'Karisse!'

He was still standing in the centre of the room, calling to her, over and over, the words now barely audible, thick with anguish, tears still oozing from the large black eyes, which remained fixed, unblinking, on the body lying motionless before him. He saw the chest rise and fall, and rocked gently in rhythm with the breathing. A small trickle of blood ran from her right palm, between the fingers, dripped onto the perfectly white blanket beneath her - proof of life. He had felt the change even from the far side of the castle - a sudden void that made his ears ring and his head feel light, dizzy. He had almost fallen. Then, he had started to run, blindly thrusting the startled servants aside, legs leaden with the panic rising through his bones.

At the final stairway, he had come upon a woman carrying a small baby, who had been knocked off her feet, landing painfully on her side, but thankfully managing to protect the child from harm. At the top of the stairs, two guards had tried to stop him. One now lay dead, neck broken, by the door. The other, left ankle cleanly snapped, the foot flopping at a grotesque angle, was lying where he fell, too terrified to cry out in pain. Beyond the now splintered door, the two companions had fled screaming to a far corner, where they crouched now, not daring to move or speak. Then he had seen her, the small figure curled, silent and motionless on a soft blanket in the centre of the room.

She had seemed at first to be sleeping, every contour of her face relaxed, peaceful, the slight hint of a smile playing about her lips. But he knew it was not so. He had shouted, cursed, grabbed and shaken her, and finally, in desperation, taken the fine stiletto from its place beneath his shirt and plunged it through her hand. Nothing. No response. Just the trickle of warm blood and the sudden cutting sound of a baby crying. The noise maddened him even further, and he snapped his attention to the doorway, where the nurse stood, leaning heavily to ease the pain in her damaged hip, trying fearfully to quiet the squalling child. In a fury he leapt towards her, knocking her aside with a single thought, ripping the bundle from her arms as she stumbled backward. For a moment she thought he was going to dash it against the wall, and prepared herself to die in a final attempt to protect it, but he simply stared at it, confused, as if he couldn't quite decide what should be done with it now. Suddenly, he gathered it to his chest, and turned back to the body on the floor. It was then that he had begun to call out, again and again 'Karisse!', the loudness of his voice frightening the child, making it cry even more. It may have been hours that had passed, and his calls were now no more than a hoarse whisper. No one else moved or made a sound.

The baby was quiet now, lulled by the steady motion of his rocking. Every so often, he sighed and clutched it closer to his chest, so tightly that the nurse feared he might crush it accidentally, so unaware he seemed of anything around him. At any moment, it might wake hungry, and start to cry again, and he might be startled and drop it. At last the nurse made a decision, and took a tentative step forward.
'My Lord?'
No response.
'Please Lord, the baby - let me take her. It's been a long time, she needs to rest'. She had tried to speak softly, but her words sounded like splinters of glass breaking into the silence. The man had not moved, but continued to rock, his chin resting heavily now on the baby's head.

Gathering her courage again, she moved forward and touched his arm gently. 'The baby Lord - please'. The rocking stopped abruptly. Slowly he turned his head, until finally he was staring straight at her, his gaze utterly blank, uncomprehending. She tried a third time, this time louder, firmer.
'My Lord, the child. Please let me take the child - she..'
And then she faltered. The eyes were focussing now, seeing her, and then she saw the spark of rage flash from behind them, trapping her like a rabbit in a sudden beam of light. She tried hard not to take a step back, and holding her ground, keeping her eyes fixed on his, lifted her arms, repeating in a whisper 'Please'. The eyes remained hard, locked on hers for an immeasurable moment. Then, very slowly, she saw awareness begin to return, the anger transforming itself first into puzzlement, and then, as his mind began to take in the scene around him - a man dead, another, unconscious now, the terrified women behind him - complete horror.

He looked down at the baby, as if noticing it for the first time, then back to the nurse, his eyes posing the question
'Did I do this?'
She tried to smile, and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. He nodded. Gently, he adjusted the baby's wraps, and stroked the tiny cheek with the edge of his finger. The child turned its head, fastened its mouth on the finger and began to suck contentedly, wriggling itself deeper into the crook of his arm. He bent his head and kissed its other cheek, then took a step towards the nurse.

'Its alright Sasha. Alright now'.
His voice was unsteady, almost inaudible. At the same time he gave her mind the private words
'Brave Sasha - forgive me'.
He came to her, and kneeling in front of her, with his free hand gently searched her right hip, where she had fallen. She felt a strange tingling sensation, and the pain began to ease almost immediately. When he finally took his hand away, there was nothing remaining but a slight ache, which was already beginning to subside. He kissed her forehead, and carefully handed the child to her.

'Take care of my daughter Sasha. She needs you more than ever now.'
Addressing the baby, he said
'Go with Sasha, Amarisse - let her be your mother now, for a while '
He kissed the child again, and stroked its head. The nurse smiled and nodded, then turned and took the baby from the room.

The two other women still had not moved from the corner, where they sat regarding him now with some uncertainty. He didn't look at them, knowing they were unhurt, but flicked a tiny ripple out into the air, and feeling the pair relax, turned his attention to the injured guard. He worked quietly and quickly on the broken ankle, and when he was satisfied, allowed the man to emerge from unconsciousness into a deep sleep. Three or four hours, he calculated, long enough for the bones to knit, and the man to put some weight on it without too much discomfort.

That done, he turned back to the motionless form of Karisse, knelt beside her, lifted her head in both his hands, and kissed her lips, just once, very gently. Then he called the two women, her companions, to him, and proceeded to instruct them precisely on the care of the still living body. They were to help her eat, see that she was kept clean, and anoint her daily with a variety of perfumed oils. He listed her favourites, and along with these her preferences in music, which windows she should be placed next to, so as to have sight of her favourite views, even which clothes, which colours she liked to wear. The wound in her hand he did not heal, but asked that it be simply dressed, and left until it mended of its own accord. The companions knew well all that he was telling them, but allowed him to say it all just the same. They and their helpers, and their descendants, would care for her either until she returned, or until her body died a natural death, still empty of its owners' thoughts. No Wave Dancer had yet walked out of the house on the hill, back into the sunshine.

He waited until the women had lifted Karisse to her feet and guided her from the room. She walked mechanically, one foot placed in front of the other by instinct, eyes staring straight ahead, as her companions, one either side of her, lent their weight first to the left foot, then the right. He didn't watch her go. Then, when all was finally silent and he knew that he was alone, he turned to face the worst consequence of his outpouring of grief. The dead guard, a young man of about twenty, lay where he had fallen. He might have been asleep if it were not for the odd angle of his head, and the eyes, wide open, staring across the ornate tiled floor. He moved to the body, and with a great effort, tears coming again into his eyes, he reached down and laid a finger on the cold forehead, his eyes closed in concentration. After a few moments, he opened them, having learned what he needed to know.

Not married - no children, father and mother both dead - this boy was totally alone, no family, not even a pretty girl to cry for him. So very sad, he thought. So sad that this orphan had come into his house, so full of expectation, falling over his own feet in his youthful enthusiasm to please. There had been no time for shock, or confusion. Death had come before the child had even noticed any danger. He sighed in gratitude for that small mercy, and, because there was no one else, he wept for the boy, embraced him, and closed the sightless eyes.

* * *

'OK Mike - wheel Queenie in would you?'
'Coming up Prof. Hey Jim!'
Mike brayed down the corridor in a voice that was much louder than was necessary. 'Do us a favour will you and grab old Queenie - I left her in the dayroom'.
'Sure Mike - hang on a tick'.
Jim took a last drag, and stubbed out his rollup on the door frame on which he had been leaning, giving it a casual kick as it dropped to the floor. He jogged off, reappearing a moment later at a run, pushing an occupied wheelchair, which he steered precariously from side to side as he progressed while making gurgling racing car noises in his throat, punctuated by the occasional squeal meant to imitate brakes. Mike, keeping watch at an angle in the corridor, frantically signalled to him to keep it down, jerking his head in the direction of the professor's open door. It took Jim twenty yards to get the message and execute an emergency stop, which nearly caused the hapless occupant to pitch forward right out of the chair. He grabbed at the shoulder and managed to avert disaster, then straightened himself deliberately, and strolled up to Mike with exaggerated care, treating him to a big wink on the way.

'For fuck's sake you prat'
Mike spat in a hoarse whisper.
'The Prof's got a bigwig in that office this morning. If he sees you messing around you'll be out and so will I'.
'So who's gonna tell him then?'
Jim made no attempt to whisper, but peered round Mike's shoulder at the half open door, just to be sure.
'She sure as hell ain't now is she?'
He poked his fingers into the hair of his charge and gave it a hard ruffle.
'Now you're not going to say a word are you old Queenie?' he said, leaning down and almost bellowing into her ear.
'Well, there you go mate. I'm on my break anyway - see you in the canteen later?' Mike shrugged.
'Yeah, sure - but just watch it OK? Only takes a word in the wrong place and there'll be bloody supervisors down on all of us, deciding we haven't got enough to do and looking for people to get rid of'.
'Yeah yeah' Jim called over his shoulder, 'better hurry - boss is waiting'.
He waved a hand as he rounded the doorway, and Mike heard his footsteps skipping down the stairs to the staff canteen. He shook his head.
'How are you today Queenie old love? Tell you what - you ever get compos mentis, I hope the first thing you do is bite that stupid bugger's dick off'.
He walked back to the office slowly, tapped lightly, and wheeled the patient on through the door.

'Fascinating' the tall thin one repeated. 'There are many similar cases, but none quite like this. Let me see those notes again - how long does it say? Ah yes, seven years. That is really remarkable'.
He lowered the clipboard and stared again at the patient.
'She eats well, you say? And will move if someone helps her?'
'That’s quite right Dr. Morgan'.
The red faced fat one, whose name was Flynn, looked delighted at the other man's interest. 'The point is, she will perform all basic functions - eat, walk, see to, er, other bodily needs - you know what I mean - but never of her own volition. It's extraordinary.'
To demonstrate, he bent forward and grasped the woman just beneath her armpits. 'Come on Queenie, show the doctor here what you can do'.
He pushed upwards with his hands, his face close enough to hers for her to smell him. Terrible bad breath. As he did so, she rose until she was standing, taking the weight on her feet. He moved his hands to her shoulders, and with another gentle push turned her round to face Dr. Morgan. Then, carefully, he stood back leaving her standing unaided, and grinned at his colleague, giving a little grunt as though proud of his party trick. To his satisfaction, Dr Morgan responded by raising one eyebrow and renewing his visual inspection, tapping his chin with his knuckle.
'Yes - most extraordinary' he agreed. 'And apart from this, there appears to be no awareness at all. And yet…….hmmm'
He reached out a hand
'Do you mind Professor?'
'Not at all my dear chap, not at all'
Flynn purred with delight. To have one of his cases come to the attention of Alex Morgan, the most highly regarded neuropsychiatrist in the British Isles, if not the world, was probably the most important thing that had ever happened to him. To be in the same room with this monument to research on catatonia, and whats more, to have information that he, Morgan, wanted (possibly needed) was an opportunity beyond his wildest imaginings. Perhaps, if the case was interesting enough, Morgan would want to write a paper on it - perhaps even mention the consultant in charge. Flynn could barely contain himself, and wished that the wretched man's concentration on Queenie would relax just long enough for him to make polite enquiries as to dinner arrangements and hotel bookings.

He turned his attention back to Morgan, who had begun to walk Queenie up and down slowly, leading her by the hand and watching the movements with rapt attention. She responded to every light push on the shoulder, or tug on the arm. However, as soon as he withdrew the pressure she stopped dead, eyes staring straight ahead, making no acknowledgement of the presence of anyone at all. He nodded thoughtfully, then transferred his attention to her face. He examined her ears and nose with a thin torch, opened her mouth with a spatula and looked at her teeth. Finally, he shone the strong light into each eye in turn. The pupils contracted dutifully, but there was no other sign. He was about to finish his examination of her right eye, when the pocket of his jacket brushed the palm of her right hand. The pupil dilated suddenly, so suddenly that he almost dropped the torch. He looked down to retrieve it, then back, to see nothing - the pupil was back to a tiny pinpoint, sheilding itself from the hot beam. He switched off the torch and glanced quickly at Flynn, who, engrossed in his plans for publication, had noticed nothing.

'Thank you Flynn' he said, trying to sound as polite as possible.
'I have seen enough for the moment. Perhaps if - er - Queenie you said? Perhaps if Queenie could go back to the ward now, we might discuss the case over a drink? Maybe even a meal? I didn't have a chance to eat anything on the plane'.
Flynn almost swooned with excitement - he didn't even have to use the methods of persuasion he had been thinking up for the last half hour. This was the perfect moment - the great chance to have his name in lights, at least in the British Journal of Clinical Psychology, and knowing this man's reputation, maybe even in 'Nature'. Now he had to play it carefully, keep the good doctor interested, not just in the case, but in him.
'Why of course, Dr. Morgan' he said, working to keep his voice even.
'I know the perfect place. The oldest Inn in Bristol you know - The 'Llandoger Trow'. It overlooks the harbour and has a very decent menu. I'm sure you'll find it very relaxing.'
'Yes, I'm sure I will' replied the other man, smiling politely. Flynn poked his head out of the office door and gestured to Mike to come and take the patient away. Mike ambled over, and with a nod and a grunt to each of the two men, carefully sat Queenie down into the wheelchair, and pushed her back down the corridor to the day room. 'Bloody doctors eh?' he muttered affably to the silent figure in the chair. 'never mind Queenie, all the prodding and poking done for today eh? And don't you worry about Jim - if he comes anywhere near you while I'm here, I'll have his balls for a bow tie, OK?'

Flynn and Morgan strolled out of the hospital onto the waterfront, Flynn practically dancing round his illustrious guest, almost accidentally thumping him in his efforts to point out one famous landmark after another.
'……and just to your right is the Arnolfini Gallery, and oh, the SS great Britain - just round the corner - you can't possibly leave without visiting - perhaps after dinner if you're free…..' and on and on.
'Interminable' thought Morgan with an inward sigh. 'This idiot has an absolute genius for inane babble. And this woman. To have had this woman here for seven years before I found out about it - unforgivable! Unforgivable that I should not have been aware of it. Well - now I am aware. Let the fool enjoy his lunch. Nothing like a few glasses of Scotch to cushion a big disappointment. Come to think of it, I might even insist on paying the bill - least I can do under the circumstances.'