by SJ Davis
Seeking freedom from his captive curse
Her steely grey eyes, moistened with tears,
Shone in the dark beneath the dimly lit streets
Unaware of her destination,
Knowing the decision was not hers;
Rain had deserted the streets
Leaving her alone on this unknown journey
The immense, gas-lit clock face,
Watchful of her every step
The familiar grind of cogs
Metal on metal machinery,
At one time, their safe coven,
Soothing the ache that had been placed in her heart
The pulse of each tick-tock, in sync with her every breath
His death placed blackness in her soul
Darkening her wings, now
Too heavy to fly.
The Ticker
Beth W. Patterson
“If I had my life to live over again, I’d be a plumber.” – Albert Einstein
Sunlight. Greenery. That’s all that floods my senses.
I blink several times, and recognition of my surroundings gradually seeps in. As well it should. This is the most cherished place in my soul—my great-grandmother’s estate in the town of Wofford. The glass globes, in soft rainbow colors and containing cold fire lanterns, flicker everywhere. The same familiar flickering I have always loved, like friendly sprites beckoning. The richly designed mahogany furniture, the velvet loveseats and settees, and the cheerful steam-powered butler who has never once broken down— all of these are imprinted upon me as indelibly as the first living thing to a newly hatched chick. The palatial rooms adorned with family relics, assorted trophies, and luxury trappings. The silver daguerreotype portraits on the walls, with their nearly three-dimensional illusion of space, as if I could step into them and be with the rest of my family again. But now, we are only two: my great-grandmother and me.
My progenitor, Ma Sweet, sleeps soundly in the high-backed chair beside my own. The ornate well-oiled wheels and fragile glass vials that carefully measure her medicine drip are designed to blend in with the regal aura of the house. Her head held high, hands delicately folded, legs crossed like graceful willow branches, she merely appears lost in thought. She looks so beautiful, and not just for a woman of a hundred and fifty years of age. Her elegance is timeless.
We have a peaceful coexistence and enjoy a quiet companionship, with her on artificial life support and me on artificial emotional support. Since they passed the Umbrage Law, all people have become entitled to the pursuit of relief and highest quality life experience, so long as they can afford it. This cuts down on things that the society does not want to be publicly seen: the suicidal, the rebellious, the frail, the sick, the distressed, and the insane—in short, imperfections. We tend to ourselves behind the enclosures of the premises, a pair of ladies in waiting assisted by machines. This suits me just fine. When we are both awake, she tells me of the Old Ways from her youth. Silent Film. Telegraphy. Horse racing. Art. Honest labor.
I stare into the verdant landscape through the grid of diamond-shaped windows carefully set into the beloved mansion’s stone walls an arm-span thick. A flash of color out of the corner of my eye distracts me. At first, I think it may be a cardinal, but then recall that cardinals are red, not bright pink. Perhaps someone is tending the hydrangeas, a living person outside.
Could it be him? Suddenly panicked, I have just enough time to reach for the key hanging from the silken cord around my neck before the first waves of heartbreak return. I plunge the key like a dagger into the keyhole that has been surgically installed into my sternum, close to my heart. With a violent twist, I snap the floodgates open and the medicine comes trickling in, the ornate brass pistons in my chair softly chugging, a mechanical lullaby of morphine and simplicity. Relief is the only thing I feel before all sensations, both physical and emotional, fade like ghosts at daybreak, and I fall back into my painless reverie.
The grass felt so strange beneath my feet. I hadn’t walked anywhere without shoes in years, but this place was as much mine as it was the rest of my family’s, and I hardly thought that this simple act would be considered indecent, especially with no witnesses about. The summer sage was in full bloom, the zinnias displayed an outrageous array of colors, and the wisteria vines drunkenly lounging from the gables smelled sweet. I needed to touch real earth for a spell, to see these flowers before the automatic harvester rolled up the track to gather them with its precise iron gears, place them on the conveyor belt, and tuck them into the niches of the walls in every room. I did love having fresh flowers springing from the walls daily without any thought to replacing them—one of the little luxuries I enjoyed trying to take for granted. But, just for a sweet moment, these plants were one with the earth . . .
His voice surprised me, as it always did. If I were able get out of my own head and look around, I would have noticed him approaching. With a powerful build and a sad, gentle smile, he reminded me of the sturdy draught horses I used to see in picture books. His eyes were the palest aquamarine, or perhaps blue quartz. Quartz ran so many of our more advanced machines, as his gaze ran my thoughts now. I reached for him, heart suddenly racing, thinking that there might be some life left in this ticker yet . . .
I shake myself. I cannot escape memories of The Gardener, even in a drug-induced sleep. I dare not even use his real name anymore—even in my own thoughts—for fear that I will let it slip to the wrong people somehow. There is only one thing that will free my spirit. I take a chance, detach the gilded tubes from my medicine pumps and take a few wobbly steps from the parlor to the edge of stairs.
My only other solace is my craft, which is now looked down upon by the Conformists. Of course, the population believed what they were told to fear, and so condemned me. Without a trial, I was found guilty of treason, and only because I was highborn did they not burn me at the stake. My devastation upon hearing that my life’s work had come to an end was too upsetting for the public to witness, and I was confined in the event I should have a public meltdown. The choices they gave me were to either retire here to Wofford or to one of the institutions. Fortunately, I can still secretly practice my rituals in the private basement theater and remain in my heart what I once was: a distinguished opera singer.
I suppose, I could have whiled away my time living off of family assets or pursuing some meaningless pastime in the guise of an “occupation.” But training for the big stage had taught me much. I had prepared to go into battle with my fallacies exposed and my mind shielded. Until I came into my own, I learned to live on very little food, little sleep, little money, and almost no love whatsoever. For those few blessed hours onstage each night, I ruled a communal suspension of disbelief. I could convince the audience that I was a goddess, and in that process, I convinced myself of the same. Anything was possible, even if only for the duration of the performance. I was certain that nothing could ever break my heart.
Here in the empty hallowed hall, with no one to stop me, I feel like myself again. I light the candelabra and take a deep breath . . . I think I may have almost just smiled. My senses greet the wonderful musty smell of the armoire that holds my costumes like a loyal dog whose master has returned. Who shall I be this time? Violet lace and enormous bird wings suit me today. I crank the handle on the music machine, steel spools turn, and the ghosts of an orchestra played many years ago come to life through the giant daffodil-shaped speakers.
I fit myself into my harness that hoists me effortlessly into the air. Swooping over empty seats, soaring above an imaginary audience as if living on a prayer. Mechanical scenery moves behind me on brass gears, cranes, and pulleys, making stars and comets sail past, clouds drift, and firebirds bask in their final splendor. My whole body cavity fills with air and my throat unlocks. I am truly singing now: not the modest folk hymns in which dogma makes us bow to the cog. Now I channel the power of Tosca, Aida, Salomé, and Madame Butterfly . . .this was all once my domain, and I was the reigning queen. The
music slowly begins to wind down. I finish with an acrobatic flip and a few easier bars of the Queen of the Night aria, even though I am not a coloratura soprano. I have become rusty, but I am Farfisa Sweet, and I still have it. I press a button on my harness, and the crane sets me back down as gently as a doting parent.
Many hours later, I am back in my chair beside Ma Sweet’s cathedra. I am breathless and flushed, and in no need of medicine, but I dutifully hook myself back up to my life support. Once again, a child wanting a bedtime story, I beg her to regale me with more anecdotes of the Old Ways.
Ma Sweet tells me stories of a simpler time when music was played by people, mistakes and all. Mistakes were a good reminder that the source of entertainment was another human being—standing right before you!
“Why do you think human flaws became outlawed?” I ask her. “Not just with music, but with everything, such as the Umbrage Law?”
She sets down her needlepoint, an intricate medieval-looking tapestry of an airship flanked by a stern-faced sun and moon. She turns her gaze directly upon me, eyebrows arched knowingly. “We became this way,” she intones, “when we began to depend on immediate gratification. No room for error, no lapse of real time in communication. We lost tolerance for imperfection, and our immunity to waiting crumbled. Once we became slaves to the quick fix, we became as dependent on it as these mechanical contraptions around us need their steam. Technocracy has killed humanity!” She finishes her lecture in her own special style: with a defiant toss of her hair.
Her words hit their mark. Such dramatic irony, the Sweet family came into its fortune through my great grandfather’s labor-saving inventions. He had only wanted to use his innovations for greater good. The only difference was that, instead of steam, special crystals charged with highly concentrated thought energy had powered his creations. The monks at the now-deserted monastery had loved my great grandfather, and they had sent the purest thought vibrations into those crystals, giving them more power than any machine.
I recall the The Gardener concurring, “So accustomed to convenience are we that we have forgotten the most basic human functions.” He had humbly protested that he had no place among us, that he wasn’t educated. “I’m a simple man,” he often declared. Yet he contained a wisdom that we craved, an intuition and sweetness that any of my forbearers could have only dreamt of.
I never knew how old The Gardener was, but he had been with us ever since I could remember. For all that we were considered a minor aristocratic family, we opposed class segregation, and we often invited him to stay and visit when his work was finished. We loved to hear him speak. He was pure of heart, and he abhorred hypocrisy as much as we did. I knew little of his life outside of the work he did for us, but my family adored him, almost as dearly as if he were one of us.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” my mother would often say—and he certainly was. I still wonder to this day if she had been hinting for me to make a play for him in full defiance of society’s restrictions on interclass relationships, or simply because she loved him. But neither Ma Sweet, nor I, will ever know. My mother was an activist to the bone, and when the Conformists shot her down during a demonstration, our family was never again the same. One by one, the Sweet family line began to die, perhaps out of ruptured pride.
I cannot bear to think of these events anymore. With a turn of the key, I unlock the medicinal relief and the losses are gone from my mind.
He was carrying the most marvelous contrivance, but I was initially unimpressed. It appeared to be just an ordinary spyglass, albeit extremely large and heavy; it could have passed for a small telescope. I looked through it, but didn’t see anything more unusual than what I had seen from my grandfather’s observatory.
“It’s a very special device, from the far-away region of Oceanica, in the Southern Hemisphere,” he explained. “Like here, most of the people had to abandon their man-made music, but the oldest inhabitants, the Yidaki People, were much more clever and stubborn. They could fold these instruments up like spyglasses and carry them great distances, putting their true secret function to use signaling to other tribes, and the Conformists never caught on.” He unscrewed the lenses from each side, replacing the smaller end with a soft rubber mouthpiece. He licked his lips, pressed the contraption to his mouth, heaved his huge chest, and blew.
Such a sound can only be described as a deep belling of the eternal. It was the drone of a massive but gentle insect intended to live forever, a whale's soliloquy, a redwood's epic if mighty trees could sing. He incorporated his breathing into a sort of rhythm, taking the air through his nose as he simultaneously forces it out of his mouth with his cheeks. How he learned to play this ingenious adaptation of the ancient instrument, I did not know.
The drone held a pedal tone like the most sacred church organ, and an old technotheistic folk hymn came back to me. With no thought to protocol or fashion, I tilted my head back and sang:
“If no one played games of chances,
Life would be aught for a dream
If no one had played with nature
We would never harness steam
Power to the grand designers
By our works we reign supreme
Gears and pistons, cogs and boilers
We shall rise like so much steam . . .”
I gave a little twirl, and he caught me in his strong arms. He smelled of sunshine and cut grass. Slipping a bouquet of freshly cut hydrangeas into my hands, his pale eyes met mine as his rough fingers traced my lips . . .
Hands gently cupping my chin. I sigh contentedly and nuzzle those expert fingers. Then, I freeze—these are someone else’s fingers. My eyes snap open like the door on a cuckoo clock.
The concerned face of the Good Doctor swims into view. He has let himself in, since he has the keys to the dwellings of all of his patients. He permits me to self-medicate, but he is trying to convince me to do this less frequently. He believes that I can be restored to full emotional facilities within the safety of this haven. He doffs his stovepipe hat, sets it on the floor beside him, and begins to check our vital signs, first Ma Sweet’s and them my own.
He can’t be much older than I am, I realize. Since when were doctors my age? I seem to have lost sense of the passage of time. He clearly attempts to tame his unruly black curls and prominent muttonchops, but like me, he is too fixated on his work to make his appearance a priority.
He can tell that I have been in deep dreaming, and that I am in some sort of distress. I do not tell him about The Gardener. I never do. The Good Doctor will never know about the sacraments between us. Or how crushed I was at his sudden disappearance one day. Had he been taken away by the Conformists? Had something happened in his life, or did he even have a family? Was he trying to protect us?
He asks about my last episode of emotion. I only mention the haunted memories surrounding the fall of the family empire. With every visit, he asks about some detail or another about my former life. A time before human flaws were outlawed.
I shouldn't go so far as to say that my now obsolete job was banned outright. It simply became dangerously out of style. Demand for the new conquered supply of the old with such a tyrannical force, we will never again be the same. Those of us who practice the Old Ways are persecuted by civilians, and the authorities choose to turn a blind eye. Our kind is looked down upon as outdated—much as diseases that have vanished since modern cures were discovered—and our existence strikes fear that humankind will soon regress into the heart of the citizens. Brass amulets sporting a single cogwheel are supposed to ward off the bad luck of Old Ways: horses used as beasts of burden. Chess games. People playing music. Gardening. Plumbing. Philosophy. Construction. Prayer. Machines do all of these things in a far superior manner now.
When the Good Doctor listens, he sometimes takes notes. Mostly, he just sits and listens attentively. It almost appears as if he really cares about us.
"Farfisa, you don't have to be confined to this prison."
I hear this s
peech with every visit. I want to tell him that, on the contrary, I enjoy this luxurious hermitage, but he is riding an unstoppable wave of ethics and humanity.
“I have developed something as unique and special as you are,” he announces expectantly. He reaches into his bag and produces a box of polished oak, holding it reverently. "This can give you a higher quality of life than that chair you are strapped to."
He opens the lid with ritualistic solemnity. Shining against the sapphire-blue velvet lining, gleams what appears to be an oversized locket. I can't deny the beauty—burnished gold, adorned with some sort of alchemical symbols and inset with sparkling gems: amethysts, rose quartz, and opals. There is a stylized keyhole in the middle, the same size as the one set into my breastbone.
"It is a windup painkiller that can be surgically implanted to cover that unsightly keyhole and work in place of artificial emotional support. Instead of a morphine drip, it will deliver small, benign doses of an antidepressant, just enough to kill the emotional agitation. You will be able to go out in public again. You would have to wear a corset or a low-cut gown in order to access the windup key, so I have tried to make this invention as beautiful as possible. Others will find you not only acceptable, but also stunning and exotic with a gem that is a part of your very body. I will take you back to Fairlight City, where you stand a chance of reclaiming your career in the mutated music scene."
He looks so pleased with himself, I can't bear to not humor him. It's this willingness to please others that has gotten me into trouble in the past, but I see his hazel eyes sparkling like highly polished agate. His smile is honest, but his eyes are canny. I don’t know what’s in it for him, but I cannot resist the promise of an adventure, so I consent.
On the eve of my surgery, I relay this to my great-grandmother. She nods.
"You are wiser than I am, my child. I simply gave in to the new law, because I have to accept my fate with grace and dignity. I cannot do the things that I once loved, and so I am a prisoner of my longevity. I would pull the plug if I did not think it was wrong to do so. But you . . .there is hope for you yet. Even still, please be so very careful."