A Cage of Butterflies by Brian Caswell Read Free Book Online

before?” He was alone in the viewing room, but he spoke the thought aloud. In front of him, illuminated by the light from the screen, was the evidence they had been searching for. The proof that something was radically different; that the Babies were … something different.
    A CAT scan. Computer-generated X-ray pictures of the human brain, exposing the secrets that lay hidden within the skull. It was so obvious. And now that they finally had them, Larsen was angry. With himself. With MacIntyre. Here was the evidence they had searched for, and they had spent the best part of a year messing around with observations, behavioural analysis, blood tests, when all the time the answer, or part of it, lay in the very structure of the Babies’ brains.
    He was no radiologist, but he had seen enough scans to know what a normal brain section should look like. And you didn’t need to be a specialist to see that these pictures were … wrong.
    Suddenly, he remembered. High school. The teacher – Miss Phipson, it was, the plain, gangly one who always wore the stained lab-coat – holding up a cut-away model of the human brain. It looked like a huge cauliflower.
    â€œYou will notice,” she had droned, in that reedy voice of hers, “that the top section of the brain, the cerebrum …” she stressed the word, scribbled it on the board, then paused for effect, “is divided into two distinct parts or hemispheres …” Another pause, while the students in the front desks dutifully wrote down the word. “The right and left hemispheres control different functions and different types of thinking. This gap, this valley between the two hemispheres, is called a fissure . . .”
    The memory faded. He was still staring at the grey and white images in front of him.
    There was no fissure. No separate hemispheres.
    He reached for another set of pictures and replaced the ones on the screen. The same. No fissure. One single … no, wait. The next image showed it more clearly …
    Each X-ray told the same story. Extra tissue; a growth which ran up from the base of the skull across the top of the brain, filling the fissure and linking the two hemispheres. This was the thing which made the Babies different. Some kind of major mutation.
    He smiled. They would name the discovery after the discoverer. Larsen’s Syndrome. It had a nice ring to it.
    Susan watched the Babies. It was hard to put a finger on it, but something was different. A subtle change in the atmosphere on the other side of the window. The five children just sat there around the table, unmoving, unblinking; their eyes staring without apparent focus, as if they were watching for something in the far distance, beyond the walls of the complex.
    They made no sound, as usual, but there was an odd look of … concentration, on each tiny face.
    Then Myriam turned her gaze towards the glass, and Susan had that disturbing sensation again. It was as if the child could see straight through. As if Myriam were the observer, and she …
    The feeling began as a warm, internal glow, which slowly spread until its power filled her whole body. A feeling of joy and well-being. And love. It was overwhelming. Susan settled back into the chair with her eyes closed and let it wash over her.
    And with it came the memories …
    Four years old, on a trip to Taronga. Following the yellow skirt. The giraffes are so tall. “Mummy, look at the baby, see …” Tugging for attention on the yellow skirt, then looking up. Into a stranger’s face. The moment of panic, casting about through the sudden blur of frightened tears. Aimlessly running. The gentle touch of strangers’ hands, confusing adult questions. The screech of a colourful parrot.
    And then the warm, accustomed voice, crooning security, the touch, the clean soap-smell, fear buried in the comfort of familiar yellow folds. Panic fading to love …
    Ten years old. The house;