that the other man wouldn't know that he was getting impatient. A simple question. He'd cleared his throat to say something more, when Henry lifted his head, to look directly at him, some kind of decision made.

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        "They should have told you."
        Peter was startled. "Told me what?"
        "The trees. No one prunes them. Furthermore, no one goes near them."
        "Henry," Peter began, "I don't know anything about the previous owner, but you and your friends can visit my trees whenever you like -"
        "That's a generous offer, Peter, but you won't find too many takers. I don't think you're getting the picture here: no one can prune them."
        Peter was confused. "What do you mean - 'no one can prune them'? Did anyone ever think about taking them down? Over the years, someone must have considered it."
        Henry looked amused. "If they have, I'm sure they decided it wasn't worth it."
        Peter's frustration was beginning to show. "Is this an equipment problem we're talking about, or some local superstition?"
        "We're not exactly a group of ignorant peasants," Henry didn't like Peter's tone.
        Peter hadn't intended to get Henry upset. "Sorry, Henry. That's not what I meant."
        Henry nodded, and Peter assumed that meant his apology had been accepted. "I prefer to think of this as accumulated wisdom - based on past experience."
        Peter lowered his voice to a whisper. "So what are you saying? That the trees are haunted, or what?" He managed to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
        Henry's face was serious, but his tone was matter-of-fact. "I honestly don't know. Of course, stories abound, but I only take a few of them seriously. Like the one that says no one's watch works near there. You'll notice I say near there, because in recent times no one has gone in there."
        Peter felt an uncomfortable crawling of gooseflesh across his skin. He tried to ignore it. "We may just be talking about a plant disease here, Henry. Something that distorts them into their present shape."
        "Maybe. Take a close look, and then tell me to prune them." He laughed. Henry was still chuckling to himself as he walked toward the tool shed.
*
        "Stay!" The word was as meaningless to Mortimer as any other, except, perhaps, the interrogative form of "hungry". The extent of Morty's vocabulary depended on his mood: if it was a sunny day, Mortimer had no trouble understanding the word "outside", but, if the wind was howling, or Peter was cooking something worth begging for, Morty developed a sudden deafness to anything he didn't want to hear. Right now, lying on the warm boards of the porch, the dog was indifferent to anything Peter had to say. Peter was undecided whether a twitch of one ear was meant to recognise him, or a flea.
        The day was a cooker, but it was still early enough to bake gently. Blue skies hung thickly overhead, and the smell of the grass was pungent as he crushed it underfoot. Little wildflowers had dotted up in yellows and purples. Peter turned to look back at his house. It had such style, and the little things like warped timber and peeling paint didn't show from a distance. He hoped his feelings of pride and affection didn't stem from the fact that he'd selected the house himself. He really wanted Katy to like it, too.
*
        The first thing Peter noticed was the silence. An oppressive silence, from which all bird sounds, all insect noises, were missing. He was getting closer to the big sombre darkness that comprised this stand, and it was all too quiet. Almost as though he'd passed through some kind of barrier. When was it - ten yards back, fifteen? He only knew that he could no longer hear the cicadas, and the birdsong - which had been so raucous this morning that it had acted as an alarm - was totally absent. He approached the nearest tree. Gooseflesh danced up his back now, but he made himself ignore it. Peter willed the gooseflesh away, determined that he would treat all this professionally.
        The bark was white - so brightly white that it had a whitewashed glare, as though clad in a coating of some sort. Curiosity took over, and Peter's nervousness was displaced by a tremor of excitement.
        He took a step back, to get a better look at the smallest oddity in this abnormal stand of trees. White, rough bark; attenuated leaves in strange clustered formations. Like witch's broom? Some imbalance in the hormone levels? Peter reached out a hand and touched the bark, half expecting the eerie white to powder under his fingers. But, no - it was cold and hard - stiff and unyielding - with none of the flaking or chipping qualities he associated with normal secondary growth. In fact - his brows drew down in puzzlement - it felt a hell of a lot like stone.
         Absurd. Peter tried to pick at the bark with his fingernail and couldn't make a mark. Okay. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his trusty knife - the one he always used to cut back bark on suspect plants, in order to expose disease lesions. He tried to make a small incision in the bark, but no go. His knife was going to break before the bark would. It crossed his mind that he was playing with some type of petrified wood; a specimen that had somehow been preserved in situ, leaves and all. But the idea of that was ridiculous.
        There was only one thing to do. I need to see this under a microscope, he thought, his mind already turning over tests he could run, ranging from the mundane to the molecular. "How the hell am I going to get a specimen?" he grumbled, hands on his hips. There was one thing for sure - it wouldn't be a sample of bark. He looked at his knife and sighed.
        He squatted down, tumbling some soil through his fingers as he thought it out. "It'll have to be leaves," he decided.
        Peter ran his hand over the protuberance decorating this one's bark: a beak-like projection that jutted midway out the trunk. "That one would be more fun," he said, looking over at the tree sporting enormous mammary-like growths, "but (grunt), this -" he pulled himself up to balance on the schnozz, "- will (puff) have to do -" Peter turned his attention to the leaves. Sure enough, they appeared to be as stiff and unyielding as chipped stone. "This is great!" he muttered in excitement, startling himself with the eerie quality of his own voice in this solemn place. Peter leaned out, grabbed a leaf, and snapped it off.
        His trip to the ground was much shorter than he expected. His foot slipped on the beak, and he went tumbling down, clutching his precious leaf sample close against him. Peter picked himself up, grinning ruefully as he rubbed his skinned ankle. He absently brushed dirt off with one hand, as he held the leaf to the light. If this find was as exciting as he thought it was going to be, it was worth more than a few knocks and bumps. He gave the side of the beak a cheerful slap, and strolled off jauntily toward his house.
        I should be able to get some details on the cell structure if I can get a thin-enough section. Peter took one last look around before he left the shelter of the trees. "At least I know now why this place is so quiet," he said loudly, to fill the silence. "There's nothing to eat." It was no wonder nothing lived here. He supposed there might be some insect that could live on this stuff - he held up the leaf and studied it under his small magnifying lens - but he hadn't seen any. There wasn't even any grass underfoot.
        Peter felt pleased with himself. Certainly, he had a mystery on his hands, but it was one which was scientific rather than supernatural. Lost in the turning over of possibilities, he didn't even notice when he passed back into the noisy ambience of the hot summer day.
*
        Peter made a special trip into the lab that afternoon to play with his new find. He didn't think they'd be surprised to see him, even though he'd taken time off to move - most of the people he worked with were as nutty about their jobs as he was. Still, he hesitated to show his face, because undoubtedly they'd find some work for him to do. There was no way around it, though. He needed his equipment, and to consult some of the texts on trees. It was driving him crazy because he still didn't have any idea what kind of tree he was looking at. He'd checked through all his reference books, even though it meant digging through more boxes to find them all.
        None of his systematic bibles held the right tree. It was at once both discouraging, and encouraging. Discouraging because he couldn't cross-reference disease reports if he didn't know what these plants were; encouraging because it might mean either this species, or this disease manifestation, was so new that it had yet to be mentioned.
        Peter went through the books twice to be sure he didn't miss anything, but it didn't help. If the leaf shape was right, the branching pattern, or the colour of the bark, was wrong. In the end he admitted it: nothing he'd seen on paper was even close to the peculiar tree from which he'd snapped his leaf samples.
        At the lab, he plugged into a systematics program on the computer, then continued pouring through systematics books when the latter failed to produce anything. He grew more frustrated as the hours passed. Finally, unable to determine even the family of his odd find, he gave up. Irritated, but far from being discouraged, he pushed the stack of books aside and left his desk. I've done my duty, he thought, excited. Now, let's get down to the nitty-gritty.
        This was what he'd been waiting for, but he'd forced himself to do the basics before diving headfirst into any microscopy work. If he'd found a match, it might have given him a hint as to what disease organism he was looking for, and what stains and mounting methods to use. Now he'd have to start from scratch.
        Peter took a fragment of leaf tissue, tried to section it, then gave up and ground it into powder. Finally, a distracted smile on his face, Peter started making slides.
*
        "I don't get it. Talk about your crystalline arrays. Not fungal, not bacterial. Maybe not even viral. What the hell is this?" Peter's bench was littered with slides - leaf tissue stained in violet and orange and blue and red.
        He started the series again, looking at a slide, then replacing it with another; recording the results in a second column on a pad of paper. The first column represented his preliminary observations, and Peter shook his head over the brevity of his remarks. It's obvious, even to me, that I have no idea what I'm looking at, he thought. It's time to tear this sucker apart, and look at it from its inside out. Resting his elbows on the lab bench, Peter idly twirled a stiff leaf. "I hate mixing gels," he muttered. Separating the components of this thing according to size and molecular weight would give him much-needed information, but mixing and pouring gels was a pain in the ass.
        Right now, his body felt nearly as stiff as the leaf in his hands. "I need to go home," he yawned. He covered his microscope, retired his leaf samples to the fridge, and headed toward the door. "Tomorrow -" he mumbled in farewell. For the first time, he realised just how far he'd opted to live from work.
*
        Peter had to force himself to do the routine banking and shopping chores the next day. It was still morning when his car pulled back into the driveway. Peter dropped the groceries just inside the front door, then jogged on down to the grove. When he reached the tree that had been so accommodating with leaf samples the day before, he gave the cold, hard bark a friendly slap. Smiling, Peter climbed up into the tree once more and yanked down the limb with the snapped-off tip - the one whose fragments were now sitting in the fridge at the lab.
        At the break, there was a reflective red glint. Bracing his feet on the protruding beak, Peter took out his pocket magnifier. Red crystals. What was going on here? Could these be mammoth versions of the ones he'd seen under the microscope?
        It was too weird. The closest thing he'd seen to these crystalline structures were the minuscule versions produced by some potyvirus infections - difficult to see under a light microscope. These - these were so massive he could see them with his naked eye.
        What had started out as a puzzle had become an enigma. One that was beginning to scare him. Not because of Trevor's "hosts for ghosts" theory, but because this was something beyond his experience. If this was a virus, could it be mechanically transmitted? Did I just spread this stuff halfway across the country? he asked himself in dismay.
        No. The disease, if that's what it was, appeared to be confined to a very limited area, and, specifically, to this tree type - whatever that was. Henry had said that locals considered the trees to be as old as time, and had accordingly built up a slough of legendary tripe that accounted for those oddly human shapes. That meant that in all these years, no vector had carried it further afield.
        Maybe there was an environmental factor. Henry had mentioned people's watches - something about how this area upset them. Magnetism? Electromagnetism? Some weird effect from heavy background radiation? He'd better trace this, and soon. He and Katy wanted kids, and if there was some strong abnormality in the area, then it could affect humans as well.
        He remembered that some people were pushing devices that would change the electromagnetism of your house to get rid of pests - mice, flies - that sort of thing. Now he began to worry about the lack of living things. Could the ground or these trees be full of toxins? Was that what had happened here?
        Procedure. All right, get on with it. A better sample should go to the lab. It may be that he was dealing with a new species, and that this was the normal growth pattern, but he had to rule out all possibility of disease.
*
        When Peter ran past him to the tool shed for a hacksaw and some bags to hold his samples, Henry eyed him as though he'd just gone mental. Henry was of the mind that machines did the hurrying for you, and on those you went flat out. He shook his head and continued tilling the garden patch Peter had requested. There was another one of those storms due that was supposed to rain buckets and be unseasonably windy and cold. Henry wanted to be out of here and comfortably installed in front of the television before its arrival.
        Peter raced down to the trees again, selecting the limb of another tree this time. He'd brought spare blades with him, but it still took him the better part of two hours to cut away his samples. He decided on big cuts to get a better look at the general structure, and because anything finer might well fracture rather than slice. Working with material this hard made delicate work in the field just too damned difficult.
        Peter double-bagged the wood chunks in some discarded feed sacks he'd found in the shed, then carried them up to the house. He dropped one bag on the porch, and stowed the other in the boot of his car.
        Trevor was coming around after work, to have dinner and shoot the bull for a couple of hours, on the excuse of helping him finish "settle in". Peter looked at the sky, then his watch. Henry was right; his watch was now blinking on and off, so he'd have to reset it - just as he had the last time he'd been in the woods.
        Peter ran inside - and promptly fell over the bags of groceries he'd left in the hall. Grumbling, he flung the groceries into the fridge, bags and all - he'd sort them when he got home.
        In the lounge, Peter rummaged around till he found some paper. He scrawled a note to Trev, telling him to come in and make himself comfortable, and that he'd be back by seven. He tried to pin it on the front door, but a gust of wind snatched it away. "Damn it!" Peter managed to stomp on the paper before it left the porch. He looked around for something to use as a paper weight. Smiling, Peter took the bag of wood samples, and plunked it down on one side of the paper.
        He nearly tripped over Mortimer when he turned around. Would Morty be okay outside? Anything was better than having dog stains all over their already well-worn furniture. "Morty - stay!" Peter told his dog firmly. Peter jogged out to the car and looked back - only to see Mortimer hadn't moved a muscle. "Good dog!" he said loudly for the dog's benefit.
        As Peter drove out the driveway he muttered, "I wonder what he would have done if I'd said, 'come' instead -"
*
        The wind was whipping up strong gusts, so that Trevor had to fight the wheel to stay on his side of the highway. He was really beginning to hate back roads. It seemed to him that all the ones leading to Peter's house were unmarked. He felt like he was playing a game of map and memory, right up until he turned into the questionable safety of Peter's driveway.
        As he climbed out of his car, a gust of wind flung gravel at his legs. Trevor practically ran over to the porch.
        The note was flapping up and down, trying to work its way out from under the bag of wood. Trevor scanned it and smiled. "Okay, Peter. I'll just make myself at home."
        Trevor turned the knob, but he had competition when it came to entering. Mortimer pushed in, catching him just behind the knee and causing his left leg to buckle. "At least one of us is anxious to be here," Trevor said. As he hung up his coat he gave an exaggerated shiver.
        By eight o'clock, Trevor was fidgety. His idea of making himself at home had included finishing off the chocolate ice cream and reading yesterday's newspaper. Now he found himself watching the clock.
        Trevor couldn't forget his and Peter's discussion about those trees, and now it was all he could think about. Especially since this old place was so draughty that the cold was giving him as many goosebumps as those damned monsters at the bottom of the slope.
        Trev needed something to do. He picked up the book Peter had left open on the coffee table - saw the word "pathogen" - and slammed it shut. He turned on the TV, but found he was listening for sounds beyond - outside. Feeling foolish, he decided to do something constructive.
        He ran outside, pulling Morty along to keep him company, and rummaged in his car for the plane and oilcan he'd brought from home. Once back inside, he went to work with a will on that recalcitrant kitchen door - planing off the bulging top that was sticking in the frame, then carefully oiling the hinges. He was even tidy for once, sweeping up the wood shavings and shoving them into the old wood stove, so Peter wouldn't know what he'd done. Let Peter think his soap trick worked, thought Trevor with a smile. At least, I'll feel better, knowing that Pete won't get stuck in there with his godawful cooking.
        Afterwards, Trevor was still restless. And hungry. If Peter's coming home this late, I'll bet he'll have forgotten to eat. Trevor hunted through the fridge, pulling out sandwich fixings. He made two for himself, one for Peter, and one for Morty, who was staring at him pathetically. "Bug off, Mortimer!" Trevor said, tossing him the sandwich. Morty snatched it happily, then tore off to the lounge, content with stealing the big wing chair by the fireplace. "It's a good idea, Dog," Trevor said as he joined him near the fireplace. "But no matter how cold it is in here, I can't just build a fire in there and walk away." Trevor stomped his feet and rubbed his arms vigorously with his hands to try to stay warm.
        Trevor thought of the kitchen he'd just left. The big wood cooker would be all the better for a blast of heat, and warmth would go a long way to making this place more cheery. Ugly the wood stove might be, but the kitchen was one room where he could safely leave a fire going, and that old stove would provide enough heat to rise into the rest of the place and warm it.
        Trevor looked around for some wood, but there were only scraps in the wood bin next to the stove. Then he remembered the chunks he'd seen in the bag on the porch, and went to get it.
        Trevor tipped the wood out on to the kitchen floor. Picking up a chunk, he weighed it in his hand. "Talk about your hardwoods! I sure hope this'll burn." Mortimer, who was watching Trevor's efforts with one eye, and the refrigerator with the other, wagged his tail appreciatively.
        There was already a small log in the firebox, so Trevor threw in some wads of paper before adding the biggest piece of wood out of the bag. After lighting the paper, he closed the heavy door and rubbed the dust off his hands, before checking his watch. Should he stay? He walked into the lounge and lifted the curtain to look out the window. Eight fifty-seven. It was unlike Peter to be so late for an appointment. He hadn't phoned, either.
        "Damn it, Peter! If you can remember enough to leave me a note, you sure as heck can remember to call me if you're not coming," he complained, worried now.
        On any other night, Trevor wouldn't have been surprised if Peter was just so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he forgot to call - forgot Trevor was waiting - forgot everything until hours after the event. It had happened once or twice before, but Trevor didn't think that on a night like this, with the wind gusting and a big storm brewing, that Peter would forget. He might be absorbed, but he wasn't thoughtless. I'm glad Peter doesn't drive the way I do, Trevor thought. Then I'd really be concerned.
        Maybe the phones are out. Trevor crossed over and picked up the receiver. It was dead.
        Mortimer looked at him expectantly. Trevor told him, "No wonder, Morty. Now, we just have to figure out if I should hang in here and wait, or head for the bright lights of the city."
        It didn't make Trevor feel any better to know that Peter hadn't been able to correct a fault in the porch switch yet, so there was no exterior light. When he looked out the window, all he could see was rain-wet darkness. And the chatter of dirt and gravel at the window was somehow not as funny, now that Trevor was there alone. Maybe Peter has his reasons for not wanting to be here on a night like this. Maybe he figures I'll have the sense to realise it, and leave.
        Get a grip, Richmond! Trev told himself sternly. He sat down on the lumpy couch, leaned back to look at the high ceiling, and the old wallpaper - and remembered how much Peter loved this place. Ugh!
        Well, Katy would do wonders. Trevor grabbed some paper off the table, and wrote a note, saying he'd try calling when he got home, or, tomorrow, if the phones were still out.
        Trevor checked the fire, pleased to see that the big log was just beginning to glow along one edge. What he didn't see in the dimness of the kitchen lighting, was the burbling froth of bubbles being jettisoned on to the stove bottom.
        Trevor fed Mortimer a can of dog food. "Pig!" he muttered, as Morty begged for more. "You've eaten more than I have, dog." But, he was smiling as he watched Morty climb back into Peter's chair - the one the dog was never supposed to use, but the one the canine always hoarded, if the dog toys and well-chewed bones under the cushion were any indication.
        A loud rumble of thunder drowned out the rain that had changed from windblown mist to pound and pummel. The lights flickered, and Trevor started gathering his stuff together. He hadn't forgotten how scary this place could be with all the lights still on. "Sorry, Morty. That's my cue. I'm out of here."
        Trevor took one last look around, and went out the door. As he stepped into the windswept blackness, he shuddered - feeling that those grotesque figures down the slope were somehow watching. Trev sprinted to the car, jumped in and locked the doors. Then, heater on full to chase away the last of the shivers that seemed to linger in his spine, he tore out of the driveway. It would take a long time to get home.
*
        Peter was battling the buffeting winds on his way home. Somehow he'd made a wrong turn, and now he felt like a fool. He'd better keep his mind on his driving, or he'd run out of gas before he reached the main turn-off.
        He couldn't stop thinking about those trees. His scientific curiosity was aroused, and he'd set up a bunch of experiments that he'd do tomorrow. Maybe I should have stayed at the lab, he thought, looking at the rain runneling off his windshield. No, he decided, as yet another crack of lightning split the skies - Mortimer's stuck out in this storm, and if that isn't cruelty to animals, I don't know what is.
        There was one thing that made Peter feel a little better: if Trevor made it for dinner, like they'd planned, Morty might already be inside, curled up in his favourite forbidden sleeping spot.
        Another bolt of lightning seemed to shatter the glass in beads of fractured light. Peter changed his mind. He began to hope Trevor had played it safe and stayed home. There's no sense both of us being out in this -
        When he finally turned up the drive, it was after ten. Trevor's car wasn't there. Either he'd already left, or hadn't been able to make it at all. Peter dashed out of the car, one arm over his head to shield himself from the wind. As he jumped up on the porch, he could hear Mortimer scratching and whining to get out. His first feeling was relief that Trevor had let Morty in, followed by impatience. "Hold on to it, Morty! I'm coming!" Peter opened the door, hearing the high-pitched scream of the smoke alarm. Mortimer dashed out between his legs, into the storm.
        Peter stepped inside, closing doors as he went, but leaving the front door ajar for a quick getaway. Cautiously, he approached the kitchen. Now he could smell something burning - acrid, sour, totally repellent. As he reached the heavy wooden door, he saw wisps of white vapour rise out of the kitchen, and swirl into the hall, where they quickly dissipated.
        He raced back to the phone, thinking to have a member of the fire department on the line as he checked this out. But the phone was still dead. What should he do? He considered the kitchen. There was precious little that could burn in there. He'd dash in, see if he could put out whatever it was, then dash out. After all, this was his house, and it didn't look as though help would be coming any time soon.
        He cautiously turned on the kitchen light, worried lest even that small spark would cause a flash of flame. The bulb dangled, a hideous yellow, while he peered in, looking first at the stove to see if he'd accidentally left it on, before locating the source. The old wood stove! Trevor must have been here, and thought to heat the place, but what a misguided gesture!
        Peter yanked the bucket out of the broom closet, all the while trying to avoid inhaling. The stench was really appalling. He raced up the stairs, and filled the pail from the bathtub tap, then took a deep breath before going back into the kitchen. He'd just pop open the stove, toss the water in, then clear out and take another breath. It might take a couple of trips, but he'd put the damned thing out.
        The room was blistering hot. He realised that the air in here was thick with a cruddy steam, rather than smoke. He used a towel to yank open the door. The stove was seething - as fragments of wood ignited, foamy bits of residue were frothing upward, spitting out of the stove and on to the floor. He tossed the water, and was hit with a huge wall of steam. The first was bad, but it was followed by a second that churned forward, enveloping him as he made his way toward the steps.
        Outside, the storm was still in high fury, with the wind tearing around in high, unpredictable gusts. One such flurry impacted with the front door, opening it wide, to race down the hall. It rebounded in the small space, as more wind tore in through the open door, until it bounced against the heavy wooden door at the top of those five steps. With a minimal amount of effort, and with only a slight creaking of the newly-oiled hinge, the door was slammed shut.
        Peter - eyes streaming, gasping for air - was trying to find the stairs. All his pores were open, and sweat was mingling with this acrid steam. He felt as though he were inhaling large amounts of some dark and viscous fluid. His lungs were screaming, his skin was stinging as though salt were being rubbed into a thousand small cuts. He couldn't breathe, and he knew he was going down. As he hit the floor, he realised how much cooler it was, and hoped for a reprieve. But there was nothing to breathe but that blinding, choking steam, and it seemed to be filling him up...
*
        Trevor tried phoning when he got home, but the lines were still out. He decided to call the next day, knowing Peter would be off work.
        At work the following morning, he tried again. At least it was ringing this time, instead of doing that buzz-buzz thing. Trevor guessed that his friend was busy somewhere else. He chuckled, thinking about Peter and his preoccupation with fungus. "Pete's down tinkering with his trees again."
        Trevor didn't know exactly when it started bothering him; when that niggling of something-not-quite-right became more of a certainty that something was wrong. But it happened somewhere between the time he went whistling through his front door, and was getting pretty strong by the time he'd finished his first bite of apple. In-between he'd auto-dialled Pete's number, changed his shoes, and fetched something to eat. All the while the phone rang and rang.
        He's had plenty of time to get to the phone - even if he's down in those damned trees. Trevor slammed the phone down. Even if Peter was involved in something, he would have called by now, to explain about last night. Just to be sure, Trevor called the operator, and asked him to check the line. But the guy's reassurance that all was in order only made Trevor more certain that it wasn't.
        Maybe I was too quick to leave last night. Maybe Peter had had a problem with his car in that godawful storm and been stranded somewhere. Something was wrong. He and Peter had been friends for too long, and all the alarm bells were ringing. Trevor fumbled for his keys amidst the rubble on his desk, ran out to his car and jammed on the accelerator.
*
        When Trevor turned into Peter's driveway, the first thing he saw was Peter's car. He experienced a sort of wobbly-kneed relief, which left him feeling both overly-dramatic and slightly foolish. But then, as he stepped out of the car, he saw Mortimer. The dog's hair was tangled and full of mud. "Come here, Morty. Here, boy." He patted his leg and Mortimer came trotting over, cowering slightly but making a big show of this friend. He looked pathetically at the front door, which was standing wide open.
        "What's the matter, boy? C'mon." But no amount of calling could get Mortimer to go near the door.
        Trevor looked at the open door uncertainly. He called out loudly, "Peter! Hey, Pete, company!"
        Nothing. Trevor stepped into the hall, and the stench hit him. "What the hell!" He coughed, took a few deep breaths, then walked down the hall, opening doors as he went, looking for his friend. No Peter, no response. He was scared now, but not for himself. He laid a hand on the kitchen door, steeling himself for what he was afraid of finding, but possessed of an urgency to act before it was too late.
        The kitchen door opened easily. Trevor looked down, and at first didn't see him. He was too caught up in the peculiar greenish-brown stain that covered everything in the room. He went down the steps, trying not to breathe deeply; trying not to inhale the filthy odour that seemed to originate from that foul coating. Then he turned and saw Peter face down, against the wall.
        "Peter!" Trevor was at his side in an instant. He turned Peter over, carefully, afraid of aggravating any injuries he might have. Placing his ear against Peter's chest, Trevor found his mouth seemed to be functioning independently of his brain - muttering all kinds of prayers that he hadn't even realised he still remembered. He had to bite his lips to shut himself up enough to listen for Peter's heartbeat.
        At first Trevor couldn't detect anything, and he started to panic. Then he heard it - it sounded irregular, but it was there! Trevor dragged Peter upward and threw him over his shoulder, hauling him at a run out of the house. Out on the grass, he started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It seemed to take forever before Peter began to breathe on his own.
        Trevor lifted him slowly and carefully this time, and stretched him out across the back seat of his car. Then he drove like all hell was breaking loose for the nearest hospital. He knew, if he drove the way Peter always accused him of driving, that he could get him there before they could get any help out here. Every few minutes he'd pull over on the verge, to check on his friend, to check his breathing and heartbeat. Neither showed any imminent signs of stopping again. Surely that was a good sign. What the hell had happened, anyway?
        Trevor roared into the emergency driveway, horn blaring. Running inside, he yelled to a person studying a file at the desk, "I've got an emergency here! My friend - in the car - he stopped breathing, but I gave him CPR..."
        She raced back and brought a gurney. Several attendants helped her bring Peter in. "What happened?"
        "Smoke inhalation - maybe some burns - I found him on the floor of his kitchen. The room's almost airtight. There was this brown goo all over the walls that he might have inhaled." Trevor showed her the thin layer of greenish brown that was also adhering to Peter's clothes and skin. "I don't know what it is."
        "Can you get us a better sample?"
        "I'll do anything I can to help. Pete's my best friend."
        She smiled, and her air of calm professionalism took Trevor's panic down a notch. "Try not to worry. You got him here. That's what counts."
        She lifted one of Peter's arms to look closely at the substance. With this much on his skin, we're probably looking at chemical poisoning, she thought. She didn't say anything to his friend, but the smile she turned in his direction was a little more fixed. "When you bring that sample, could you check for a container? Something with a label, that might tell us what this is?" Trevor nodded and she ushered him toward the door. "The sooner we get the information, the better." She gestured at a clerk, who was waiting patiently with a clipboard. "First though, could you just supply us with some details, please? Name, address, that sort of thing?" She sent him away to fill out the forms.
        After Trevor had finished answering their questions, he drove back to Peter's house, intent on bringing them their sample. The smell lingered in the car, but he wouldn't let himself think of it - of Peter - of Katy - or he'd break down. Nothing could happen to Peter. Trevor decided not to phone Katy yet - he couldn't bear to. Not until he knew how things were. Not until he could say something hopeful.
        It was just beginning to get dark, in the way that late summer days drag on until night just sneaks in and takes them away, leaving the warmth. He saw Mortimer, still outside the door, but at least on the porch this time. Trevor gave him a friendly pat on the head, then walked towards the kitchen, opening doors and windows as he went, trying to decide if he should leave them open when he went back to the hospital. He weighed the strong odour against the chance of a burglary out here and decided that odour won out. Besides, it would be several days before anyone knew that Peter was away, and maybe he'd be out of the hospital by then, anyway. Maybe.
        Trevor rummaged in the box underneath the sink, looking for a jar with a lid. Then, using a spatula, he managed to gather some of the crust off the walls. In certain areas, he could see small red crystals had formed. What was this stuff? The door of the stove, which was standing open, was full of it.
        He saw the bucket where it had fallen to the floor. Everything clicked into place. Peter had been trying to put out the fire - his fire, the one he, Trevor, had started. Oh, God - have I done this to Peter?
        But all I did was put wood in the stove. For warmth. For a surprise. It was just wood, wasn't it? He looked around and found the bag of wood where he'd dropped it. There were several pieces left. Trevor took one out and looked at it. Small red crystals coated both sides of the cut wood. Oh, Jesus! What have I done? He re-bagged the wood, grabbed the jar, and took one last look around the kitchen. Then he stalked out, flung the things in the car, and took off for the hospital. He was determined to do all he could to make things right. For Peter, for Katy, for himself. For them all.
*
        He sought out the one who'd been at the desk; the one with the nice smile. He wanted her to be the one to tell him about Peter. Her name tag had said - what was it? "Mari" - yes, that was it. He asked for her at the desk. When Mari appeared, she was wearing the professional smile again, but this time he knew something was wrong.
        "Will you come with me?" Very wrong.
        She ushered him to a small waiting room. He was afraid to ask, so he waited for her to begin.
        "We have a full team working on your friend. He's in a coma, and starting to run a high fever, so we've been trying to cool him down. You said something about a substance he may have inhaled. Do you have a sample?"
        "Yes, here." He handed her the jar, and she looked through the glass. "This was on the woodstove, and all over the walls. I don't know what it is, but it may be the result of burning this." He handed her a chunk of wood. She peered at the red crystals closely. She broke off one, with Trevor's help, and popped it into the jar with the other sample. Then, she handed him back the wood.
        "Do you know why he was burning this?" It came out like an accusation, leaving her feeling slightly guilty.
        Trevor was quick to let her see how much he resented the implication. "In other words, is this some new hallucinogen, right? Look, I don't know what it is, and Peter didn't either. I built that fire - last night, because Peter wasn't home and I thought that he'd be wet and tired when he got there. But something went wrong and -" his voice lowered "- it looks like it's my fault. Damn, why'd I have to be so helpful?" He turned away from her.
        She reached out her hand and lightly touched his arm. "Look, Mr. -"
        "Richmond. Trevor Richmond."
        Her face was composed and businesslike, although her eyes were full of compassion. "Accidents happen, Mr. Richmond, but the majority don't start off as well-intentioned acts of kindness. Some things are beyond our control, and I'm sure your friend won't hold you to blame."
        "But will he ever know?" Trevor looked her full in the face, willing her to tell him the truth.
        "We'll do our best." At the uncertainty in his eyes, she added, "I mean that." Mari gave him one last smile, then left him.
        A long night led into a cheerless morning. Trev drank a tankload of coffee, and filled an ashtray with cigarette butts. He'd never been a smoker, but his nerves needed an outlet, so he puffed and paced, drank coffee and waited. He read through all the gossipy magazines, not really caring, but it was something to do. He watched the second hand on the clock move slowly in its sweep around the face. At dawn no details were forthcoming - just that squeaky shoe sound of rushing feet as new white-coated figures kept going in and out of Peter's room. If they would give him some news, at least he wouldn't be petrified every time he saw someone come or go. The part he hated the most was having to ring Katy. He could let the hospital do it, but he'd known Katy almost as long as Peter had. But what to tell her?
        At six a.m. he returned to Peter's house. Mortimer yipped and danced and licked his fingers. "Okay, boy, you're coming home with me." He scratched the dog's curly head. "Forgot to feed you last night, didn't I? Poor fella."
        Trevor went inside, intent on finding Katy's number in Sydney. He searched around the papers on the phone table, but no go. He finally found it on Peter's desk, in front of Katy's picture. He had to suppress a sniffle as he looked at the way Peter had written it: the "Katy" was surrounded with a heart and graffitied with flowers. Trevor sighed.
        He sat at the desk for a few minutes, thinking about what he could say to her. He realised that if he didn't reach her soon, she'd be off to some meeting or other, and he might not catch her till tonight.
        "Katherine Ryder, please."
        "Speaking. Is that you, Trev?"
        "Listen, Katy, it's Peter. There's been an accident..."
        "My God, Trev, he's not -"
        "No, Katy -" he was quick to interrupt, "- but he's in Claridge West, and they're just not giving me much information. There was a fire in this old woodburner, and he inhaled a lot of this strange smoke, and apparently -" he hesitated, "he's not responding the way he should."
        Katy was silent for a moment, and then he heard her sniff and realised she was crying. He felt tears start to well up in his own eyes.
        "Are you okay, Katy?" he asked gently.
        "I won't be until I'm with him, Trev," she told him honestly. "Look, I'll be on the next plane. I don't know what time it gets in, but I'll be on it." She hesitated, then added softly, "I know this wasn't an easy thing to do. Thanks."
        "Katy, ring my cellular when you get in. I'll pick you up."
        "See you, Trev. Make them do the best they can for him, okay?" She was crying again.
        "I will. Bye, Katy."
        "Bye."
        After he'd hung up, Katy sat there for a moment, staring blindly at the receiver in her hand. Dear God - Peter. The love of her life. "I'm coming, Peter," she said with quiet determination, willing him to know it. She wiped her tears roughly away with the back of her hand, not wanting them to deplete her strength - or break down her resolve. Action was what she needed now. Katy made a fast dash around the room, chucking stuff at her suitcase, then closing it by sitting on the lid. Without a backwards look, she grabbed her bag and ran out the door.
        Trevor coaxed Mortimer into his car, and took off toward his place. A change of clothes, a call to work to tell them he needed a few days off, and he was back at the hospital.
        Nothing had changed as far as he could tell. And it was really beginning to worry him. "His condition is the same," they'd said.
*
        Peter was sliding towards a deep pit, in a panic, out of control, and with nothing to stop his fall. At the point where the incline became the abyss, his descent slowed, and he gradually drifted down. All along the way were luminescent crystals. At first he thought they were ice because he was so very cold. He tried to reach for them, for the rich lustre of the polished faces, but he couldn't move. Finally, their warmth penetrated the shadows around him, and he realised that the pit was a place of quiet comfort; a resting place. He lay there relaxed, waiting for his strength to return.
***

Chapter Three

        Mari was puzzled. She'd been there when Peter was brought in, and she wasn't any closer to understanding the changes that were taking place. On arrival, many of his symptoms had been consistent with smoke inhalation. Other than a few secondary burns, responses had been as expected. Pupils were responsive; his breathing was fast but not irregular. She had a lingering concern over the length of time he'd been without oxygen, and would, until he regained consciousness. Still, with such good pupillary response, she had been hopeful of a full recovery.
        Something, however, was happening with his temperature. It skyrocketed. They'd packed him on an ice blanket, and it wasn't enough. So, they'd put an orderly on ice runs, and had kept another staff member busy just mopping up an endless flow of melting run-off.
        It wasn't only his temperature, either. His skin, when he'd arrived, was coated with that greenish-brown goo his friend - what was his name? Trevor - Trevor had described. They'd removed most of it, and his skin had appeared to be pale, consistent with his European ancestry. Now, sixteen hours later, the tones were darkening, and his skin was taking on an unnatural sheen that remained even when all sweat was wiped away. The colour at first had been unremarkable, a simple darkening, and she'd put it down to a fever-induced flush. But now, the colour was becoming an unmistakable green.
        According to his last blood test, he should already be dead. As his blood was exposed to air, it had rapidly begun to crystallise - an amazing scab-forming method, but hardly conducive to oxygenation by the lungs. To tell the truth, she was very worried - nothing made sense - and she was on the point of quarantining these rooms against the possibility - however unlikely - of contagion. She could no longer discount the disease manifestations solely as a poisoning episode. Their occurrence had been both rapid and ubiquitous, unconfined to specific tissue layers or types. Obviously, some highly invasive poison or infectious agent was involved, and she didn't see how any human could hope to recover from what was happening here.
        She looked up from the chart as a nurse claimed her attention. Something else awry - what now? She pulled out her flashlight at the nurse's request and examined the patient's eyes. Good Lord! What was going on here? For, Peter's eyes, which - she checked the chart - had been blue were now some strange type of flickering gold. The pupil was responsive, but only a lateral constriction was apparent, as if the shape of the pupil had altered. She lifted the lid again, and was stunned to note a dull luminescence from the iris: not a solid glow, but an irregular flashing emitted from different parts.
        Skin colour changes were one thing. But Peter was undergoing a major physiological change. He was being affected at the subcellular level, with some alteration of his genetic profile. These changes might well be, and more than likely were, irreversible, at least with available technology. She decided on cellular tests and X-rays, to determine the extent of damage. She was especially concerned with what was happening to his brain.
        Her thoughts flew to his nice friend, Trevor, who was so concerned. Trevor had said Peter's fiancée was on her way. Well, it was time to give them some news. She could no longer say, "No change." With such major alterations taking place, she really couldn't hold out much hope. It was just a matter of time before his body could no longer support such drastic developments.
*
        "Can I see him?"
        Mari shook her head. "I really can't allow that, Trevor. Until the analysis on that material comes back, and we get the results of Peter's cellular scan, I've initiated quarantine procedures. I also think it's a good idea if we have a look at you, because you undoubtedly inhaled some of the smoke yourself. How are you feeling?" She reached out and put a hand on his arm.
        "Shocked - angry - guilty. Worried and tired. But basically healthy."
        "I still think we'll put you through a brief check-up. I've arranged it for room one. Dr. Maylor will be in shortly." She turned to go.
        "Mari?" She looked back.
        "If anything happens - good or bad - I need to know."
*
        The urgency for movement began as a restless tightening inside, then spread to his extremities as nervous energy, needing an outlet. The warm softness was no longer calming, but confining. A surge of energy was pulsing through him, prompting him to action. He floated upwards from the abyss, and at the top he leapt.
*
        Sharon, Peter's nurse, noted that his blood pressure was rising. It might be wise to summon Mari. She picked up the chart to check this reading against preceding ones, then glanced at her patient. The chart clattered to the floor, as Sharon started in surprise. She pasted on a professional smile, although she found the glance from those shimmering eyes not a little alarming. "How do you feel?"
        "Muzzy-headed -" Peter was surprised at how loud his voice sounded, even though he was trying to whisper. He looked around. "A hospital?" At Sharon's nod, he asked, "How did I get here?" He glanced at her apologetically. "The last thing I remember was going into the kitchen." He gave her a slight smile.
*
        The effect of that smile on Sharon was overwhelming. The iridescent green skin, the slight tilt to his brows and the glowing warmth of his eyes - whatever this man had been before, she realised, the "creature" he had become was devastatingly attractive: attractive in the way that gold and diamonds and emeralds attract humans - a glittering, glowing, vital thing, but with none of the coldness of precious stones. She smiled back, then grasped his wrist, ostensibly to check his pulse, but not really needing to because he was still on the monitor.
        The monitor! They'd have the crash cart in here in a minute, the way it was screeching! She gave him another small smile and reluctantly released his hand.
        "Let me get Mari Sullivan. She's your doctor, and she'll answer all your questions." Sharon, with a regretful backwards glance, stepped from the room.
*
        Peter heard a commotion in the hall. "He's what!" Mari had lost her professional cool. Trevor, just emerging from where he'd been undergoing an examination, saw her shock, and the look of dismay. He didn't know that Mari was undergoing terrible qualms at the thought of explaining to Peter about his transformation. He assumed the worst. He pushed into Peter's room after her, then stood stunned as he saw what had become of his friend.

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*
        Mari had recovered her appearance of composure, although Peter's serious look was almost her undoing. "Peter, it's good to meet you. For a while there, I didn't think I'd get the opportunity..." she began, trying to sound sensible, but uncomfortably aware that she was babbling.
        Peter gave her a brief smile, then looked past her to his friend. "Trev -"
        Trevor's eyes were glassy. He came over to where his friend was sitting, and gave him a brotherly hug. His words, when they came, were raspy, and Peter knew Trevor was close to tears. "Jeez, Pete, I was never so glad to see anyone! I thought you must be dead from the way the staff came pouring in here." He pulled back to take a good look at him. "How are you? Really. And don't give me any 'I'm okay' bunk."
        Peter appeared to look inwards for a moment, assessing for damages, but finding nothing - no pain, no weakness; even that muzzy-headedness was gone. In fact, he was experiencing a restless energy that was prompting him to get out of bed and move about. His mind felt sharp and clear, and he was amazed at the amount of sensory detail that was suddenly apparent to him.
        Mari came forward to hear his answer. "I feel great. I really do. And amazingly energetic. I can see -" his gesture indicated his arms and hands, "that the smoke stained my skin." He grinned, slightly embarrassed. "I must look really weird -"
        Mari turned to Trevor. "Could you leave us for a moment?"
        Trevor shook his head. "I'm staying, Mari."
        Mari turned to Peter. "Peter, your skin..." she stumbled a little over the words, "the discolouration is not a stain." Peter looked startled, as though he couldn't fully understand what she was saying. Mari, experiencing the full effect of his glowing gaze, had to swallow hard before she could continue. She heard Trevor's slight gasp behind her. "You - you as a scientist understand the effects of some chemical compounds..." I'm bungling this, she thought. We don't even know if he's out of danger yet, and I'm telling him that he's disfigured. It's his eyes. I have trouble being evasive when he's looking at me like that.
        "Mari - are you saying that I'm stuck this way? Forever?" Peter's green assumed a lime tone, and Trevor realised he had paled. Christ, how he felt for him! And what to tell Katy?
        Peter was thinking the same thing. "Trevor, does Katy know?"
        Trevor shook his head. "Only that you had an accident, Pete. But she's on her way."
        Mari reached out and pushed Peter back against the pillows. "We're working on an analysis now, and we may be able to reverse the process. It'll be better if you can stay calm until you're stronger. Look, I'll order up something to help you sleep."
        She tossed Trevor gloves, a mask, and a gown. "You can stay," she told him, "but put these on."
        As she was leaving the room, Trevor saw her pause to make a last quick visual appraisal of her patient. It didn't take the almost inaudible sigh that followed to tell him how distressed Mari was at her lack of treatment options.
*
        "Well, Trevor, what am I going to do? What if there is no cure? What if I'm stuck like this?" Peter sounded the way he felt - discouraged and scared.
        "Peter, you're alive - and we weren't sure of that for a while."
        "Look, Trev, don't give me any rubbish about being glad I'm alive, or 'it could be worse'. Of course I'm happy to be among the living, but the prospect of being a freak doesn't exactly appeal to me. And what about life expectancy? What has this done to me?"
        "Peter, there's something you've got to know." Trevor looked away. He didn't want to see the expression on Peter's face. "It's my fault," he said bitterly. "I tried to start a fire to warm the place up a little, figuring that you'd be home late. I didn't know that bloody wood was going to do this..." He gestured at Peter. "If I could take it on myself, I would. I'm so sorry - I know there's no way I can ever make it up to you..."
        "Trev? You're an ass, but a well-intentioned one." Peter reached out to grasp Trevor's hand. "It's okay. It was an accident. And, Trev?"
        Trevor looked at him.
"It was warm, all right." And he snorted. He really didn't know how he could be laughing, but all of a sudden, he saw the whole situation as ridiculous. "Now tell me the truth. How do I look?"
        Trevor looked at him seriously, feeling he owed Peter an honest response. Better from him first, so Peter could learn to deal with it. "I didn't see you until just a few minutes ago, but my initial reaction wasn't repulsion, or fear, or pity, or anything like that."
        Spit it out, Trev. "Okay, I give up. What was your reaction?"
        Trevor squirmed. "I-I was startled -" By now Peter was fidgeting as much as Trevor was squirming. "And then - sort of awed -" He realised he was pushing it a bit, but he felt that for the most part, his response was true - Peter did look spectacular. Those softly luminescent flickerings in his eyes only added to the effect. But Peter wasn't ready to hear about that yet.
        It was too much for Peter. He gave a disbelieving and impolite snort. "Give me a break, Trev. 'Awe'?"
        His friend grinned. "Okay, maybe 'awe's' too strong. But, what I'm trying to tell you, Peter, is that nobody's going to be grossed out by you." Trevor realised from Peter's expression that he was blowing it, and he hastened to add, "It's not repulsive or anything, Pete."
        "Just freakish?" Peter asked unhappily.
        "Just different. And iridescent." Trevor lifted Peter's arm to look at the skin more closely - until Peter shoved him away. "Unbelievably iridescent," he muttered.
        Peter said sarcastically, "You wish it were you - right?"
        At this, Trevor looked both guilty and unhappy. "Yeah - I kind of wish it was -"
        Peter didn't press him any more. He hadn't meant for Trevor to take it that way. Reaching out, he gripped Trevor's arm, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. Peter gave him a big smile.
        The smile wavered slightly when Peter remembered how soon Katy would be arriving. "Trevor, when Katy comes, warn her, okay? I don't want her to be afraid of me..." Trevor wanted to reassure him, to tell him that Katy would still see him the same, but he knew Peter wouldn't believe him.
*
        Katy's plane couldn't land fast enough to suit her. She made certain she was the first to de-plane. She knew Trevor would come for her, but she couldn't wait. She snagged the first taxi in line, leaving her luggage behind.
        At the hospital, they were reluctant to give Katy the number of Peter's room. Something about quarantine and rules - Katy didn't take the time to argue. She gave the receptionist a quick thank-you and started off down the corridor, a determined look in her eyes. Peter needed her, and no one was going to keep her from him. She'd find someone who could tell her.
*
        Peter sat upright in the bed again, his legs over the side. "Trevor, Katy's here!"
        Trevor pushed him back against the pillow. "She'll phone me when she gets to the airport. Don't worry about it. I'll talk to her. I..."
        Peter interrupted. "Katy's here. At the hospital. Right now."
        Trevor looked at him, and Peter tilted his head slightly. Almost as though he were listening, Trevor thought. Just then the door opened, cautiously, and Katy stuck her head around the corner. She saw Trev, and stepping in, turned to look at the bed - afraid, yet needing to face the worst. She saw Peter and froze.
*
        Mari had been called to the phone. The substance had been analysed, and the results were bizarre, so the results had been turned over to someone else. Now some molecular and cell biologists wanted to come in and examine her patient. Mari wanted to wait until she knew whether Peter was out of danger, but for his sake, to facilitate any chance for a cure, she tentatively agreed.
*
        Nothing had prepared Katy for this. For the alteration, the mutation of Peter into...? "Peter?" she whispered. Then he smiled. And she knew it was still him. She threw herself into his arms.
*
        Mari walked in. Why do I even bother? She said firmly, "This area is quarantined." But her fatigue and discouragement were no match for the happiness in Katy's face at finding Peter alive. Mari yielded, with a small smile. "You must be the fiancée. Hi, I'm Mari Sullivan - Peter's doctor." To Peter, "Look, we have to talk. Katy - it is Katy, isn't it? Katy, you'll probably want to stay. Trevor, I'll have to ask you to step outside."
        "He can stay. As my friend, this affects him, too." Peter turned his gaze on Trevor, and Trevor had the disconcerting feeling that Peter knew far more about all this than he should. As yet, at least. It was almost as though Peter knew what they were thinking.
        "I've received a call from the lab. They've re-directed your case to some government agency. I'm not totally happy with all this, Peter, but I have to admit they're probably your best hope for a remission of your present symptoms. They're sending out several people tomorrow."
        "Gene jockeys?"
        "Probably. Plus several cell biologists. Peter, this is all moving so fast. I'd prefer to delay any procedures for several days, but I'm not certain I have a choice."
        "So they arranged it without you?" At Mari's nod, Katy turned to Peter. "I don't like the sound of it, Peter."
        Peter gave Katy's hand a reassuring squeeze. "I can't say I'm too happy about it either. It's not that I don't trust the government, but I'd certainly like to know why they're involved. Am I that hazardous to everyone's health?"
        "I don't know, Peter," Mari told him truthfully. "I've got you quarantined because I don't want to take any chances." She turned to Trevor. "We have no results on your tests yet either, but any further tests that Peter undergoes will also apply to you if your results are positive. So I suppose it's good that you're in on this discussion after all." Trevor didn't look very happy at the thought, but he shrugged it off. If Peter could take it, he could.
        "Do I have a choice?" Peter looked at Mari.
        "I don't know. I don't know why they're insisting on this."
        Trevor broke into the conversation to say jokingly, "Maybe you, and perhaps I, are national security risks."
        Peter laughed. "I always wanted to be a national something. I never thought I'd get Jolly Green Giant status, though."
        "How can you two laugh at a time like this? This whole thing could ruin our lives! What if they take you away, Peter? What then?" Katy couldn't believe they could kid around when things were so serious.
        "Peter, I have to be honest. I don't know what to make of all this. I can't even give you a prognosis of any sort. All I can rely on now is how you feel, your vital signs, and how you seem to go on. Do you feel any weakness or pain?"
        "Mari, I don't know why, but I can't remember when I've felt better. I have so much energy that it just seems to be surging through me. I don't even know how much longer I can stand being confined to bed." He looked directly at Mari on the last, letting her know what he thought of being forced to stay in bed.
        Mari crossed her arms firmly, then spoiled the effect by smiling.
        Katy, however, was still upset. Before she knew what was happening, Peter had his arm around her, pulling her close so she had to sit next to him on the bed. She leaned back against him, and he nuzzled her neck as he continued. "I'm sorry, Katy-my-love, to laugh when you're so upset, but I have such a strong feeling of well-being that I don't even feel as depressed as I know I should be."
        His next words were for them all. "I don't know how to explain it. I just couldn't be despondent right now if I wanted to be. My initial reaction was fear - but even that's fading. Maybe it's a symptom of some mental instability, but you people will have to be the judge of that. Intellectually, I know I shouldn't feel good, or happy, or any of those things, but it's as though I have no control over it. It's welling up from somewhere inside."
        Mari looked at the others and sighed. Trevor noticed how tired she looked. He knew that she wasn't pleased with this latest development. Any other attitude she would have expected, and could have accepted, but even the hint of joy in Peter's present condition made no sense.
        At least, for the moment, I won't have to deal with emotional trauma, Mari thought. Peter was not only dealing with his own fears, but diluting Katy's as well. "I'll be back later to see if you've come to any decision. I don't really know if I have control over any of this, but I may be able to delay any tests or transfer by insisting on quarantine." She turned to go.
        "You mean they might take Peter somewhere else?" Katy didn't like the sound of it. Her own words were coming back to haunt her. But I never really thought they'd do it -
        "I think we have to look on that as a possibility. As I said, I may be able to delay all this, but I don't really have that much control. From the call I received, I would say that if I am not in agreement with their plans, then the case is out of my hands. It may be already. I'm sorry." Mari left, with Trevor close behind. If ever a person needed a caffeine booster, he thought, it's Mari.
        "What will we do, Peter? I don't even know how all this happened." Katy started to cry. "I was so afraid - when Trevor rang - I was afraid I'd never see you again. Oh, Peter, I don't want to lose you now. Were you telling Mari the truth? Do you really feel strong and well?"
        "Look at me, Katy." She twisted, pulling back to meet his gaze. He smiled, and she could see the truth in his eyes. It was strange how she knew he'd never be able to lie to her - not with those eyes, warmly flickering now. She'd heard the expression once that the eyes were the "lamps of the soul". Never had an expression been more appropriate. "I feel better than I've ever felt. I don't know why, and I'm praying that it's not the workings of a deluded mind. If I didn't have so much respect for Mari, I'd break quarantine and take a walk with you just to show you how strong I am. I promise you, Katy-my-love, that we'll be together - whatever happens."
        "I love you, Peter Trevick." She kissed him.
*
        Trevor was buying Mari a second cup of coffee from the machine in the hall. He knew she was just about out on her feet. It was only when he was finishing his own cup that he remembered Katy's arrival. And Peter's reaction. How the heck had Peter known Katy was there?
***

Chapter Four

        Mari was in a quandary. Peter seemed to be stabilised - goodness knows if his "evolution", as she was beginning to think of it, had stopped, but at least he seemed to be energetic. In fact, he was so energetic that he refused to stay in bed, and was pacing the floor. She was reminded of some addicts she'd seen - he'd burn himself out at this rate.
        Mari was standing at the nurses' station, Peter's chart in her hands. When Sharon spoke to her, she realised that she'd been doing more staring than writing. "How's Mr. Trevick doing, Mari?"
        Mari sighed. "He's pacing. Very nearly climbing the walls, in fact. And I mean that literally."
        "I'm surprised he has the strength." Peter's nutrient intake was not good.
        Mari nodded. "He's going to burn himself out soon. Unless he starts eating, we're going to have to put him back on an IV." Mari smiled as she considered Peter's response to that one. "I can guarantee he won't like wearing a leash."
        Sharon was Mari's friend, and Mari had given her the opening she needed. "Speaking of burnout, Mar -"
        "I know: dedication can be overdone. When Mr. Trevick decides to sleep - I promise, so will I." Mari rubbed her eyes. She wanted to go home, and sleep, but she didn't feel that she could distance herself from this case. Besides, Trevor and Katy had now been exposed to Peter's "ailment". Until she could verify lack of contagion, she was going to have to restrict their movements as well.
        Speak of the Devil. Trevor was walking down the corridor, apparently on his way out. Mari rushed to catch up with him, an impatient expression on her face. She was aware that her bedside manner was not at its best, but, hell, she was tired and she knew Trevor was going to be difficult.
        "Where are you going, Trevor?"
        He looked surprised that she would be questioning his movements. "I have to feed Peter's dog."
        "Phone someone to do it for you."
        "Do you think I'm going to give some foul and nasty bug to the poor poochie?" he asked sarcastically. Trevor was tired, too.
        "I don't give a hoot about the 'poor poochie', but I can't afford to chance the spread of this condition until I know more about it."
        "So after you know more about it, then you'll chance its spread?" He grinned.
        "Dammit, Trevor, don't be so difficult. You know what I'm talking about."
        She would have gone on, but Trevor put up both hands to stem the flow. He reached over and took her hand. "Poor Mari. Of course you're right. And of course that means you can't go home either. Want to spend the night at my place?" He indicated a chair in the hall. "I'll take the chair and you can have my lap, okay?" He gave her a wicked grin.
        "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid those accommodations will be a little too lumpy for my tastes. Not to worry, I'll see that everyone has individual beds tonight." But, as she left him, she was smiling.
*
        Katy was lying on Peter's bed, her head pillowed on her arm. She was watching Peter pace. He just couldn't seem to calm down. She, on the other hand, after dealing with hours of stress, was so calm that her eyelids kept closing. She was just drifting off when a sudden quiet alerted her. Peter was standing with both hands over his face, before suddenly dropping to his knees. Katy yanked the emergency cord as she jumped off the bed, reaching Peter just in time to cushion his head as he hit the floor.
        Mari had just left Trevor when she heard the buzzer. She hit the door to Peter's room just ahead of Trevor. She had a stethoscope on Peter's chest by the time the orderly and a nurse arrived. "Help me get him on the bed. What happened, Katy?"
        "He was pacing and he just dropped. There was no warning! He didn't say anything about feeling sick!" Tears were running down her face.
        "Trevor, take Katy out of here, please." Trevor put an arm around Katy, pulling her from the room.
        "Let's get him on an IVI." Mari picked up the case notes, scanning them, looking for some clue that might indicate what had happened. She looked at his pupillary response. Normal, but those incredible lights seemed to be dimmer now. He was slipping back into coma. Why?
        Nutrient depletion? She had to try something. "Give him ten percent dextrose, 1000 mls Stat." Mari waited until Peter seemed to be stabilised, then went out to see Katy and Trevor.
        "He's slipping back into coma. But -" she quickly added, "I think it's because he's depleted his resources - used up all his energy. Does he have any history of diabetes?" she asked Katy.
        "Not that I know of."
        "I'm hoping that if we can get enough sugar into him quickly enough, we'll be able to pull him out of this. I'm sorry, but we're dealing with the unknown here - I'll do what I can for him. Katy, did he say anything to you about why he wouldn't eat what was on his tray? At the rate his metabolism is going, he should be ravenous."
        "All he did was push it away, after tasting it. He kept talking about those marshmallows you and he used to eat when you were kids, Trev. You know, the ones he calls 'Tiki torches'. He said several times how good that would taste right now."
        Mari looked at Trevor. "Why 'Tiki torches', Trev?" Trevor looked at her as though she were crazy to be talking about something like this right now. "Humour me, Trevor. This may be important. How were they cooked?"
        "We used to set them on fire and char the outside. Then we'd eat that part off and char the inside. And so on. We were carbon addicts."
        "Pure carbon - Pete