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October 19, Physician’s Report:

The conditions here in the orphanage and the surrounding community continue to be desperate, and the facility is still underfunded, but the staff and volunteers are making do with what they have. Due to a recent incursion, more youngsters arrived in dead of night two weeks ago. I am still attempting to study my young charges who were the focus of previous log entries.

Ororo is a child of greater than average height for her age and lower than average weight. Her cranial circumference is normal, and she has not outward physican defects or abnormalities. Her color is healthy; she doesn’t appear to have any heart arrhythmias or murmurs, unless subjected to extreme duress. She is a bright and cooperative child most of the time. She is sturdy-limbed and has more than adequate hand-to-eye coordination.

Ororo has striking features worth noting: hair that appears to be a distinct, snowy white, not blonde as was previously described. Her eyes are an equally striking shade of blue, unique for this region’s people. The irises are a pronounced shade of turquoise in most lights. Their shape is unique, having a well-defined slant, reminiscent of Egyptian statues seen in art history books.

“Throw us the ball, Ororo! Throw it!” Moira looked up from the journal laid open on top of the rickety picnic table. Ororo was seated pristinely, spanking clean in a faded cotton dress. She was contentedly brushing her dollie’s hair, made of tufted yarn when the red kick ball careened over, bouncing off her skin where she sat. She didn’t protest the intrusion of her personal space; she watched them as Japheth ran up and stopped several yards away.

“C’mon, Ororo, give a boykie his ball, ya know?” he piped up. His legs looked like toothpicks sticking out from his baggy seersucker shorts. She stood up, setting down her dollie. She picked up the ball with both hands, throwing it squarely from the center of her chest with an exaggerated heave. Japheth caught it and rocked back on his heels, wringing one hand as though it stung him. “S’true Bob, Ororo’s big and strong!” The gang of rowdy boys snickered and eyed each other knowingly, while Japheth grinned at her with his gappy teeth. Ororo resumed her seat but kept a quiet vigil, her doll hugged to her check as she watched their game. Moira sighed; at tiny voice in her head nagged her to find some way to include the child in playtime activities. She continued writing, reviewing her notes so far:

Ororo is occasionally a very guarded youngster. She favors certain toys more than others, particularly those she can play with individually rather than amid a group setting. She will shaer a toy when asked, although sometimes, she is slightly bossy with the younger bairns. Moira chuckled, then added Perhaps she would have made some wee lad or lassie a grand older sister. Mothering, or perhaps teaching, may be in her future, if she has the best one that this facility can offer. Suddenly she stopped herself.

“The best the facility can offer,” she huffed under her breath. “Holy Father, I must be daft!”

This wasn’t the best that life had to offer a child in this impoverished, besieged corner of the world. Moira watched Ororo sitting pensively and longed to pack her meager belongings, pick her up, and board a Jeep for the next airport.

She silently reviewed her options and resources. Once her sabbatical was at an end, she could resume her residency at Kinross. Maeve, her housekeeper, was keeping the estate in fine shape and sending regular telegrams of Kevin’s progress.

The lad’s father hadn’t visited him in over a year. She fingered the solitaire and twisted it in a circle around her finger, cursing Joe for his selfishness and short-sightedness.

Ye kinna be so bold, lass, as tae pass him off as m’own. The laddie’s nae any son of mine! Dinna LIE t’me, Moira! Blood rushed in her ears, and she pressed her fingers into her temples, urging the throbbing to subside. She shuddered, hearing his laps ring out against her flesh, practically echoing in their bedchamber. Like someone striking an oak with an axe, she thought bitterly. Both strikes sounded the same.

The throbbing intensified, bringing with it a stubborn tingle behind her eyes, making them water.

*Moira…*

“Charles?” she whispered. The faint, familiar caress against the portal of her thoughts stilled her, and to the casual observer, she appeared thunderstruck.

Tiny, chubby fingers tapped her, rousing her from her trance. She whipped around and peered down into soft, solemn eyes, blue and clear as crystal.

“Ook-it. Ook-it may bay-bee,” she beckoned imperiously. Her speech was more affected by the limitations of her five-year-old diction than any regional inflection. Moira read in her files that her father was an American.

“Aye, lassie! Look at yuir wee bairn! She’s a bonny, sweet babe,” Moira encouraged. “Yuir a good mummy, too!” The child studied her dollie intently, peered back at Moira, and then solemnly leaned down and kissed the dollie’s cloth cheek with a soft “mmmm…wuah!” sound and emphatic puckering of her rosebud mouth.

“She’s mai bay-bee, ook-it,” she repeated. “Bay-bee s’eepy.” She tucked the doll against her shoulder and patted its back, rocking her little body in an exaggerated imitation of the volunteers in the infant rooms.

“Well, now, lassie, how would ye like tae visit the nursery and see the other babies?”

“More bay-bees?” She bounced up on her toes expectantly, and her hand crept into Moira’s without further preamble, a silent command easily understood: Take me to see the babies, then. Moira chuckled.

“The nursery it is, then.” The trotted off to the infant suites, and Moira conducted her checkups of the newer arrivals, making more notes while one of the volunteers allowed Ororo to sit with a seven-month held on her lap on the floor, feeding her a bottle with mixed success. Ororo proved to be an enthusiastic helper, bringing nappies and cornstarch powder when asked and playing peekaboo with children resting in play yards, staring back at her with saucer-like eyes.

The next few days proved uneventful but restless. Moira occasionally felt Charles beckoning to her again, but the impressions were still faint, the words nearly indiscernible. Sometimes, it was merely vestiges of emotion that she received from him. Wistfulness. Regret. Entreaty. And on brighter days, warmth and admiration.

“I miss ye, too, Charley,” she sighed one night before slipping between the rough, clean sheets before pulling the mosquito netting closed. Out of long habit, she kept her shields down, allowing him to come and go as he pleased. The blanket of trust between them remained, even as the love faded and was replaced by the friendship that lasted nearly a decade.


Cairo, Egypt:

*Moira?*

Charles sipped from his cup of dark coffee, wincing slightly at the bitterness of the local roast. The tavern’s interior was dark and cool, promising patrons the mother of all headaches when they exited to the brightness of outdoors in the midday heat. Charles felt the perspiration cooling beneath his khaki shirt, making his flesh feel clammy. He hadn’t felt dry for longer than mere minutes over the past week that he’d been on his tour of duty.

He had the comfort of knowing Moira wasn’t ignoring him. Her thoughts were liquid, smooth, and soothing as a cup of his favorite English breakfast tea. It had been months since he had last been within range to hear her; it was not often they were on the same side of the equator lately. Some things never changed, he mused. Bitterness, regret, and a nostalgic longing for the way things were, once, flavored the rapport between them and made his insides twist.

Dimly he wondered if her hair still held that scent of gardenias. If her skin still felt petal soft. If her voice still held that distinctive burr of her homeland, thick as syrup.

”More coffee? You want breakfast? Do you need a room?” Charles hid his distaste for his surroundings behind a gentle smile as he set down his coffee cup. His Egyptian was slightly rusty, but he avoided scanning the thoughts of the waiter, whose skin gleamed with perspiration from the hellishly steamy kitchen. He was swarthy and young, lean as a whippet, and already had the slightly jaded look of the patrons he’d observed so far filing in and out of this dark watering hole.

”I’m fine, thank you. I have accommodations in town already.

“Perhaps…you need other luxuries we provide, no? Games?” He looked over his shoulder, nodding to the lounge in the back of the bar, where women congregated indolently around the doorway, leaning with arched backs and pouting lips against the frame, limp cigarettes dangling from their fingertips. Some of them were well-lacquered, preening like sleek cats. It was their eyes that put him off, aside from any scruples of conscience. “Company?”

“I require nothing else.” He saluted him, raising his cup in dismissal. The waiter sighed and shook his head, smiling at him as though he were deficient. Charles watched him meander off and sighed, trying to stifle his urge to shoo the young man out, to find himself something more promising of a hopeful future than to nudge tourists toward certain ruin from local indulgences. He couldn’t fix the problem, but he refused to feed it.

Unbidden, words drifted into his consciousness that froze his blood in his veins.

Be honest, Charles. Everyone requires something. You’ve denied those needs through an exaggerated sense of nobility, my friend. Two such men as you and I need deny ourselves nothing.

Charles let his cup clatter back onto the chipped saucer, his fingers nerveless. His slate blue eyes flitted through the tavern, scanning the interior for the source of the voice, slightly accented and deep. Not spoken. The words were projected.

Charles stood and stretched, then dug in his hip pocket for this battered billfold. He reached into it and extracted a small note, tucking the bill beneath it. He nodded to the steward behind the bar, who was wiping down a plate with a graying dishrag, before he turned toward the rear of the bar. The steward assumed that like most of the tourists who frequented the Pharaoh’s Pearl, he meant to partake of the hospitality offered by the women’s lounge. His scrubbing of the plate with the rag ceased as he watched him stroll quietly into the gambling den. The steward sized him up carefully; the foreigner was a fair-skinned Caucasian, slightly tanned from less than a week in the humid climes. He was tall, standing slightly over six feet, his body lean and spare with broad shoulders. He wore khakis and a wide-brimmed hat with the elegance of someone dressed in black tie and tails, and his posture was ramrod-straight, like someone with military bearing. He was self-possessed and emanated quiet dignity. He appeared to be bald beneath the hat, but his face was young and almost completely unlined except for tiny crinkles around his eyes, characteristic of someone who smiled easily and warmly. Dark, saturnine brows, a firm jaw and patrician profile were visible below the brim of his cap, and his eyes were barely discernible from his perch behind the bar.

And, the steward thought, he had elephantine balls to venture back into the gambling den…

The gambling den was steeped in the same darkness that permeated the rest of the tavern, but the air was staler and rife with the sour stench of sweat and old, warm liquor. A ring of men clustered like magpies around a wide, round table lined in worn green felt. Tidy stacks of chips and weeping glasses occupied it, and Charles was awed by a mountain of a man who appeared to be their leader, if he could be called that.

He was obese, seated on a wide bench instead of the armed chair with peeling nailhead upholstery. Like Charles, he was bald, but he wore a red velvet fez atop his head, making his wobbling triple-chin seem more prominent. Beady, cruel eyes peered back at Charles from behind small-rimmed, dark glasses. His features were handsome enough, but malevolence rose from him like steam from the pavement outside. Like Charles, he was garbed in khaki and linen; sweat pooled in patches through the fabric of his shirt across his fleshy, corpulent chest.

He raised his glass in a salute. His guests stopped chattering and ceased their laughter as one, turning to face the new visitor in their midst. They sized him up; Charles made free rein of his gifts, skimming the surface of their thoughts, even though the intent in their eyes was clear: He was an easy mark. He sensed their deference to the man in the glasses, as well as even measures of fear and loathing. They needed him.

He owned them.

“Charles,” he purred. “Sit. Drink. Make yourself at home,” he offered silkily. His English was flawless. His compatriots eyed their cards uneasily, occasionally peering back at Charles with disgust. They wanted to get back to the game at hand. Charles was about to speak, but he was interrupted by a dismissive gesture of his host’s thick-fingered, broad hand. “You know how I am doing this. We are worldly men, Charles. Don’t ask the obvious. It is beneath you. And me.”

What do you want of me? Charles felt his temples begin to throb; the energy was charged in the tiny chamber, and he felt himself growing dizzy from trying to lock his thoughts, bolstering his psychic shields. He knew it was the doing of his host.

“A bargain. A partnership, if you will. And the chance to discuss those terms privately,” he continued. He scratched his stomach distractedly, and Charles heard the squeak of chairs being pushed back as, moving as one person, all five of the participants in the poker match scooted back from the table and exited the den. Their eyes were blank and hollow, and Charles felt an unwelcome chill shiver down his spine.

Charles took up the abandoned chair opposite his host. When seated, they were nearly of a height.

“You know what I am, Xavier,” he began, fortifying himself with several noisy gulps from his glass of whiskey.

“I don’t know who you are,” he pointed out.

“Ever the courteous gentleman. The world is an open book to a telepath, yet you persist in observing the niceties of allowing those around you their most clandestine thoughts, Charles. I am Amahl Farouk. I consider myself a broker of sorts. A humble businessman with far-reaching hands.”

“I have obligations elsewhere. I’m merely completing a tour of duty,” Charles explained. “Is this where you conduct all of your business dealings, Farouk?” Charles nodded to their dingy surroundings.

“Only for the ones that mean the most to me, and where I stand to gain the sweetest profit. What’s the harm in mixing work and pleasure?”

“It’s hard not to blur the line.” Charles leaned back in his seat and measured him.

“I felt your presence as soon as you entered my establishment. You come from abroad. Unmarried. No family connections. Orphaned, in fact. A man of science?” Charles nodded.

“I studied at Oxford. Psychology, physics, and genetics.” He didn’t add that he graduated at the top of his class, alongside Moira and Magnus. Charles was never a boastful man, feeling his accomplishments gained nothing in value from wearing them like a badge.

“Yet you answered the call to arms?” Farouk tsked. “One could ask why, then, Charles, would you spend so many years studying to improve the lot of your fellow man, only to fight a war that will take so many lives? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” Charles saw how neatly he had been snared, and allowed himself a brief smile.

“Taking lives for a cause and self-defense and controlling them for one’s own pleasure and amusement are two different things, particularly when the former is rare, and the latter is done with little discretion.” Wartime showed Charles sights that would never let him sleep a quiet night again, screams printed indelibly on his conscience; his sole comfort was that he had done what he had to do.

“Who needs discretion, when you have the winning hand? And when you hold something more valuable than chips to up the ante?”

“You have a gift, and this is how you choose to use it.” Charles didn’t phrase it as a question.

“The world is unkind to those it sees as different. One can be the lion, or one can be the gazelle. If you wouldn’t be the lion, then prepare to run. It’s that simple.” He drained the last of his whiskey and slammed his glass down on the table with a hollow thunk. “Spend your life running until you drop. Or consider the bargain that I offer you, Charles.”

“What kind of bargain?” Charles felt the seductive pull of hovering closer to a magnificent flower, swaying and opening its petals, waiting for it to snare and devour him.

“I have far-reaching hands. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t use another pair,” he chuckled. “Think about it, Xavier. I own a piece of everything in this quarter of the city. Gaming hells. Brothels. Arms dealerships. Pawn shops and antiques. Diamonds. Narcotics. Name your pleasure. Or your poison. Your tour is nearly at an end. Once you return to your homeland, what awaits you? Months of establishing yourself in your field? Perhaps writing a thesis or two? Living again in a world that hates and fears people like us?”

“Or remaining here, hiding myself like a rat, ruling over the city’s parasites?” Charles drummed his fingers impatiently. “Preying on the helpless? Feeding on children?” Charles nodded to a serving girl who could have been no older than thirteen, attired in a skimpy dress and large hoop earrings. She stopped by the table and set down Farouk’s drink, clearing away the empty glass and wiping away the sweat ring with a folded cloth. Charles sensed the revulsion in her thoughts, but she merely smiled down at her employer as he reached out to fondle her rump, letting his hand linger long enough for Charles to want to leap across the table and strangle him. Her emotions assailed him, cringing at the indignity and violation of her personal space, to say nothing of her thoughts.

She froze in her steps, and a strange, blank expression crept over her face, glistening with cosmetics. Charles felt the force of Farouk’s possession of her, thrumming with energy as she numbly set down the tray, then lowered herself to her knees. Farouk leaned down and caressed her face.

“I never bluff, Xavier. Remember that. I hold all the winning cards.” He watched in revulsion as the girl leaned in, rapt, and lifted a trembling hand to the buckle of his wide belt, unfastening it. Finally it was too much.

She halted her task, trembling as she came back to her senses. Farouk shot Charles a venomous look as his psychic hold on her was rudely interrupted.

“Go now, child, you are no longer needed here,” he assured her. She needed no further bidding and scurried out of the den. Her relief and terror were palpable, and Charles had decided he had enough.

“You could widen my network, Charles. Think of it. I am not the only one of our kind you have ever crossed paths with. I know you have found others like us. I know you can find more. Think of the possibilities! Mercenaries who cannot be killed in their line of work! Nothing would stand in the way of shipments to the highest bidders and buyers. You can sense them, Charles. Feel their power resonating in you, like footsteps vibrating through the ground. We are few, Charles, but our power is great. We can rule over all that we see, or choose foolish notions of nobility. Of a dream that will never be realized while you fight for other people’s causes, wasting your mind and your influence. A life of pleasures you cannot imagine…nothing would be beyond your grasp. Even a lost love…”

Charles suppressed a shudder, then regretted the mind touch with Moira earlier, never knowing it would be detected.

“You still care for her, yes?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“She’s barely within my range,” Farouk admitted. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he tsked, shrugging. Charles stood, mentally shaking himself of the filth that pervaded this place and that seemed to cover him like a blanket.

“Think about what I said,” he called after him softly. “And think about what you stand to lose.”

Farouk? Charles turned back and studied him, letting the sight of him burn itself into his memory. Don’t provoke me.

The next day:

Moira allowed herself a moment to enjoy the gentle whirr and cool air offered by the electric fan in the headmistress’s office.

“You are sure you wish to go forward with this?”

“I kinna leave her here. I want to adopt her,” Moira declared, twisting her hands in her lap.

“Dr. Mactaggart, we all want to do our part to help these children…it’s difficult when we get volunteers and people coming from overseas who are unfamiliar with how things are here. Everyone comes in with a glamorous idea of ‘rescuing’ the village and the orphanage, one child at a time.”

“Initially I came to observe, as well as t’help however I could.”

“And you were a great help. We want to extend our thanks for helping us to keep the children inoculated and immunized properly against so many of the illnesses that befall them, and for helping us make progress with sanitizing the water supply. Every little bit helps.” She skimmed the sheaf of papers she held in her hands, then stared pointedly at Moira. “You say you wish to adopt Ororo. I know you have developed an attachment to her. All of us have, honestly. She is easy to love.”

“Aye. That she is, the little rascal,” Moira chuckled. “I think she would find a warm and loving home with me. I own an estate in Kinross, Scotland.”

“I’ve never been there. What’s it like?”

“A definite departure from what she’s used to. We dinnae have a problem with droughts where I live. She would have her fair share of rain throughout the year. I own a fair amount of land, too, and keep a large stable. The wee lassie would learn how t’ride, if she likes.”

“What of her education?”

“The finest that money could buy. We’ve some fine schools in our district, or, if she finds that overwhelming at first, we could consider hiring a tutor.”

“Ororo is a unique child,” the headmistress reminded her. “Not many people look like her. How do you think she would be received in Scotland?” Moira was nonplussed.

“How has she been received here?” She was still perspiring despite the breeze afforded by the fan, and she made futile efforts at fanning herself with her hand, whipping the neckline of her top away from her chest to create a pocket of cooler air. “Anyone who sees yon lassie with her hair, eyes, and looks in general will be shocked by her, no matter where she goes. That’s a given, but it wouldn’t serve her tae be sequestered in this tiny place tae protect her from the world at large, would it? She needs tae experience new things and new folk, something in which she’s limited in here, don’t ye ken?”

“You’re a doctor, and more importantly, a researcher.” The headmistress templed her fingers under her chin. “Would she be your daughter, Moira, or your pet project?”

“I beg yuir bluidy pardon?!?”

“You’ve been studying anomalies in the physiology of children in this region,” she replied, her tone blunt. “You’ve never really explained why.”

“Malnutrition and its effects need to be documented; it will bring you one step closer to stopping its causes, and generating more financial support from people who deem it a worthwhile cause. There are different environmental factors that affect people here, but it is most noticeable in the children. Japheth is an excellent example of what can happen when conditions like his continue unchecked.”

“So why not him? Why Ororo? She’s sturdy and shows good health. The other volunteers and staff are making some progress with her now as it is.”

“Japheth is not necessarily an orphan. He was separated from his parents, and he came here with his two younger brothers. Daniel and Lot would hate tae be separated from their brother, and I imagine they wouldn’t want tae travel far from where they could possibly contact their mum and dad again. Believe me when I say I’ve grown quite fond of the little laddie, too.”

The headmistress sighed heavily. “There’s paperwork. Tons of it. You’ll need her birth records. Your character will be assessed by our panel, all the way down to whether you had cornflakes for breakfast. This is an arduous process, Moira. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Moira’s stomach clenched, but she nodded mutely. The matter of her absent husband was one that would no doubt come under scrutiny, but there were strings that could be pulled, if need be.

Outside in the courtyard, another meeting was underway, but with a considerably different purpose.

“I double-dog dare you,” jeered a slender twelve-year-old with a mean scar across his cheek. He’d been rescued from a life of roaming the villages as a child soldier and brought to the orphanage from the back of a dirty pick-up truck with roughly a dozen refugees. This was the first home he’d had with indoor plumbing and adequate food where he hadn’t had to scavenge in the trash or pick through leftovers from outdoor cafes. He’d found a friend to both confide in and goad into trouble with little Japheth, and the other gang of little boys surrounded them, playing a game of jacks.

“We’ll get into trouble,” he argued, flicking his silver-topped head toward the workmen who were unloading things from the back of the Jeep. “They’ll see us if we do it. Ain’t like a boykie’s got any money, y’know? We can’t just head into town without anything t’spend.”

“We can make money in town,” he reasoned, scratching his scar, which itched abominably. Japheth cringed at the gesture, feeling sympathetic pain for his friend at what must have put it there. “We can find work at the Pharaoh’s Pearl. Word is he hires anyone to help him.”

“Help him do what?”

“Anything. Everything. He has big money, and we can roll with him!” It sounded like a likely story. Japheth eyed Everett and considered his words. To him, anything was better than being dragged from village to village, a gun slung across his back to be tortured and used every night…

He had no clue that Farouk dwarfed any other threat he could think of.

“What’s the matter, Japh? You scared? Japheth’s a baby,” he crowed, pointing his finger with disdain.

“Am not,” he griped. He searched the ring of his peers for anyone sympathetic to the third degree he was receiving, and found Ororo seated in the dirt, once again playing with her dollies. He felt a wave of nausea that weakened him and made his knees wobble. The spells had been more frequent lately, but nothing the staff of the orphanage had done for him seemed to give him any relief. His special protein meals were tasteless but a necessary evil. “Ororo doesn’t think I’m a baby,” he announced. “Do you, Ororo?” he called out. She looked up from her grooming session with the doll, and waved with the hand holding the brush. “She thinks I’m a big man,” he huffed.

“Prove it, then,” Everett sneered. “Climb in. Ride into town, then come back and tell us how it was.”

“You do it,” Japheth insisted petulantly. “Show me how, then, if you’re such a big man and y’think y’can work with this Farouk!” He began to walk away from their jeers.

“Baby,” Everett accused. “Little mommy’s boy.”

The image sprang unbidden and unwelcome in his mind of his mother’s tearstained face, the night before he ran away. He clenched his bony fists at his sides.

“Leave Mum out of this,” he hissed. He watched the workmen standing outside the gate of the orphanage, signing a requisition slip and delivery voucher for one of the housekeepers. Their backs were turned. The Jeep was unattended.

“I knew you wouldn’t be a man about it,” Everett carped, scuffing his foot in the dirt.

When he looked up to dump more accusations on Japheth’s ears, he was already gone. Everett saw his battered sandals shimmying up over the bumper and disappearing from view into the hatch of the old Jeep. A clamor of whispers and giggles rose from the boys.

“He’s doing it!” Lot muttered.

“That’s my big brother, he’s a big MAN!” Daniel proclaimed, beaming fit to split his face.

“SHHHHHH!” Everett hushed him, seeing the housekeeper peering over their way, frowning at the guilty looks they shot back. She trotted over to them, apron flapping.

“Shoo! Get on inside! Wash up, it’s nearly time to eat,” she insisted, swatting whatever little bums that were within reach with her wooden spoon.

Her back was turned when a second pair of sandals disappeared into the hatch. An abandoned, pitifully threadbare rag doll stared up into the overcast sky with dull button eyes.





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