***
I knew that anger was a useless and detrimental emotion to my search for true and lasting annihilation, for this one case of betrayal would ultimately mould with others to provide the secret of the loss I had craved for so long. A voice of silence seemed to speak through the dimness of the emporium, its unspoken words heard only within my head, and I knew that I should now aspire to become one with the spirit of the machines. For some seconds I shut my eyes, gradually emptying my mind of the fresh venom it had generated by way of a primitive longing and despair. Just before I opened them again, I imagined I heard a summons in the form of a softly chiming bell.
The Transparent Church
A velvety darkness hung about the glass case of this machine, while a false sense of peace and belonging issued upwards before I had even paid for its services. By inserting just a few coins within its sacred slot, I was to be afforded the sight of a glass-roofed church. The sound of an unknown hymn struck up from some tiny, secreted speaker, and as my intruding eyes looked down through the glass case of the machine, and through the glass roof of the Transparent Church, I saw a congregation of mechanical figures simultaneously depart their pews, rising to sing in worship of the one who had granted their unknown lives within this mechanical paradise. Like me, each one had been summoned towards their own annihilation by the spirit-chimes of the non-existent church bell, yet these pure tones were of course heard only within the confines of their delicately tuned minds.
In the shadowy area of the chancel I saw the church organist. His hands rose and fell in precise alternation, picking out notes with all the great dexterity granted him by his eternal automation. Yet like the music and words of every unknown hymn I had ever heard, the quality came as nothing but the most depressing dirge to my ears, and I wondered about the kind of god able to derive pleasure from such an audible force of blackness.
This time I knew only the deepest discontentment, so that I concentrated with all my mind upon the automated hands of the church organist. As clearly as I could see through the glass roof of the Transparent Church, could I also see the plan of deliberate expulsion being put into practice by the organist and that untrustworthy, wooden congregation. With all my will I fought against this very novel (and cruel) method of excommunication, so that eventually I became seated before that mock musical instrument, filling the air with my twisted notes, and becoming one with the hostile brain of the organist.
But in my naivety I discovered I had played myself right into the mechanical hands of the organist; thus I had found out that my discontentment held the peculiar properties needed to indirectly bless me with a most 'unholy' form of annihilation and begrudged worship, for in my mind I had renounced the undoubtedly soulless god that dwelt in the heavens above this mechanical haven, and in so doing I had denied my own existence and self. For who, if not me, had so recently held the position of god-like power needed to bring life to this mechanical congregation of singing sinners? Didn't those wooden forms of chameleon allegiance live only to worship, and so worship only to live?
The hymn now came to its close, the movement of my wooden hands halting most abruptly above the mock ivory keys of the organ. With a decisive click, the interior of the Transparent Church fell once more to darkness. Yet for a while my eyes remained sightless, peering into the eternal dark of some unknown universe. And all thistime my dislocated mind pondered the lesson of the silent sermon I had unconsciously been afforded.
My awareness now rose me upward to new levels via the knowledge I had successfully claimed ownership of, this lifting me high above the rank of the singing sinners; yet to my utter dismay, it also exchanged my status of loss for the reunification of self. Had the spirit of this miniature shrine, which I had deliberately visited at night and at a time out of season, contrived in such a way that I should again lose my loss?
***
Once more I stood alone in the dimness of the emporium. The fact that no other patron had so far made entrance into the Mechanical Museum was a thing which both puzzled nd pleased me greatly. And yet always I knew the constant feeling that some unseen form of intelligence observed my choice of machine, perhaps intrigued by my belief that such a means could ever result in a formula that would conclude in deliverance. Walking some little way onwards, my attention became stolen by what at first appeared to be an upright miniature coffin. I peered closely through the glass case of this exhibit, quickly finding just how mistaken I was.
The Punchinello
Dipping my hand into my pocket, I took out those few coins I needed to bring the Punchinello to life. In the following second came the presence of a light to gift me easy sight of that brightly-coloured cabinet of dubious entertainment. Upon the sand-covered floor before it, sat four rows of silently watching, wooden children. Yet when Punchinello began his most violent routine, every cross-legged figure became quick to give up all pretence of innocence, clapping their tiny wooden hands together in a shocking display of macabre delight.
My intruding eyes then fixed upon the sinister figure of Punchinello itself, and my ears filled with the corrupt laughter of children at every swipe of the wooden club held in its hand. The uniformed authority-figure it struck out at gave vent to timely cries of inhuman pain, all being perfectly synchronised with the cruel contact of the wooden club. Yet I was to lose myself in the violence of Punchinello's repeated action, so that I saw myself as a conductor of mechanised puppets, with the wooden club within my wooden hand being akin to a conductor's baton. For with every swipe I made there was a crescendo to their malign laughter, and in my head I knew they eternally mocked at all humanity by their response to this bizarre parody of our behaviour.
But still I became one with the puppet-soul of the Punchinello, revelling in its deathless quality and eternal cruelty, and sneering at the brief and pointless life of humanity. Then all I knew was the violent motion of that wooden club, so that for a few moments I became enveloped of my own swift-approaching deliverance.
Yet very abruptly the Punchinello froze in its movements; the cruel club poised forever to wound the representation of all mankind—the puppet holding extreme dominance over its own maker. Its carved head now peering upwards and into my own face, its expression was one of sneering triumph and elation, secure in the knowledge it had cast me eternally outwards of its own mechanical paradise.
***
With my expulsion, I knew only desperation and a sense that the time left to complete my deliverance was swiftly running out. My thoughts ticked away to the themes of hollowness and futility, to the grimness of life and the joke that is living. Yet still I sought to find the one avenue of escape; the hidden formula that would still bring me self-annihilation before it was too late. And now I realised that the degenerate state of this resort town was in tune with the degenerate state of my own existence, so that since the initial visitation made in my youth, the shrine of Mechanical Museum had remained a sacred place, invisibly linked to me via memory and soul; thus, it had gradually extended outwards during the passing of time, and the natural weakening of my physical body had allowed its slow entrance even to that quarter.
The Mechanical Museum had now totally pervaded my being, and I had become one with the shrine of my youth—in all senses (psychological, physical, spiritual) I had now 'returned' to The Mechanical Museum, so that the owning of these departments meant my deliverance was actually down to the God-like power and mercy of the shrine itself. I prayed only that my continual worship at this shrine through the passing years (though made from a great distance) would prove to be enough for the granting of my own annihilation.
Only time would tell.
The Clocktower
In time, I began to hear the sound of ticking. I walked through the dimness of the emporium until I stood before the glass case wherein originated this sound. Inside the glass I could see a glinting object which appeared to be some type of tower. Again, the general outline reminded me very strongly of a coffin. Hoping with all my heart, I pon
dered if this machine would bring to me the deliverance I had craved for so long; if it could afford me the etemal loss by some sensitive mechanism of its internal carriage. I made no delay in finding out.
For just a few coins I enveloped myself in the folds of Time itself. The sudden light of an artificial moon afforded me the sight of the Clocktower. But I became shocked to find the tower had been constructed in such a very gruesome manner, and from a building-material of such a grim type. For all that bizarre structure was made from an intricate network of tiny, fragmented, yellow-brown bones.
Yet it was the actual face of the clock which was the most intriguing part of all that strange mechanism, for I saw the indicating fingers upon it were the detached fingers of a corpse. The pointed nails of both these fingers detailed the actual time with precision, giving out the message that just five more minutes would bring the arrival of midnight. Beneath the face of this clock was a balcony of bone and a large silver chime-bell, and I also noticed that many areas were decorated with tiny wreaths of autumn leaves and miniature parodies of dying roses. Peering to the very back of the balcony, I carefully counted eleven tiny wreaths which had been nailed upon the black wood of a most foreboding, coffin-shaped door.
And so I tried to lose myself in the vision of that Clocktower, but time moved so invisibly that I could not hope to locate its momentum. So once more I resigned myself to death, with my only certainty now being that annihilation could never be granted by a mechanism unable to provoke even the merest sign of loss. Yet with only one more minute to midnight remaining, the slow opening of the coffin-shaped door upon the balcony was to promote a fresh sense of hope and interest in me. For through that door walked a mechanised representation of a figure dressed in black, and very soon I saw the cruelly smiling countenance of Death itself.
This wooden figure was cloaked in the black shadows of its own eternity, and yet I certainly wanted no part of that false and sinister state. The time remaining to complete my deliverance was now growing very short, for held within this cruel figure's hand was a scythe in the guise of a hammer.
Then, very suddenly and inexplicably, I was to find myself stood within in a street...
***
It was night, and I was standing in the street of a resort town out of season. To my ears came the sudden, startling chime of a clocktower which stood high above me—yet I instantly realised this chime was the scream of a tortured human voice. When I heard the second and third screams chime, I knew I listened to the captive souls of those having once visited the shrine of the emporium before me.
With each further scream that chimed into my ears came the further degeneration of my own physical body—and the degeneration of the resort town about me. When the tenth chime came, I instantly collapsed to the rain-damp ground of the street beneath the Clocktower, and with the eleventh I became crippled with such pain that I could no longer move.
Yet the twelfth chime never came.
After a while, the pain I knew began to filter slowly outwards from my body. Then from my position lain upon my back within the street, I gazed up towards the balcony of the Clocktower above me. The moonlight now filtered down to afford a most perfect view, but still was there no figure of malign intent staring down in hatred of me. I almost doubted there ever had been.
And then a sense of realisation, of intense elation suddenly dawned on me—I had now successfully undergone my deliverance into this mechanical paradise! The twelfth chime would not now arrive, and for all eternity I would remain lost in the world of this unknown universe, forever wandering the wonderful streets of the Mechanical Museum.
***
The Coldness of the Mechanical Moon
I decided I would lose myself for a while by gazing at the moon. So I walked along the rain-damp street, gazing upwards into the cold glow of that mechanical orb which had now become so very real and beautiful to me. Now that time had finally stood still for me, I sent my silent messages back into the past and to my own question self; I spoke silent words of hope into my own questing head, and gave written clues in a style of writing that would indicate my altered existence—the deliverance I had now found.
And I loved the coldness of the mechanical moon, looking upon her almost as one may look upon a beautiful, cold, but elegant woman. She was out of reach and only there to be admired, but gradually my love became so deep for her... so deep I would have willingly died for her.
Yet a very fateful thing was my continued obsession with the moon—since who would imagine it could ever be so cold as to betray me! For once, as I revelled in the joy of a walk through all eternity, the glow of its light suddenly went out...
And through the deathly darkness of the street I stood in, echoing with the eagerness of an evil, fresh unbound, there suddenly came to my appalled ears the sound of the twelfth chime. Then through all the dreams and thoughts I had ever had; through all the years that were past or still to come, through every beat of this scorned lover's heart, my pain-filled body and soul would do nothing but scream the eternal scream of a tortured death unending.
Purity (2003)
First published in Weird Tales, Spring 2003
Also published in: The Shadow At The Bottom Of The World, Teatro Grottesco.
We were living in a rented house, neither the first nor the last of a long succession of such places that the family inhabited throughout my childhood years. It was shortly after we had moved into this particular house that my father preached to us his philosophy of 'rented living.' He explained that it was not possible to live in any other way and that attempting to do so was the worst form of delusion. 'We must actively embrace the reality of non-ownership,' he told my mother, my sister and me, towering over us and gesturing with his heavy arms as we sat together on a rented sofa in our rented house. 'Nothing belongs to us. Everything is something that is rented out. Our very heads are filled with rented ideas passed on from one generation to the next. Wherever your thoughts finally settle is the same place that the thoughts of countless other persons have settled and have left their impression, just as the backsides of other persons have left their impression on that sofa where you are now sitting. We live in a world where every surface, every opinion or passion, everything altogether is tainted by the bodies and minds of strangers. Cooties—intellectual cooties and physical cooties from other people—are crawling all around us and all over us at all times. There is no escaping this fact.'
Nevertheless, it was precisely this fact that my father seemed most intent on escaping during the time we spent in that house. It was an especially cootie-ridden residence in a bad neighborhood that bordered on an even worse neighborhood. The place was also slightly haunted, which was more or less the norm for the habitations my father chose to rent. Several times a year, in fact, we packed up at one place and settled into another, always keeping a considerable distance between our locations, or relocations. And every time we entered one of our newly rented houses for the first time, my father would declaim that this was a place where he could 'really get something accomplished.' Soon afterward, he would begin spending more and more time in the basement of the house, sometimes living down there for weeks on end. The rest of us were banned from any intrusion on my father's lower territories unless we had been explicitly invited to participate in some project of his. Most of the time I was the only available subject, since my mother and sister were often away on one of their 'trips,' the nature of which I was never informed of and seldom heard anything about upon their return. My father referred to these absences on the part of my mother and sister as 'unknown sabbaticals' by way of disguising his ignorance or complete lack of interest in their jaunts. None of this is to protest that I minded being left so much to myself. (Least of all did I miss my mother and her European cigarettes fouling the atmosphere around the house.) Like the rest of the family, I was adept at finding ways to occupy myself in some wholly passionate direction, never mind whether or not my passion was a rented one.
One evening
in late autumn I was upstairs in my bedroom preparing myself for just such an escapade when the doorbell rang. This was, to say the least, an uncommon event for our household. At the time, my mother and sister were away on one of their sabbaticals, and my father had not emerged from his basement for many days. Thus, it seemed up to me to answer the startling sound of the doorbell, which I had not heard since we had moved into the house and could not remember hearing in any of the other rented houses in which I spent my childhood. (For some reason I had always believed that my father disconnected all the doorbells as soon as we relocated to a newly rented house.) I moved hesitantly, hoping the intruder or intruders would be gone by the time I arrived at the door. The doorbell rang again. Fortunately, and incredibly, my father had come up from the basement. I was standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs when I saw his massive form moving across the living room, stripping himself of a dirty lab coat and throwing it into a corner before he reached the front door. Naturally I thought that my father was expecting this visitor, who perhaps had something to do with his work in the basement. However, this was obviously not the case, at least as far as I could tell from my eavesdropping at the top of the stairs.
By the sound of his voice, the visitor was a young man. My father invited him into the house, speaking in a straightforward and amiable fashion that I knew was entirely forced. I wondered how long he would be able to maintain this uncharacteristic tone in conversation, for he bid the young man to have a seat in the living room where the two of them could talk 'at leisure,' a locution that sounded absolutely bizarre as spoken by my father.
'As I said at the door, sir,' the young man said, 'I'm going around the neighborhood telling people about a very worthy organization.'
'Citizens for Faith,' my father cut in.
'You've heard of our group?'
'I can read the button pinned to the lapel of your jacket. This is sufficient to allow me to comprehend your general principles.'
The Collected Short Fiction Page 118