A Shifting Standing (1)
Diabetes.
In Joseon, it was known as sogalbyeong—the wasting-thirst disease. Setting aside Type 1 diabetes, which is a congenital deficiency of insulin, it was generally an affliction brought on by overeating. It had deep, intimate ties to alcohol, sugar, and rich, greasy food. Naturally, even if one indulged in such fare, heavy physical exertion staved it off. In other words, it was an illness that struck those who could gorge themselves without ever having to lift a finger. In modern times, the wealthy might have the leisure to exercise even more, but this was the nineteenth century.
"Can this really cure it, you say?"
"If my theory holds. But first, I need to jab it in. Would you mind stepping aside a bit?"
"Ah, yes. Of course."
"Surely you don't have diabetes yourself, Director?"
"Me? Not I, thank the heavens. But I know quite a few who do."
An illness of the rich. Back in Joseon, sogalbyeong was also dubbed the 'wealthy man's disease.' It was no different here in Britain, which meant, in short, that it was an affliction of the high and mighty. Even nobles who considered traumatic amputations and dysentery to be scourges of another world entirely still fell prey to diabetes. Perhaps that was why the Hospital Director showed no sign of leaving my side.
"Ah... who, exactly?"
Not that I minded his hovering. If the nobility needed me, well, shouldn't I consider it an honor? A single anatomical demonstration had skyrocketed my standing within this hospital and made me a professor. But if, instead of a mere show, I actually cured an incurable disease? What would happen then? Considering how well Damien and Lord Jamie already treated me, my path would be paved with gold.
"Well... several members of Parliament, for one. And landed gentry around London as well... so hurry and give it a try."
"Understood. Ready, Brother Liston?"
"Mmh."
Liston had a broad grin plastered across his face. Who could blame him? Money and power—who in their right mind turned those down? Well, in my case, I merely pretended to crave them so I could leverage them to save more lives.
"Right, injection going in."
Insulin, after all, couldn't be taken orally. So, while it fell far short of a proper modern syringe... I had cobbled one together. Anyone from the twenty-first century would have recoiled in horror. For starters, it was entirely made of metal. What else could I do when plastic didn't exist? At least I fashioned the barrel from copper rather than iron, to prevent rust. The needle, however, had to be iron.
"Yip!"
"Shit, startled me."
It was hardly a modern hypodermic needle. Above all, it was thick. I had ground the tip sharp at a bevel, but nineteenth-century manufacturing couldn't replicate the delicate needles of my past life.
"Must hurt like hell."
"Indeed. And... you intend to plunge that thing into Lord Jamie's belly?"
"Yes."
"You'll be the one doing it, I presume?"
"Pardon?"
"Shall I have Alfred do it?"
"We could order one of the three to do it. Wouldn't Colin jump at the chance? A bit of sweet revenge, perhaps."
"Ah, he did drink the urine. And he is an aristocrat himself."
"Exactly."
With a needle like that, it was painful enough to make a dog on death's door from diabetes yelp at the top of its lungs. Stretch the truth just a little, and the damn thing was practically an awl. Infection was a serious concern as well. Whether fortunate or not, because strict disinfection was required, the patients would have to come to the hospital for every shot.
For now, we'll administer it daily while testing, and train them later on, I suppose. If I told a layman back then to 'disinfect' something, heaven only knew what they'd do. Come to think of it, what did disinfection mean to ordinary folk of this era? They might sear their own flesh with an open flame. Think I'm joking? I'm dead serious.
"Yip!"
While I was lost in thought, Brother Liston hauled over the dogs in which I had induced diabetes and stabbed them one after another. And what was inside the syringe? Bovine pancreas extract, if you will... Exactly one ounce of fluid that I fervently hoped was teeming with insulin. An ounce... roughly under thirty milliliters. Nobody around here knew what a milliliter was, so I had measured it that way. Why an ounce? Damned if I knew. You had to start somewhere.
"Now we wait and see?"
"Yes. We'll examine their urine tomorrow."
"Still... will watching for ants really tell us anything? Ants swarm at even the faintest trace of sugar, don't they?"
"That's just the thing."
"You don't mean..."
"We have no other choice, do we?"
A man named Matthew Dobson had indeed devised a method for detecting sugar in urine. But it was absurdly complicated. It wasn't like the twenty-first century, where you simply dipped a test strip; it consumed far too much time and labor. Furthermore, what we needed to determine wasn't merely the presence of sugar, but whether the concentration had decreased. Quantitative analysis was always the hardest part.
"Surely you don't mean to use Colin again?"
"No, no. Not Colin. This isn't even human urine—it's dog piss."
"My point exactly! How could you even contemplate such a thing?"
"Which is why we should feed it to someone else."
"To whom...?"
"Let's ask the police. They've got plenty of criminals, don't they?"
"Ah. Shall we make him drink it before the victims?"
"Uh... is it really wise to let rumors of this get out?"
"Why not? It's punishing the wicked. Though, I assume one fellow will have to drink it consistently? To compare the taste, I mean."
"Precisely. That's why, in truth, a physician would be ideal, but..."
"Still, not our disciples. Alfred has already suffered enough with that catheter. No matter how brilliant you are, I won't allow..."
"I told you, I have no intention of doing that to them either!"
After much back-and-forth, we managed to have a convicted robber and murderer brought before us through our police contacts. His arms and legs were bound in heavy iron. The constables looked rather nervous, given the scoundrel's notorious reputation. But their anxiety was wholly unwarranted.
"Could you be Liston... then does that make this one the...?"
"What? You know me?"
"P-Please spare my life! I'll do anything! Anything at all!"
"Hmm."
Why was he acting like this? The answer dawned on me quickly.
"N-No, kill me if you must, but please, anything but the dress! Not that disgrace... I beg of you!"
"Ah, nothing of the sort. Rest easy."
Liston gave a hearty chuckle and patted the man on the shoulder. Well... he patted him with enough force that the criminal's face instantly twisted in agony. In nineteenth-century Britain, robbing and killing a destitute pauper wasn't necessarily a capital crime if one negotiated down the charges, so Liston refrained from pummeling him beyond reason. He merely beat him enough to ensure absolute obedience. In matters of physical intimidation, Liston was unmatched in all the world, so I simply watched the spectacle with unreserved trust.
"Now then, drink this first."
It was the urine collected from the dog before the insulin injection. Gathering that... had been an ordeal in itself. You couldn't hand a dog a cup and tell it to fill it up. Sick and weak, the beasts dribbled all over the floor, so someone had to hoist the dog up, grip its member, and aim it directly into the cup.
"Fuck..."
"Bloody bastards..."
Those curses echoing from the hallway hadn't sprung from nowhere. Joseph and Alfred had suffered immensely. Joseph had held the dog, and Alfred had taken the splash. But of course, we couldn't just tell our convict to drink it.
"W-What is this?"
"This is dog—"
"Pardon?"
"Ah, Brother Liston!"
Even a convicted felon wouldn't willingly swallow dog piss. Out of spite, he might lie about the taste or spit the whole mouthful out. No, times like this called for a white lie, not blunt intimidation.
"Hm?"
"Allow me to explain."
"Ah... very well."
Catching my drift, Liston chuckled and stepped aside. Seizing the moment, I launched into an unabashed fabrication. It was truly marvelous: moments ago I hadn't the faintest idea what to say, yet the lies rolled off my tongue with practiced ease.
"It's... a tonic we're developing. A medicine. Yes, a medicine."
"Medicine?"
"Indeed. Medicine."
"What sort...?"
Well, what sort indeed? For some inexplicable reason, laudanum crossed my mind.
"It cures—and likely prevents—colds, asthma, diabetes, consumption, and cancer, among others."
"Oh... oh! I'd love to give some to my dear mother."
Don't bring up your mother when you're in here for murder, you bastard... It tugs at my heartstrings. Wait. No, it doesn't. One look at his face and any sympathy vanished. If Liston looked terrifying, this bastard just looked vile.
"Right, right. You can do that later... For now, our aim is to formulate a medicine that isn't excessively sweet."
"Why? Isn't sweeter always better?"
"It doesn't feel like real medicine if it's too sweet."
"Uh... is that so?"
"Or would you prefer to put on a dress before drinking it?"
"N-No! Not at all, sir! Not at all!"
Watching the convict turn meek as a lamb, the nervous constables visibly relaxed. What did they think this place was? How could a lone felon raise hell here? Right next door, an anatomical dissection was taking place at this very moment. This building housed dozens of lunatics who carved into human corpses day in and day out.
"Now then, take a sip."
"Yes, sir."
What did dog urine taste like? More specifically, what did the urine of a diabetic dog taste like? I wasn't the only one burning with curiosity; Liston, the constables who knew the score, and my disciples—who until a moment ago had been cursing while wrestling dog piss—crowded around, their eyes glued to the prisoner.
Gulp.
The liquid slid down the convict's throat.
"Huh?"
His face brightened considerably. Come to think of it, being transferred here from a squalid London lockup was a welcome reprieve in itself. Besides, he was to stay here for the foreseeable future. Once he realized the truth—that rows of cadavers lay just beyond a single wall—his mood might sour, but for now, he looked pleasantly surprised.
"It's sweet! Quite delicious, actually. To think this is medicine!"
"I-It's delicious?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right. Quite."
Liston stared at the prisoner in utter amazement. As for me? I was reminded of Monk Wonhyo's skull water. Man really was a creature ruled by prejudice and perception.
Well, at this rate, our experiment is in good hands.
When told this was all he had to do, the convict beamed even brighter. By any normal logic, if staying outside a damp jail cell required drinking mystery liquids, one ought to suspect something foul was afoot. Yet the thought never seemed to cross his mind. Hardly surprising, really—common sense was an alien concept in this era anyway.
So we left him bound, though Liston made sure to warn him that any escape attempt would result in instant death, before stepping outside. The constables remained to stand guard. Because a bed was provided only for the police, the prisoner had to sleep on the floor, but he showed no sign of complaint.
"How about this one?"
"It's... not quite as tasty as yesterday's, sir."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
Thus the days passed.
"And this?"
"This... what in God's name is this? It's downright revolting!"
By the fourth day, a dramatic change had occurred.
"And this one?"
"Urgh—blaargh!"
We burst into hearty laughter as the prisoner retched. Honestly, even before giving it to him, I had anticipated this outcome. The dog looked remarkably hale and hearty. The problem now was whether a human patient would recover with a comparable concentration...
"Officer."
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Could you by any chance round up some prisoners who piss sweet?"
"Pardon?"
Looks like I'll need to run a few more tests.