Gene Therapy - Phan

Prologue

Phil sits alone in the clearing. His eyes are screwed shut in concentration and his hands are resting upturned on his crossed legs. He’s not sure whether this position actually makes it any easier, but it feels like it should. The first yellow-green buds of spring are appearing on the trees, and white snowdrops cluster around the base of the tall trees like drops of cream on fresh strawberries. Phil wishes there were strawberries here too. He ignores the rumbling in his stomach, and rises a little higher off the ground. He is hovering, his lower lip caught between his front teeth and his toes scrunched up inside his socks. He’s a little cold, but he thinks that helps too. He gets too sleepy to concentrate when he’s hot. The brisk air is keeping him alert, despite the hunger and the holes in his jacket.

He opens one eye to watch as a brown speckled sparrow flits past. He strains, and rises another inch. He hopes that, if he keeps practicing, one day he might be able to soar like the birds; rather than just levitate motionless a few feet off the ground.

It’s hard work, this flying business, and eventually he flops down with a thump and lets out a sigh. He really is very hungry now. He misses his warm bed and the food smells from the kitchen. He misses the taste of bread, even. He’s had nothing but stale crackers and melted chocolate digestives for three days now. He shivers. He wishes he’d had time to dig his winter coat out of the loft. His Thomas the Tank Engine pyjama bottoms are not at all warm, and his socks do little to protect his feet from the cold ground and sharp stones that litter the forest floor.

He wonders if they are looking for him yet. They won’t find him. He has his hiding place carefully constructed: it’s a hole in the side of the river bank where a tree has fallen, lifting its roots high into the air and leaving an earthy cavity behind it. Phil had only found it by accident when chasing an otter down the stream, but it is impossible to see from the ground. They would have to wade right out into the water, and Phil doesn’t think they’d care about him quite that much. It’s March, and the water is still very cold.

He scrapes at the ground with a stick. He had hoped to find berries and things in the forest, but it’s not really spring yet. All the sensible animals are still asleep. He wishes he could crawl up in his little cave and sleep until the summer comes, when he won’t be so cold at night and there’ll be apples on the trees. Or maybe there wouldn’t be, Phil's not so sure apples grow in the wild after all.

He had taken a small knife from the kitchen drawer, planning to adjust to the wild and hunt animals for their meat and their fur, but now he’s out here he isn’t so sure he likes that idea. There aren’t a lot of animals. They’re all very small and very fast and very friendly looking. One morning he’d woken up eye to eye with a small field mouse, and his first thought had been to reach out and pet it. Phil doesn’t really make a very good hunter.

He sighs again, pulling himself reluctantly to his feet. He can’t fly yet, so he’ll have to walk. He doesn’t want to go too far from his hideout, but he really does need to find some food soon. Maybe he’ll stumble across a cottage in the woods. There will be a friendly farmer and his wife, and they’ll cook him a big stew with lots of fresh bread and plenty of greens too. There will be a dog – no, two dogs – and perhaps a ginger cat asleep in front of the stove. They won’t have any children, so they’ll take Phil in and look after him, at least until he’s big enough to go to the city. Phil thinks maybe he’ll go to London. That’s where people go, after all. If there are people like him anywhere in England, he’s sure they’ll be in London.

He’ll hide his power from the farmers at first, Phil decides, as he doesn’t want to scare them off. But bit by bit, as time goes on, he’ll slowly break it to them and they’ll love him just the same as before. They live in a forest, so they’ve got no way of calling any People anyway. Phil is smiling to himself as he walks. He can’t wait to meet them, but mostly he is looking forward to that stew. And the dogs.

He is so caught up in his fantasy that he doesn’t notice the path until he is walking on it. He slows warily. He’d tried to stay off the paths that wind their way through these woods, because grown-ups always walk on the paths. If his parents are looking for him, then they will be on one of these dirt tracks. Then again, the farmers will have a path up to their house. He can’t avoid them forever if he’s going to have any hope of getting supper. Decision made, he sets of cautiously placing one socked foot in front of the other and tiptoeing. Like a mouse. He smiles again.

He wonders if there are any mice out there that can fly like him. If so, he hopes he finds them so they can be friends. They could fly together, perhaps, but there’s a little voice inside Phil’s head that is shaking its head in disapproval. Phil has a horrible feeling that the real reason he wants to find other things that fly is so that he can give them to the People, and the People will stick needles in the mice instead of him.

 As he walks, Phil scratches habitually at the large black 'X' on the back of his hand.