Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

Feeling some discomfort in the darkness.

  I close my eyes and try to hear my way,

  But it’s no use. I don’t know where I am.

  There’s just the wind, and the baleful howling

  Of something wild way off in the distance.

  Santiago’s torch has some life left

  And it’s been better looked after than mine.

  By it, I find my way to a dirt road

  And tread the tracks, on the way to Manus.

  I pull my coat close, intimidated

  By the limitless black to either side.

  There are no buildings out here for the torch

  To find; no comforting closeness of walls.

  There’s a fence, and I stop to shine the torch

  Into the field there, watch the waving grass

  And the flabby blind white cows as they graze,

  Calling out, softly, to one another.

  They’re a pleasant sight, and I watch them move,

  Rubbing up against each other, soft flesh

  Meeting soft flesh, content in their small field.

  Content to live not knowing what light is.

  Further along the track lies the village,

  A rough collection of wooden buildings

  Looking fragile, like they might blow over

  In a strong breeze; like they’re made of paper.

  There’s noise coming from what looks like a church,

  So I pocket the torch and step inside,

  Join the congregation of mourning folk

  Dressed in black and gathered round a statue.

  Their idol of Phos is carved out of wood,

  And while not as bright as the one in Vox,

  There’s still something shining behind His head,

  Extending His lengthy jagged shadow.

  I’m expecting a coffin, someone dead,

  But there’s no such thing. Beneath Phos’s feet

  Is an ugly-looking piece of blown glass,

  Blackened around the edges, slightly cracked.

  ‘You’re new in town?’ says a guy, approaching.

  He’s speaking softly so no one’s disturbed.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask him, whispering.

  With a gesture, he leads me back outside.

  He’s short, round like he’s eaten a few meals,

  Wisps of grey hair uncoiling in the wind.

  The sign of Phos is pinned to his jacket.

  ‘I’m Pastor Michael. You’re from the city?’

  ‘Sure am,’ I say. ‘What’s going on in there?’

  His eyes don’t meet mine. They rest on my scar.

  ‘We’re a simple folk out here, sir,’ he says.

  ‘We mourn the loss of our best filament.’

  I suppose I really should have figured.

  They mustn’t get too much light in Manus,

  So far removed from Vox, it’s an event

  When a bulb dies. No easy replacement.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name?’

  Michael’s suspicious, which is fair enough.

  Guess they don’t get too many visitors.

  ‘Detective Inspector Yorke,’ I tell him.

  ‘Welcome to my village, Inspector Yorke.

  Welcome. But, if you don’t mind me asking,

  What brings you all the way out to Manus?’

  I ignite a cigarette and inhale.

  I explain I’m here to look at the wreck,

  The ruins of Cancer, and he reacts,

  Says, ‘I thought we were done with all of that?’

  Over the wail of someone from inside.

  ‘All of what?’ ‘Listen. We’re a quiet lot.

  We just want to be left alone, all right?

  Can’t you understand that?’ I shake my head.

  ‘You’re gonna have to bring me up to speed.’

  ‘So you’re not with the University?’

  ‘I’m not.’ He takes a while to weigh me up,

  Caught in the slender strip of leaking light

  From a crack in the door of the small church.

  He sighs, at last. ‘Got a spare cigarette?’

  ‘You smoke?’ ‘Not very often, inspector.’

  Leaning his head, he lets me ignite his,

  White smoke drifting from between his fingers.

  ‘They came a few months back. A noisy crowd

  Of students and academics, big cars

  And bright lights, unloaded from the railroad,

  Disturbing the cattle and crushing crops.

  ‘It took them another three months to leave,

  And we’re still repairing the mess they made.

  Of course they threw round plenty of money,

  But the people here don’t care much for that.’

  ‘What were they doing?’ I ask. ‘I’m not sure.

  Something to do with the ruins, I think.’

  ‘It sounds like a kind of expedition.’

  ‘I’d say so, but I didn’t ask questions.’

  Vivian must have arrived with that team,

  Which would explain her photos well enough.

  ‘I need to see the ruins,’ I tell him.

  ‘But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

  I stamp the stub of my cigarette out.

  ‘There’s been a murder,’ I say, ‘a young girl,’

  And as I do, people start streaming out,

  Their service complete, and Michael moves off.

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ he tells me, ‘in a while,’

  And starts shaking hands, offering comfort.

  People stare or glare at me as they leave,

  Like I’m here to smash bulbs and scare cattle.

  I take the time to ignite a new smoke

  And watch them huddle, vanish in the dark.

  Leaning back against the church, I wonder

  Again about the colourful photo.

  It’s occupied my thoughts for a while now:

  That reflection I still can’t make sense of.

  I realise, leaning there, a big part

  Of why I came here is to look for it.

  Maybe up close I’ll be able to see

  Properly what it is, what Mrs North

  Called a sun rising. I know part of me

  Wants to find the reflection, prove her wrong,

  But I think that I want her to be right.

  I want there to be a place where the sun

  Can make a sky blue, an ocean sparkle.

  Where a sun can rise, and be made of light.

  ***

  When I was young, my father would take us

  On trips outside the city, to visit

  My grandparents where they lived, in the dark

  Outskirts of one of the coastal port towns.

  We’d skim flat stones across the black ocean,

  Eat by the light of my grandfather’s lamp,

  That singular, yellowed, ancient beacon,

  And listen to him telling his stories.

  He’d tell us about lighter times in Vox,

  When batteries and bulbs were plentiful

  And houses had windows because the streets

  Were all lit up by the brightest street lamps.

  He’d tell us about the time Taurus failed,

  Vox’s fourth Heart drained of its great power

  All at once one cycle, core turning black

  And ruining the Taurus family.

  He’d tell us about faraway places;

  Cities where red lights are hailed as lucky,

  Entire countries living in total dark,

  Types of insects with tails that hum and glow.

  You could see the love in my father’s face,

  His appreciation for his parents,

  For my grandfather’s experiences;

  His ability to tell a tall tale.

  I hated every moment being there,

  Repelled by the suffocating darkness
>
  They always seemed comfortable living in.

  I never understood their happiness.

  ***

  Pastor Michael drives in total darkness,

  His car rattling, shaking and jarring me

  As it meets potholes in the earthen track.

  I have to brace myself to keep stable.

  ***

  Pastor Michael lights an ancient lantern

  That looks like it’s been made out of pieces

  Of a dozen different lanterns, repaired

  So many times it’s been turned to patchwork.

  ‘You’re gonna have to be careful,’ he says,

  Guiding me the rest of the way on foot

  Along a muddy track between gnarled trees,

  All snarls of branches trying to snag me.

  ‘The wreck’s half sunk into the bog,’ he says,

  Stepping careful over a fallen log

  And helping me across it with a hand.

  My boots are starting to fill with water.

  ‘When they came, they cleared the track out, but now

  It looks like the swamp’s nearly reclaimed it.

  There’s a damn good reason the salvage teams

  Tend to avoid Cancer: too dangerous.’

  The trees get closer as we get deeper,

  Wading through smaller pools of still water,

  White leaves glinting moisture, the sky covered,

  Until the track is difficult to find.

  Still, the pastor knows his way well enough,

  Helping me over the worst of the tracks

  And before too long, he tells us we’re here,

  That we’re at the ruins: Cancer’s ruins.

  There’s nothing obvious that I can see.

  I was expecting a big jagged shape,

  Maybe something resembling a huge boat

  Resting on a shore, but there’s nothing here.

  Michael has to show me, lantern swinging,

  The wide entrance like a cave, half buried

  In mud and grown over by trees and vines.

  ‘I can wait, if you like,’ he says to me.

  I tell him that it’s a good idea

  And offer him a cigarette in thanks.

  He takes it and holds it protectively,

  Like it might grow legs and run off somehow.

  I light Santiago’s borrowed torch

  And nearly trip over a thick cable

  Snaking into the wreck by the entrance.

  It looks new. ‘What’s that?’ I ask the pastor.

  Michael shrugs. ‘Power line from the railroad?

  I remember they were having trouble

  Getting it stable. Power comes and goes

  In Manus. Probably the same out here.’

  ‘It gives me something to follow, at least.’

  ‘Sure. Try not to take too long, inspector.’

  I nod my thanks and, ducking my head low,

  I head inside, tailing the black cable.

  The corridor I head down is a mess

  Of rust, dripping, busted pipes and thick mud.

  It’s hard to make out what this place looked like

  Before it was a half-buried ruin.

  The cable winds steadily on, deeper,

  Through narrow hallways and wider spaces,

  Past collapsed ceilings where roots have pushed through,

  Heavy locked metal doors and flooded rooms.

  The stench of the place is overwhelming,

  Earthen and rusted and rotten at once,

  And every few steps I disturb something,

  Cause the place to creak and groan eerily.

  Being here gives me the creeps, I admit.

  It feels cold, and I have to keep stopping

  To make certain it’s only me in here

  Trying to find what was being powered.

  The way the torch reflects sets me on edge,

  Glinting off water and light surfaces

  And casting weird shadows at odd angles,

  Making me confused, lost and uncertain.

  Despite my wariness, I get a sense

  Of the place as I go. It is a boat

  By the way it feels, all heavy sealed doors,

  Low-hanging metal pipes and compact rooms.

  I still have little sense of the boat’s scale,

  Beyond the fact that it must be massive.

  It’s at least twice the size of the biggest

  Shipping tanker that I can remember.

  Hard to believe how ancient this place is,

  That it could ever have travelled the stars.

  I guess it could just be another boat.

  Cancer might have been spinning me a tale.

  I realise that without the cable,

  I would be completely lost in the wreck.

  Each room looks the same as the last: a damp

  Collapse of parts and the swamp’s incursion.

  Yet, as I travel deeper in the dark,

  The ruins begin to get less ruined,

  Like I’m heading towards some untouched core,

  As of yet free of the bog’s influence.

  I turn a corner, following a twist

  In the cable’s trail and take a wrong step,

  Throwing me off-balance. Then, I’m falling,

  Sliding in the dark down a muddy slope.

  The torch follows me, whirling round madly

  And throwing my panicked shadow about

  Before crashing against something, crunching

  And fading out, leaving me in the black.

  I slide and roll, gathering fresh bruises,

  For what feels like a near eternity,

  And eventually come to a hard stop,

  Slammed against a metal wall, jarring me.

  I take a moment to breathe and calm down,

  But my blood’s thumping noisily in me

  And there’s a pain in my leg that won’t fade.

  Slowly, I manage to sit up, take stock.

  The torch is gone. I’m lost, without a glow.

  On the other hand, my leg’s not broken,

  Just twisted and bruised, causing needling pain.

  And, above everything else, I’m not dead.

  I have to laugh. Mostly for damn Cancer,

  Who seemed pretty convinced that I’m lucky.

  If anything, the past few cycles seem

  To be solid proof of the opposite.

  Here I am again, alone in the dark.

  No ghosts here, no match heads, nothing at all.

  Just good old Inspector Yorke, following

  Up on a case he was meant to forget.

  It’s one of those cycles that’s just so bad

  You have to laugh. It has to be a joke.

  Phos must be up there somewhere, tears rolling

  Down His star face in mirth at my fortune.

  At least I’ve still got some cigarettes left.

  I ignite one, inhale deep, feel my blood

  Begin to die down at last. I can hear

  The sounds of the wreck again, so quiet.

  Among them, there’s a sudden whirring noise

  And a small doorway becomes apparent,

  Lit up by some glow on the other side.

  I stop laughing at last and try to stand.

  It’s not much of a walk. I stumble through

  To a room that seems to sparkle brightly.

  The cigarette drops from my open mouth,

  Made forgotten. It’s a hell of a sight.

  Tiny lights flicker, like they’re uncertain

  Of themselves, and between them, dark mirrors

  Seem to glow, black but still emitting light.

  This… is the place. The place in the photos.

  I don’t know how the lights work. They’re tiny

  Bulbs, smaller than my finger, and they glow

  Brighter than any I’ve known back in Vox.

  More confusing still are the black mirrors
.

  There are words written on them, unstable

  And scrolling up, and they look almost like

  They’re writing themselves. I press my fingers

  Against the glass and wish I could read them.

  There’s a steady humming as I move round,

  Studying the mirrors and tiny bulbs,

  Trying to figure out what I should do.

  I understand none of what’s happening.

  Searching around in my muddied satchel,

  I dig the envelope out, slide pictures

  And try and compare them with the mirrors.

  Some of the same words are there. ‘Conversion’.

  And it’s that same word, over and over.

  ‘Conversion’, and ‘convert’, scrolling upwards,

  Being written by whatever machine

  It is controlling the lights and mirrors.

  I move on through the busy and wide room

  And there, like a dream, like it’s a mirage

  Is the mirror reflecting or glowing

  The image like no other. And by Phos…

  It’s flickering steadily, unstable,

  And I can’t look away, can’t comprehend

  The way the sparkling water is moving.

  And it is moving. The image… it moves.

  The sky in the image is red, blue, white,

  And so is the water, so is the sea,

  And in that sky the clouds are drifting white

  In swirls like smoke, trailing lazy, aimless.

  And there are some dark shapes whirling around

  That might be bats but bigger and broader,

  And there’s a yacht in the sea with white sails,

  Billowing massive in the gusting winds.

  The image is on a six-second loop

  And I realise I’ve memorised it,

  Staring wide-eyed, wide-mouthed at the moment

  Captured in the mirror and repeating.

  And now I know Cancer wasn’t lying,

  That this boat did sail the stars from a place

  Where light comes easy, where all is so bright,

  Because right there is an alien sun.

  I press my fingers to the glass, trying

  To feel the bright warmth of that fierce beacon,

  That brilliant moment captured in time,

  That sun. That bright sun. That bright sun rising.

  And as I do, just like I flicked a switch,

  The power fails and everything goes dark.

  The humming stops. The lights and mirrors die.

  But I haven’t forgotten what I saw.

  How could I forget that moving image?

  It’s scarred into me now, I can feel it,

  Just like I can feel the scar at my neck.

  In the dark, I wait, and I remember.

  ***

  Even though I still can’t breathe, and there’s blood

  Streaming down from my neck where the rope caught,