Sombre

by S. B. Norton

  Wilder snorted and shook her head.

  “Now, I will have you know, my nag, that while you were on the table and not useful, said Mender, Hamish, shared a few new things about you and your makeup.” She patted Wilder’s neck. “Your skittishness needs to be nipped in the bud now. Apparently, previous Halliday’s didn’t allow this side of your psyche to show nearly as much as I do.”

  Hope’s Halliday cocked an ear and waited for the jibes. None came. “Ha! Ha!” She was well pleased with this. “For once, the Other’s must be asleep in their Other’s-boxes,

  “He also showed me a few trigger points on you that he would have thought I would have worked out for myself. And as much as I didn’t appreciate his smart-alecky-tone, these things do sound handy. They make you faster, Wilder, more instinctive. A zone-hopper! You are a tool I should be putting to greater use.”

  “Dopey Hope’s Halliday is finally talking about Wilder’s Inbred Reflexiveness.”

  “Ah, and there we have it. The Others’ finally come to ruin a perfectly good ride,” Halliday rued.

  “She hasn’t asked nearly enough questions of Hamish. He is a wealth of information, not to mention, quite easy on the eye. We used to speak for hours …” said another Other-self.

  “So, you used to waste the man’s time!” Halliday snapped defiantly.

  “Oh, what the jolly, bloody god of Sombre that man is! How we used to wistfully pass the time. What a relationship we once had!” piped another, Other.

  “I don’t believe any of you! The man’s far too-”

  About to try and engage in what would be a fruitless conversation with the four members of her psyche, Halliday faltered as she happened to look on ahead.

  “Stop, Wilder.”

  A very familiar, yet surprising figure was on foot on The Common Ground. She was confused. “Dave Bi-Plane?” she mouthed under her breath. “Where’s the man’s transport, Wilder? He’s just standing there. Take it slow, girl, he may have had a few too many ales at the Spleen’.”

  Goggles pulled up high over his forehead, the Gatherer stood with his arms down at his sides, legs evenly spread. He appeared to be watching Halliday on her approach, then she soon realized he wasn’t. The man seemed to be in a state of catatonia.

  “Dave Bi-Plane! Are you okay? What has brought you to The Common Ground?”

  He didn’t answer. Eyes glazed, mouth in a tight grimace, he continued to look past her. She wondered, was he waiting for something to happen? Something seemed very wrong.

  She dismounted Wilder and stepped toward the man with caution. Peering into his eyes, she sucked on her bottom lip. “Er, what are you on about, friend? Are you drunk?”

  She had a rather awkward question next, but thought it needed to be asked, she whispered, “Do you need to be taken to a toilet?”

  Suddenly she could hear ticking in Dave. It then filled her ears. She could feel her clock’s weight again, heavy in her chest.

  He continued to look through her. In a haunted tone, most unlike Dave, he finally spoke, “Halliday, I’ve met Ether.”

  “When?” Halliday said.

  He croaked, “Now.”

  His body proceeded to shake uncontrollably.

  “No Dave!” Halliday had an urge to hold him in a tight embrace - risk the unchartered territory. She reconsidered; a hand placed on the shoulder would have to suffice.

  “Calm down friend! Dave, listen to me! You need to get a hold of yourself! Uh! … Oh dear!”

  Her hand left his shoulder and she recoiled as his skin split bloody red at his hairline. She stepped back. The man’s goggles popped off almost comically.

  “Errrrrrrrrrr… Halliday!” he moaned.

  Dave’s cheeks began to split open in the same manner. He shut his eyes. The splitting crossed through his mouth and tore through his neck. Blood spattered her front. She heard his Beating Clockface crack under his aviator leather. His chest was expanding. The man was like some sort of shaking, overloaded generator.

  Genuinely frightened she yelled, “What is happening! Dave? Dave!”

  She turned and ran to her horse. “Wilder, I think he’s going to explode! Get back girl!”

  Halliday could only watch on stunned as Dave Bi-Plane burst open like a gore filled balloon, spraying bits and pieces of his everything, everywhere.

  The ticking stopped.

  S

  “This is Halliday Knight, please bring The Funneling. Quick! Gatherer down! Dave down!” she called out to Sombre’s Menders as she squatted and surveyed the mess. Dave Biplane was scattered all over The Common Ground; his torn limbs had been thrown like projectiles. His blood painted the rock walls.

  “What does this mean? I’ve never seen anything like it! Never!”

  She felt sick in her stomach as she eyed what remained intact of her comrades body; a limb-free torso sitting on a sideways lean with a smashed Beating Clock face, a bottom third of a head. His lower mandible sat proud upon his stump of a neck, like some sort of makeshift cranium-table. She found it terribly macabre and hard on her eyes.

  “Dave,” she uttered miserably and faced the other way. “The Mender’s are taking their fiddling time, aren’t they!”

  Her mare nuzzled her cheek, and Halliday sighed in resignation.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter how long they take, my Wilder. He’s all bits and pieces anyway.” The machanihorse snorted in agreeance. Halliday gave her a scratch under her chin.

  “I know. You like Dave as well don’t you … poor bleeding sod of a man. He saw Ether, Wilder. Did Ether do this? I’m sure Dave tried to say as much.”

  She hugged her arms. The air was icy. There was an unreal denseness to the chill, as if it were somehow solid.

  “A remnant of the scoundrel if ever there was one,” she stated feeling a mix of anger and wonder.

  A sudden shimmer of silver appeared ahead. The Funneling birthed the forms of three Menders: two males, one tall and one short, and a familiar female Mender. Halliday knew her as Janice.

  The three surveyed the scene. They all looked as lost as they should have with what was on offer.

  “He just exploded,” Halliday said hopelessly.

  “Hello Halliday,” Janice said giving her a judgmental glance. “Yes, we can see that. He’s causing a bit of trouble for us at the moment, is Dave Bi-Plane.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Halliday queried the Mender. Dave was generally one of the most solid Gatherer’s she knew of – in every sense. He was a veritable rock of a human. To even think that he was any sort of regular patient of The Mender’s was quite imaginary.

  The small but strong looking woman stood with her hands on her hips. With a pensive expression she watched on as her two male companions began bagging up as much of Dave as they could.

  “Halliday, this will be his second complete rebuild in as many days. Something is going on with him. He is out of control. He’s definitely pissed off someone. Ha! Or maybe even Sombre itself, who knows?” Janice nodded her head slowly as she watched the tall male Mender spray a liquid substance at the Dave-stained walls of The Common Ground. “But I can tell you, The Office of The Menders needs this sort of thing like it needs a bout of dysentery. Complete rebuilding just saps our resources.”

  “Oh,” Halliday said unhelpfully.

  “We’re about done here,” the mender shrugged and walked off. The conversation was over. “Hey, Geoff, you missed some!” Janice called out to the short male who dragged the bag of Dave. She bent down and picked up another small chunk of head and one solitary torn finger. Giving Halliday a nod, she stepped into The Funneling and disappeared. The silver shimmer warped sideways and was gone.

  A disillusioned Halliday stood with her machanihorse and gazed at the wet stains on the sandy gravel. Wilder nodded her head up and down. Halliday let go of her bridle. The mare went for a walk.

  “The man is so quietly proud of his stroke rate as well,” she pondered. “That will take him to four on his clock … more th
an mine.”

  She peered down at the body spatter on the front of her dress and shook her head. She pulled at the tough fabric. “Good god! I look like I’ve had some sort of surgical fit! Would have been nice of them to offer to clean a girl up - nasty sods! Wilder, we need to find us a water source.”

  Then, as they so often did, her hands went to her temples. She was called upon,

  “My nag, we have a job to do.”

  CHAPTER 27

  A Market, in Ginnifer West

  For some untold reason, having new work gave Halliday release. With her attire still stained red from her good friend’s exploding innards, she and Wilder hit The Byway with a vigor that felt like rebellion.

  “It is official, Wilder. This blasted, Ether, has definitely arrived in Sombre – and he has targeted the wonderful Dave Biplane!”

  She could feel bits of the man’s blood crusting on her face as it dried.

  “Dave is a proud fellow, exploding into bits is definitely not his style! This spook is powerful, that is for sure. To have that much control over Dave is as impressive as it is terrifying!” She went to lick her lips, then thought better of it. “Indeed, to somehow coerce Dave to get out of his plane and be on foot at all is an achievement in itself!”

  It suddenly occurred to her that maybe she was meant to see the eruption of her friend. It was a boastful display and far too coincidental. She recalled what Janice The Mender had told her.

  “Twice, Wilder. Ether has done this twice to Dave! My, my! This time I was around to see it!”

  A nicker of agreeance came from her mare. She pictured Dave’s face, his demeanour, before he blew apart. “The man was listless, Wilder! Beyond stupor!”

  It was turning into a lengthy run through of The Byway. A plethora of disturbing imagery from the nightmare world flashed by on both sides as they continued at high speed through Sombre’s never-ending thoroughfare; of monster, of machine, of manmade structure, the completely unreal.

  “Faster, my nag! We must be getting closer to this Ginnifer West.”

  With her patience at its wits end, Halliday finally had her entry. A chasm full of natural light appeared in The Byway wall.

  “My word, what a too-long journey that was!”

  Halliday and machanihorse burst into a sun-drenched valley of green. Far into the distance, hills rolled away lazily.

  A cloudless blue sky held a single dirigible, on its way to wherever. It looked slow, but Halliday knew this to be an illusion. Air travel was fast; and even faster in Sombre. Flames shot up to its eggshell coloured balloon in gassy explosions. She cocked her head to the left and read the black logo emblazoned on its sides, big and proud, ‘FEISTER’. Captain Andrew Feister. A fellow drinker. An absolute warbler of a man.

  “I’ve never noticed that boorish fellow’s balloon before, Wilder. It’s quite the impressive thing isn’t it?” Wilder slowed and Halliday watched it sail away on its slipstream. “Magnificently simplistic, aren’t they? Driver, basket, balloon … quite the wonder.

  “So, nag, where are we?” She focused ahead. “There seems to be not a lot out here. I think we forge ahead over that first hill and see, eh?”

  With a whoosh of fresh steam, Wilder took off in a trot across the secluded valley. Halliday smiled as she listened to the wet mechanics of her faithful transportation. Making quick work of it they scaled the first hill; they were then faced with a second. They pressed on. Halfway up, again, she felt the heaviness of her Beating Clock.

  The ticking from The Common Ground returned.

  “This is an interesting new thing, this ticking, isn’t it, my Wilder?” She drew a deep, tight breath and rubbed her hand along the glass face. “I don’t like this feeling at my chest though! Very uncomfortable!”

  Upon reaching the second hill’s peak, the two were finally rewarded with something other than grass. A large rustic looking pavilion. Stalls were set up on tables under its tin roof. Sellers stood in the shadows as market-goers perused their wares.

  “Ah, so this is more like it. But it’s all a bit odd isn’t it? Are we already in Ginnifer West? Is that little markety thing all there is? Is Ginnifer West just the markety thing?”

  Halliday steered Wilder toward the secluded market with practiced caution, but without any true concern.

  “Don’t people dream up all sorts of things, my Wilder? One can’t help but wonder what happened to the original Nightmarer of this one. How troubling can a common thrifty flea market be? And how has our new Nightmarer ended up here at all? Sometimes, the situations Sombre chooses baffle me to no end!”

  She waited for some advice from an Other-Self, but none came.

  She berated her mind invaders under her breath. “When they could be of use, they choose to be quiet. When I don’t need them, they hang around like blowflies on a bloody carcass! Shit’s of things they are …”

  She pulled on the rein. “Halt girl. Wait here, this shouldn’t take too long.”

  Halliday pulled the Remington as she dismounted. Wilder wandered off and pecked at some grass.

  On closer inspection, the market’s pavilion resembled a farm shed; the weathered tin roof, metal cross beams and posts. She passed sellers tables, all loaded with equal parts trash and treasure. It was all typically random: clothing to hand-tools, wristwatches to well used electricals.

  She actually spotted an old scuffed up saddle complete with just one threadbare stirrup. This made her laugh. “Oh, imagine that thing on my nag! She’d never forgive me!”

  The ticking was louder here. Her Beating Clock felt even heavier.

  Still perplexed as to how this was all a nightmare in any form whatsoever, she made her way to the market’s centre.

  Then it struck her.

  Where was the haggling and chat and barter? In fact, other than the incessant ticking, the whole place was silent.

  “What in Sombre does all this mean?” she said out loud.

  She walked over to a stall of grimy crockery and dusty looking magazines. The two customers looked up on her approach; a balding middle-aged man dressed in sports jacket and slacks, his wife in a white cardigan and a green ill-fitting short skirt.

  “Oh! In all the-!” Halliday recoiled. Their mouths were horribly cut up, open knife slits exposed bloody redness. The couple’s eyes were devoid of any expression, zombified, as if existing in body only. Choosing not to engage the couple, instead, she addressed the stall owner. A squat, grey haired woman knitting with black wool, sat hunched over in a foldup chair.

  “You there! Proprietor!”

  Peering up at Halliday, she continued to knit, her dark ringed eyes just as lifeless, mouth just as mutilated.

  “This place is absurd, woman! Who was it that ruined your mouths?”

  Why hadn’t she noticed the state of these people when she first entered? In a fruit and veg stall across the way, the rotund male owner stood staring at Halliday as if she were a ghost; his mouth a bleeding mess.

  “What is the meaning behind this mutilation?” Halliday turned to face the woman, who put down her knitting and stood up. She proceeded to unbutton her cardigan, revealing a large bleeding hole in her chest. A hole where her Beating Clock should have lived. “Oh no!” Halliday said dumbly and turned to the couple that were both showing her the holes in their chests as well, a bloody trail ran down their abdomens.

  A feeling of dread came over her.

  A woman’s laughter, echoed through the pavilion.

  The Nightmarer.

  A chill swept the market.

  She gulped as she saw the warm green hills outside turn to white ice.

  “What is this witchery!? Wilder!”

  Halliday turned to where she had entered, fearing the worst. She could see her mare’s rump; a flick of the tail told her the machanihorse seemed at ease. Halliday licked her lips and shivered. She had a job to do.

  Lifting the Remington to her shoulder, she went searching for the Nightmarer.

  S

  Wa
s this just what happened in Ginnifer West? Did everything flip on itself? Warm spring sunshine one minute switched to bitchingly cold winter the next? The mute citizens of the market wore cut-up mouths and holes in their chests? Halliday didn’t think so. She had never known Beating Clocks to ever come out of any citizen, ever! Well, barring the citizen’s demise.

  As she paced down each of the markets aisles, a pang of uncertainty hit her - she wondered if she might not be in Sombre at all. The ticking was unnerving; her Beating Clock seemed to be getting heavier. Her teeth chattered.

  There was movement at every stall, but it was robotic and laboured, slow hands sifted and sorted and perused the wares on each table. All were disengaged. She imagined in regular Sombre-circumstance, that these people would have turned on the Nightmarer in a joint marauding, pulling the unlucky sleeper apart limb from limb. That was how it always went in Sombre. Not this group of broken, dull-eyed, dopey dwellers, though. She couldn’t imagine these people able to do much more than scratch their noses. Where was the spirit?

  It had been cut out of them.

  Something had taken them over. Had taken over the whole of Ginnifer West.

  Another thing gnawed at her mind material. For some inexplicable reason, she recognised the cut-up mouths. She couldn’t put a finger on where she had seen it though.

  She flinched as the laughter came again, a woman’s. The Nightmarer was close.

  “I can’t see you!” Halliday said helplessly. Spinning around she got down low, eye fixed through the Remington’s sight. Would she even need to shoot? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything.

  “Damn this place!” she said and sniffed up the cold. Ginnifer West was getting the better of her. Sidling passed a large group of marketgoers; she saw more gaping holes, savagely cut through their backs to their fronts. This seemed a popular stall. Peering through shoulders, she realized with horror that this group were sorting through a table full of blood drenched Beating Clock’s. Long entrails and detached, Mender-wired apparatus, were sprawled all over the surface.

  She spoke out loud, “How can any of this be? It goes against every rule! How can these citizens be upright and living at all? They should all be floating in The River!”