Elixir (4 page)

“The kennel?” I asked.

“Yes, right beside us,” he said, gesturing in that direction. “I imagine you've noticed the noise.”

“Do they ever stop barking?”

“Not often, but worse than the infernal racket is the stench.”

“I noticed that too,” I admitted.

Dr. Banting took a kettle and filled it from the little sink that occupied the middle of the table where he'd
been working. He set the kettle on a little holder, turned a small knob, and flicked a flint, igniting a flame underneath.

“These Bunsen burners have many uses,” Dr. Banting said and chuckled.

Mr. Best opened a tin container and offered it to me. “Biscuit?”

“Thank you,” I said as I reached in and took a gingersnap.

“I should think that a girl of your age and size should take
at least
a second biscuit,” Mr. Best suggested, extending the tin toward me again.

I hesitated.

“Go ahead … if you take two then we can take two as well,” he whispered, flashing a bright, toothy smile.

“Thank you.” I didn't need much persuading. We didn't have many treats around our home.

“So, Ruth, have you ever been in a laboratory before?” Dr. Banting asked.

I shook my head.

“Would you like me to explain to you what we're doing here?”

I nodded.

“Have you ever heard of diabetes?” he asked.

“I've heard of it. It's a disease … right?”

“A terrible disease. The word
diabetes
comes from the Greek word for siphon, because it siphons away the life of the person who suffers from the condition,” he
said. “People afflicted with diabetes have an unquenchable thirst, and no matter how much they eat their bodies take no benefit from the food. The glucose—the sugars in food—isn't absorbed correctly, and so the diabetic experiences rapid weight loss.”

“In Greek mythology, the god Zeus cursed one of his sons, Tantalus, to be in the presence of food and water but to suffer perpetual thirst and starvation,” Mr. Best added. “It sounds a great deal like diabetes.”

“While that's merely a myth, I think it shows that the condition of diabetes has been recognized for thousands of years,” Dr. Banting put in.

“Recognized but unconquered. The disease is fatal.”

“Fatal?” I asked.

“Every person who is afflicted with diabetes will die from it. The inability to absorb food, the weight loss, ultimately leads to coma and then death,” Dr. Banting explained.

“There is no cure,” Mr. Best went on. “Diabetes is a death sentence.”

I suddenly felt uneasy being in the room, like being there would somehow give me diabetes; that I could die. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten the biscuit.

“Don't worry; it isn't infectious. You can't
catch
diabetes,” Dr. Banting said, no doubt reading my worried expression. “It's widely believed that it's caused by a malfunction in the pancreas.”

“I don't know what that is,” I said.

“It's a small organ close to your stomach. It's believed that the pancreas secretes a substance necessary for the absorption of food.”

“And you're studying this dia … diabetes?” I asked.

“Fred … Dr. Banting,” Mr. Best said, “has a theory about isolating a hormonal secretion from the pancreas to create a treatment for the condition.”

“If we can isolate it, we can give it to people suffering from diabetes,” Dr. Banting added.

“And if you can do that, it will help them?”

“I believe this secretion will allow them to properly digest food. If that is correct, we'll have found a life-saving treatment. People with diabetes will no longer die.”

My eyes widened in disbelief.

“Well, at least that's the theory,” Dr. Banting added. “But there have been dozens and dozens of theories and attempts to prove them.”

“More like hundreds of attempts,” Mr. Best said.

Dr. Banting nodded his head in agreement. “
Hundreds
of attempts by the leading experts in the world have been made … without success.”

I looked around the dingy little laboratory.

“It does seem a bit hard to believe that the two of us working in this decrepit lab will succeed where so many before us have failed,” Dr. Banting said. “But scientific progress is always built upon the failures of those who came before. Even if we fail, others may learn from our failure.”

“And it
is
an interesting theory, a good theory, that Dr. Banting has proposed,” Mr. Best added.

“Good in theory, but not yet good in practice. As of today we have not succeeded.” He paused. “But we have not failed either. There is hope.”

CHAPTER FOUR

MY MOTHER AND I
had barely arrived at work when, looking through the little window at the front of the building, I noticed that the first of the protestors had started to arrive. Just a few at first, then more and more people joined in. By ten-thirty there had to be fifty of them—almost all women and all well dressed. More than half of them held signs: “Animals have feelings,” “Save the Dogs,” “Man's best friend needs to be rescued,” “Animals Are People,” “Shame,” “Monsters not Men.” Two of the women were holding up a big banner that said “Ontario Anti-Vivisection Society.” I knew this meant that they were opposed to using animals for scientific research; I was just grateful that no one had ever asked me to spell it.

I could see the backs of the three policemen at the very top of the steps. They were facing away from me, but judging from the way they stood—tall and still and
with arms folded across their chests—they weren't any too thrilled to be there, in their dark uniforms and heavy, thick-soled shoes, with the bright sun shining right down on top of them.

Aside from the police officers and the demonstrators, there was hardly anyone about on campus. The occasional person who did wander by was approached by some of the protestors and offered a pamphlet. While most politely accepted the literature and continued on their way, a few drew back their hands as though they were afraid of getting burned and then practically raced off. There were also a couple of people who took the pamphlet, talked to the protestors, and then joined the crowd. I couldn't help wondering what those pamphlets said—not that I would ever dream of going out and getting one. It felt much safer inside, even if it was this building at which they were aiming their attention.

“Are you still watching them?”

I started and spun around. I'd been focused so intently on the scene out the open window that I hadn't heard my mother approach.

“There are even more of them now than there were thirty minutes ago.”

My mother shook her head sadly. “I've cleaned two rooms in the time they've been standing out there waving their placards in the air.”

“They're also handing out pamphlets,” I added.

She gave me a questioning look, wondering how I'd know that. She'd told me not to go outside at any time without her permission.

“I saw them handing something out,” I explained. “It looked like pamphlets.”

“And is that all you've been doing, standing here? About the only thing I can think of that would be more useless than what they're doing is somebody staring at them doing it.”

“I've been reading too,” I said, holding up my tattered copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
. She nodded approvingly. I just hoped she wouldn't ask me how much I'd read since she'd left.

“There's little better in the way of an education than reading the words of one of the greatest writers in the history of the world, and Charles Dickens, young lady, is one of the best.”

I loved reading, and we had more books in our flat than I could even count. They were books that both my mother and father had gathered over the years. A lot of them were thick, dark books on chemistry—my father's—but a lot were ones my parents had read when they were younger. I loved reading a book that I knew they'd read when they were my age.

I could tell whether a book had belonged to my father or to my mother. My mother's old books were always in perfect shape. Sometimes the back had hardly been cracked. It was as though she'd just barely opened the
book, peering into the pages but not daring to even expose them to air.

My father's were so different. The covers were beaten and stained. The pages were frayed or ripped and some were missing. I got the sense that he hadn't read a book so much as grabbed it and wrestled it to the ground. And then there was the way he marked up the pages. He must have always read with a pen in his hand. He'd underline passages or circle words. He made comments in the margins. Sometimes he was agreeing with the writer. Other times he was arguing. For him reading seemed more like a debate. My mother said that my father was the only man she knew who figured he could edit Dickens and Shakespeare and argue with Aristotle and Socrates. He liked to make changes in the dialogue and even the plot! I just liked reading his words. Sometimes I'd flip through a book, a book I wasn't even interested in, just to find his words and lines and circles and exclamation marks. Sometimes I'd run my finger over the long-dried ink, almost hoping that a little bit of it—a little bit of him—would rub off on me.

“I'd better get back to work again,” my mother said. “You're not to spend all your time watching these people.”

“I won't,” I promised. But there was something I really needed to know. “I was wondering, do they stand in front of this building because of the dogs on the top floor?”

“I suppose it might be,” my mother said.

“Is somebody experimenting on them?” The thought made me shudder.

“It's not my business,” she said. “Nor is it yours. Now I'm going to get back to my job, and I will not be pleased to see you still standing here when I return … do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She walked away, but as soon as she was out of sight I went back to looking out the window. I knew I couldn't stay there all morning, but as long as I got back to my book before she returned, I'd be fine.

The sound of applause came rolling through the window. A woman was standing on the top step in front of the police officers, and the crowd was cheering for her. She raised her hands and it became silent. She certainly wasn't very old—barely out of her teens—and she was dressed very fashionably, like the ladies in the movies.

“It is good to see so many of my sisters and brothers here today,” she called out, and the crowd began applauding again. What exactly did she mean by “brothers”? I saw only one or two men in the audience, unless she was counting the police officers as supporters.

“We, the members of the Ontario Anti-Vivisection Society, now number more than two hundred strong! Our numbers grow daily as informed women and men rally to our cause!” The crowd called out its approval. “And do you know the reason for this?” she asked. “The
reason for our swelling numbers? It is because we are fighting a
just
battle. This is not science—it is torture. It is not done by scientists but by monsters! How can you describe them any differently? How can anyone believe that the needs of man are so great that he is justified in inflicting any amount of pain on any number of animals, provided that the results may be of some questionable benefit? There is no justification that would allow the infliction of pain upon our animal brothers. None!” This time the crowd roared out its approval.

“Now some people say, what is the worth of a few stray dogs? To them I say two things. First, is torture only torture if it's inflicted upon many? Is the pain no less hideous because it's suffered by only a few? I say not. Second, who is to say that these dogs are strays? Is there anyone here who has not heard stories of men prowling neighbourhoods, taking family pets from backyards?”

A gasp went up from both the audience and me. Did people really do that?

“Can you imagine the agony of some little boy or girl, going out to their backyard, calling for their beloved pet and it not coming? Searching but not finding? Oh, I grieve so much for that child's pain.”

Were those dogs on the top floor somebody's stolen pets?

“Yet while we grieve, does the vivisector? No, he cares not where the dog comes from. All he cares is that he has the animals available to carry on his evil
experiments. He doesn't care about a mere animal … even though that animal is man's best friend. The noble creature who has been at our side since the dawn of time. There, offering protection, warning, friendship and love, and above all loyalty. I have read that a dog will lick the hand of a man beating it. I cannot imagine any right-thinking person watching a man beat a helpless dog. Yet, in the building behind me there are worse things taking place … taking place daily.”

So it was the dogs that had drawn them to this building.

“Those poor dogs are imprisoned in cages so small they cannot walk or stand, awaiting yet another round of procedures or experiments, in pain, suffering! I would like nothing more than to march into this building, throw open those cages, free those dogs, and return them to their owners!”

“Lead us, sister!” a woman yelled up.

I moved slightly away from the window … were they going to rush the building? It wasn't as though old Mr. Mercer could stop anyone.

“But our efforts would be blocked,” she said, “by the three members of our local constabulary who stand at the doors of this prison.”

That's right, in the excitement of her speech I'd forgotten about the police officers. They weren't going to let these women in. But what if the things she said were true? What was happening on the third floor?
Maybe the police
should
let them come in and rescue those poor dogs.

“And I know that if these three fine police officers were not under orders to stand guard that they would— as all good people would—throw open the doors and hold them for us as we marched into the building.”