The Factory Trilogy 01 - Gleam

by Tom Fletcher

  The others joined them on the raft. Nora came down last and unhooked the ladder.

  ‘Where?’ asked the Boatman. The word came from both mouths, saliva strung between all four lips. ‘Where?’ he asked again.

  ‘Dok,’ Alan said. ‘We want to go to Dok.’

  The Boatman’s mouths both curled into something like sneers. ‘Dok?’ he said. He made the k sound long. ‘You are fools, then.’

  ‘No.’

  The Boatman held up a hand. ‘I have no need to prove my assertion. I will take you as close as I can, and the consequences will be yours to face.’ He used the stick to push the raft away from the wall.

  They passed strange trees that were nothing but knots of root, and then went through a huge, intricate mechanism that was battered and bent and dented and rusted into a single lump. ‘This fell from above,’ the Boatman said as they slid between cogs. They passed along a channel that wound between mounds of junk: furniture, tools, toys, swollen books, unidentifiable objects, general rotting matter, bones. And something passed by them; the same sinuous movement that had disturbed the sludge back at the doorway. Even after just a few hours, that kitchen felt like a world away.

  ‘What is it that lives in the swamp?’ he asked Nora.

  ‘What is it that lives in the swamp?’ she repeated. Her eyes were glassy. ‘Scales and teeth and tongues live in the swamp. Mouths with legs and molten birds live in the swamp. Dead things live in the swamp. Shells and slime and croaks and eyes and eggs and insects and slick fur and bloodied snouts and stones with ears and glass diseases and creatures with no brains and mistakes and failures and discarded children live in the swamp. Old Green lives in the swamp. Broken objects live in the swamp. Algae and fungi and lichens and moulds live in the swamp.’ She dug her fingers into Alan’s wrist. ‘We live in the swamp. We live in the swamp.’ She fell silent, let go and sat back.

  From out in the mist came a sound like that of a kettle coming to the boil.

  Nora’s skin was clammy. Beads of sweat ran down her forehead and cheeks. Alan wiped her face with his sleeve, then he turned to Eyes and did the same. After wiping Eyes’ face his dirty sleeve was pink. He looked back at Nora. ‘The pink,’ he said. ‘The pink around your eyes? I thought it was some kind of powder, a dye …’

  ‘Needlestick,’ Nora said. ‘Needlestick, needlestick, lie still, don’t kick. Pinned down in the birthing wagon, my father with his needlestick, outside the wolves, crystals clicking, Corval and Satis wheeling, me kicking, screaming, the tip of the stick pink with ink from the abdomen of the needlestick beetles, the don’t-kick beetles, the click-click beetles, wind chimes singing the ghost song, knees on arms, a stranger’s palm on my brow, the needlestick changing my face, blood dribbling down, blood in my eyes and mouth, the taste of it going deep, deep, new to me, then, it was new to me and it was strong, the taste of it like a visitation, its spread throughout me like possession, the pain in my face making everything white, the needlestick moving across me, pricking and sticking, poking and piercing, setting fire …’ She drew up her legs and rested her cheek on the tops of her knees, and lowered her voice. ‘Setting fire,’ she said again. ‘Setting fire to me.’

  Spider was standing over Nora too, now. ‘A tattoo,’ he murmured. He bent down. ‘Quite splendid work. The graduation is remarkable. That intense colouring below the eyes, fading away to nothing lower down the cheek, with no discernible banding. And the colour has held remarkably well, considering the shade, the vividity. So vivid. It doesn’t look like a tattoo. It looks like mere paint.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Magnificent.’

  ‘Does nothing bother you?’ Alan asked. ‘Like, not the swamp, not Nora’s distress? Not anything?’

  Spider put a hand on Alan’s shoulder. ‘I have a small, well-swaddled soul,’ he said. He patted Alan. ‘I could panic and quiver and gnaw at my fingernails if you prefer. But it would not help much, and it would be dishonest.’

  ‘You’re like her,’ Alan said, gesturing at Nora.

  ‘Maybe.’ Spider frowned. ‘Though I feel as if we do not know what Nora is like, not truly.’

  Nora was talking still, but her words were too quiet and mumbled for her companions to make them out. She drew three crystals from her pack and clutched them tightly.

  ‘I don’t know the way,’ Alan said at last. ‘I don’t know where we’re going or how to get there. Nora is the one who knows everything.’

  The mist was thicker now, and the raft moved through the sludge smoothly and silently, except for the faint squelching sounds of the Boatman’s pole. The bottom of the craft scraped against something.

  A frozen moment.

  ‘What was that?’ Eyes said. He turned his head one way then another, the bow of his bandage flopping against his neck.

  ‘Knives out,’ said the Boatman, his voice guttural, the words tolling.

  All the drawn metal sounded sharp, but looked dull in the fog. The Boatman drew his pole up, revealing a vicious crosshead iron spike at the opposite end to the naked woman. The raft rocked gently from side to side and slid ever so slowly forward.

  Nora was oblivious.

  The something came again; a knocking, almost, from below. The sound was loud. A dark shape broke the surface, but sank again so quickly Alan couldn’t make out any detail. Slow ripples spread out.

  ‘A crocodile,’ whispered the Boatman. ‘A spike-backed beast.’

  They waited for it to reappear. From a distance impossible to ascertain, a bird – Alan thought it was a bird – shrieked. The disturbance in the swamp had released a bad smell, of rotting vegetatation. Where the crocodile had been, the smooth green liquid was broken by brown swirls.

  They waited a little longer.

  ‘We will continue,’ the Boatman said, ‘but keep your weapons to hand.’ He sank the pole into the sludge once more and pushed off.

  The crocodile rose up out the murk almost silently, its great long head facing the front of the craft. Its head was as long as Alan was tall. He stared in horror. It looked as if it was smiling. Its skin was mostly dark green, but its snout, eyes and bumps were pale yellow, as if the creature was actually made out of bone and the green was just paint that was wearing off. Its eyes were bulbous, lime-green with vertical slits. Its crooked teeth were long and white and crossed over each other. Two black nostrils flared, and from them came that boiling-kettle hiss. The great mouth opened, revealing a smooth, soft-looking white interior, and suddenly Alan could hear the motorbikes again, the guttural roar of an engine, but it wasn’t that, it was the crocodile. The growl shook the ragged flaps of skin at the back of its throat and its foul breath rolled over the raft. It subsided back to a hiss and then rose in volume again. Then the crocodile launched itself forwards, leaping out of the water like something spring-loaded. Its thick forelegs landed on the front of the raft and the whole thing upended, tumbling its passengers forward towards those snapping jaws. All was noise. The Boatman’s pole looked very small and thin now. The beast’s mouth snapped shut as Alan fell towards it, but it was somebody else who screamed, not him, and instead of him landing between its teeth its snout caught him in the stomach and knocked the wind from him; pain shot through him as he fell over the crocodile’s head and landed on its back. The long hard spikes raked his spine as he rolled off, and then he was in the sludge and the sludge was in him, in his mouth, and he felt something probing around his teeth, and it tasted like Bittewood’s fingers. And the cold. The cold! The cold was a vicious spirit moving through him.

  He tried to swim, but the swamp was not water and forward motion was difficult. He wriggled and writhed, and things moved beneath his feet and pressed at his eyes. He did not know which way was up. The swamp was a living thing trying to force its way down his throat. Claws tore down his chest. Then pale scales were before him: a wall of crocodile flesh, flexing and pulsing. He grabbed it and pulled himself up into a maelstrom of foam, thunder, teeth and blades. Green slime poured from his mouth and the beast’s spikes pierced
his stomach as it bucked. There were threads of blood in the whipped-up froth and bloody drool hanging from the crocodile’s mouth, leaving bloody smears in the boat. Alan found crevices in the reptile’s ancient skin and dug his fingers in. The thing bellowed and thrashed, its jaws repeatedly closing with a baleful snap, but on whom exactly, Alan couldn’t see. There was roaring coming not only from the crocodile but also from his companions. He still had his knife in his hand and the crocodile was still half on the raft, and Nora, Churr, Spider and the Boatman had all fallen on their arses and were slashing and spearing whilst trying to shuffle backwards. Eyes wasn’t there.

  Alan embraced the crocodile as best he could. It was far too thick for him to get an arm all the way around it, but he reached beneath and clutched a fold of skin at its throat. He ignored the pain as he lay down on its spiny back and held on for his life as it reared up and tried to twist around. Those teeth closed just inches from his side. The icy chill of the green mud was working its way into his core. He moved slowly, inching his right hand forward. He wanted to move it more quickly, but he couldn’t. His fingers felt numb; if he rushed, the knife would just fall from his loose, clawed grip. Maybe his arm had been injured: maybe the tendons on the far side had been sliced and the wound was open and inviting to the putrid matter and the demonic cold of the swamp. Perhaps the crocodile had swung its tail and smashed his elbow when he was submerged. Whatever the cause, his arm wasn’t working properly.

  The Boatman got in a good jab with his pole and the crocodile recoiled, grunting. Alan slid down its side. That damned bird out there in the murk shrieked again. Was Eyes drowning? Already dead? Eyes had paid the price for Alan’s foolishness once more.

  Eyes – Eyes! Don’t get distracted.

  Alan heaved himself back up onto the beast’s back, pain incising itself across his face. With a howl he dug his heels in and propelled himself forwards, almost overbalancing as he fell forward over the crocodile’s head into the danger zone, but just in time he rocked back and raised his hands up, and then brought them down and plunged his thumbs into the crocodile’s beautiful eyes. He felt the gelatinous orbs squeak and saw them pop out of the protruding sockets. The crocodile screamed and whistled and he wrapped his hands around the eyes and squeezed. His left hand was more responsive still than the right, but still they both burst and jelly splattered out between his fingers. He pulled and felt the cords tighten and then snap, and the crocodile spasmed and dived into the sludge, but then it rose straight back up again, roaring.

  The animal was terrified and confused, making sounds like nothing Alan had ever heard, and he let himself fall while the crying blind monster rampaged away into the swamp, and a chorus of shrieking birds rose unseen into the air.

  21

  Swamp Madness

  Alan opened his eyes to a grey-white nothing, and a sense of doom stitched all the way through him. It took him a moment to remember where he was: on the raft. On his back, on the raft. He sat up.

  Eyes was there, lying on his back as Alan had been, still unconscious. He was wrapped up in something rough and brown: the Boatman’s cloak. The Boatman himself was gone and Churr was poling the raft through the green sludge. Spider was watching the swamp, poised, hand on hilt. Nora was sitting upright, eyes closed, and breathing deeply. She seemed to have calmed down.

  ‘Where’s the Boatman?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Croc got him,’ Churr said.

  ‘No,’ Alan said. ‘No, it didn’t. He was here when I …’ Words failed him. He felt sick. He made a gesture with his thumbs. ‘He was still fighting.’

  ‘He was bitten.’

  It was possible – probable, even. ‘Shit,’ Alan said. ‘Shit, shit, shit. Where’s that whisky? Give me some of that whisky, Spider.’

  He concentrated on drinking for a short while. The raft moved slowly.

  ‘You took the boatman’s cloak and wrapped Eyes in it,’ Alan said.

  ‘Yes,’ Spider replied. ‘It was Eyes or you. We thought Eyes had the greater need.’

  Alan nodded. ‘What was the Boatman like?’ he asked. ‘Y’know. Underneath?’

  Spider shook his head. ‘Different,’ he said.

  Alan did some more drinking.

  ‘How do you know which way to go, Churr?’

  ‘Nora pointed. She came up out of her babble and pointed this way. Then she went quiet.’

  ‘Is she meditating again?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  From out of the mist came a distant crocodilian roar, which rose and broke. Churr and Spider both tensed, Alan jumped, but Nora did not so much as open her eyes. Alan thought he could hear pain in the sound. He knew it was the same animal they’d fought off. The surface of the swamp was not so smooth any more, but there was nothing else to be seen – no ridged backs breaking it, no bubbles.

  Alan put his hand on Eyes’ forehead. His friend was still breathing, but he looked so cold and pale. He looked dead.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alan said quietly. ‘Sorry, Eyes.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Churr, after a few minutes more. ‘A building? An island of junk?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Alan said. ‘Some kind of shoreline.’

  ‘I didn’t think we’d reach the swamp,’ Churr said. ‘I thought Dok was above the swamp. Close, but above. What if the swamp has taken it?’

  ‘We will ascend again,’ Nora said calmly. She still didn’t open her eyes. ‘I know the way now.’

  ‘What? How? And where?’

  Nora didn’t answer.

  ‘Nora,’ Alan said, trying not to sound too desperate, ‘Eyes needs help. Can you help him? Will there be anyone down here to help us?’

  Nora still didn’t answer.

  *

  Time passed. There was nothing solid for her to push on now, so Churr laid the pole down in the boat and lifted up a paddle. After a while, Spider took over, and then Alan, who felt the paddle hit something solid and looked down to see a slimy skull looking back up at him. Then the swamp was full of bones and rags, all bobbing silently.

  ‘How many dead has the swamp released from their resting places?’ Spider asked nobody in particular. Nobody answered. He reached into the luminous liquid and withdrew another skull. ‘I’m going to do some drawing,’ he said.

  Alan thought about saying something, but didn’t. He turned away.

  Birds shrieked. Forms loomed through the mist, and then, when Alan was expecting to encounter a rotten structure or an island of waste, there was nothing there. Sometimes he heard something splashing around, or saw movement in the swamp. On more than one occasion he caught himself waking up and realised that he’d been dozing. Once he was awakened by the sound of a baby crying. He dreamed about Mother Margo and her little coffin, that she was floating through the sludge on a black metal cube. He woke up again, and saw more white and green.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ he shouted.

  Churr and Spider kept swapping around, switching positions, just to mess with him, he was sure of it. He knew it. He heard them whispering to each other and laughing. Once he heard Eyes speak and spun around, only to find him lying back down again. He knelt and slapped Eyes across the face. ‘I know you’re awake,’ he hissed. Spider and Churr didn’t say anything. Spider was still drawing that stupid skull – though when Alan looked, the drawing was a mess, just a great tangle, and there was nothing like a skull discernible in it – and Churr was vomiting over the side of the raft.

  The swamp grew busier with creatures and with movement. Large dragonflies alighted, black-winged, and then they rose again. Their buzzing hummed through the mist. Pale, gnarled trees with crooked trunks began to appear, with roots that looked like intestines piled up. Thick reeds rustled as if they themselves were turning to watch the raft pass. Alan had the sense of space closing in. He took up the pole, and found that he could feel something solid with it. Soon there were walls on either side: dark, slimy, endless, occupied by a rash of large slugs and snails. H
e lit the paraffin lamps at the corners of their raft. Trees clustered thickly at the sides of the channel, many growing from the walls themselves, as if they were climbing up out of the swamp. He tried to pick a strange red flower from one of the closer specimens, only to find that they weren’t flowers but long centipede-type insects curled up into balls. In brushing the tree, he disturbed a load of them and they fell into the raft, wriggling furiously. He stamped on those he could see and spent the next few hours shuddering, imagining that he could feel them crawling beneath his clothes.

  Of course, it was probably Eyes’ clothes that they would have found their way into, as he was just lying there unmoving.

  Now the substance of the swamp was less strange – it was thicker, muddier and full of dead leaves and twigs – but it smelled worse. The smell of decay burst up out of it, disturbed by the raft. It had a rainbow sheen, and in places puddles of oil rested on the top. Small things moved in it, and through the trees; probably just insects, or rodents. That bird shrieked again.

  Alan used Snapper to knock snails from the wall and into the boat. He aimed for good-sized ones, about the size of his head. ‘Sorry, Snapper,’ he murmured, ‘but needs must.’ He could try to cook a snail himself – that might impress the others. Though why he should try to impress them, he didn’t know. It was as if Spider and Churr weren’t even there; they weren’t even present in their own heads.

  He stabbed at the swamp with the pole and shouted. This is too slow. My son is in danger and we are stuck on this stupid fucking raft, bloody punting along in the dark, knowing nothing. He shouted again, and screamed, echoing up the chasm. There was the fluttering of wings above as the noise disturbed things that he couldn’t see. He fell to his knees and cried, though the sounds he was making sounded strange to him, distorted by the space he was in. He rolled over and lay on his side. He wanted to see his parents. He wanted to be a boy again. He wanted to relive all of those moments when his mother had got home from work and given him a hug. He convulsed with sobs as he remembered his father, that smell of dye and whisky. All those hours his parents had spent making cloth for the Pyramid robes, and for its wall hangings, for its flags and its rituals: time spent away from him and away from each other. He thought about Marion, going to her Stationing every shift, and him, too. All those hours at the Station, reading the discs and punching the cards accordingly. All of the Bleeding. They should have spent that time together, talking, playing with Billy, watching the dragons, watching the moons, making love.