But it wasn’t just the light. Along the rim of the great rotating disk, black globes were inset. He had tried counting them once and he thought there were thirty, but he had started to feel nauseous and had to stop. They all seemed to be filled with inky fluid. Other than this liquid, maybe ten of the orbs appeared empty to him, but curled like a fetus in the majority of the spheres was an adult-sized figure. Monks of the temple, in some sort of meditative state? Dead monks of the temple, preserved like saints? They were obscure in the dark fluid, but sometimes Strand had the impression they were not all of the same race as the beings who presided over and apparently lived in the edifice.
Ghastly, and why should he or anybody have to be subjected to such a sight? But there was worse still. Much worse.
It was the sound its mechanism made as the clock face turned, if indeed it was a clock – that was the function Strand had guessed at, but he couldn’t even be sure of that. Whatever its purpose, as the glowing face with its ring of orbs rotated there was a continuous noise that sounded to him like gur…gur…gur…gur…gur. A mechanical throb like a deep heartbeat, the heartbeat of a titan automaton. A deep grating pulse that he felt resonate throughout his body when he lay in bed, as if it might hijack his own heartbeat.
Two-twenty in the morning now, and he had to rise at five to get ready for this new job of his that meant so much to him. But instead, here he was with an infected yellow-green light cast in his face, listening to that unending gur…gur…gur…gur…gur…
***
At six that evening, back in his apartment and humming with the stimulant pill and multiple cups of coffee in him, Strand again watched out his window as he called the local law enforcement precinct on his wristcomp. In the remaining daylight he could better make out the church’s over-elaborate detail, and open areas around the base and outer frame of the clock – open areas in the depths of which he caught sight of gears turning, pistons pumping. He tore his eyes away when the face of the person he had been directed to speak with appeared on his wristcomp’s tiny screen.
“Lieutenant Muhboor,” said the forcer, an indigenous human-like Choom with his ear-to-ear mouth held in stern lines. “What is your complaint, Mr. Strand?”
“Yes, I, uh, I live here on Steel Street across from a, uh, church I guess…with a clock on it…”
“The Groi Temple, yes.”
“Groi? Okay, well anyway, if you’re familiar with it, sir, then you’re no doubt aware of the loud noise the structure makes all day and night. Specifically, that huge turning dial or whatever it is on top.”
“Loud noise?”
“Well it’s loud if you’re up here on the same level and directly across from it, though I’m sure it can be heard in all the neighboring buildings.”
“I guess there’ve been some other complaints. Has this sound gotten louder, like the thing might need some repair? If so I’m sure the Groi will look into it.”
“No, sir, it’s the same all the time – this loud grinding throb that sounds like gur…gur…gur…gur…gur…”
Lieutenant Muhboor appeared to take in a long breath. “Mr. Strand – this is Punktown. It’s a colony city your own people established here as a melting pot for any benevolent race or sentient species to feel at home in, and conduct their lives and business in…and in which to practice their respective religions freely, without fear of repression.”
A nice speech, Strand thought; he was sourly impressed the forcer had remembered it from his cadet days. He forced himself to remain mild and reasonable in tone as he replied, “Yes sir, all of which I respect very much. However, while I’m expected to be tolerant of other people and their cultures, shouldn’t they also be considerate to those around them who aren’t the same as they? Shouldn’t that work both ways? I can understand the Groi need to follow their religion…but does that mean I have to be exposed to their beliefs to the extent that I can’t even sleep at night?”
“Mr. Strand,” the Choom sighed, “what would you have me do? Go over there and tell them to shut that thing off? Good luck getting even a court order to do that. Have you tried one of those little sound buffer machines?”
“No,” Strand admitted in a low grumble.
“Or maybe earplugs. But you know, it would be a lot easier for you to move to a new apartment than for them to move their temple, wouldn’t it?”
“I already moved into a new apartment, and I like it except for this. Why should I have to be subjected to this? It’s intrusive, it’s offensive – you said you’ve received complaints before – it’s just not fair! Whatever happened to disturbing the peace?”
“I told you, Mr. Strand. The spirit of Punktown is peace – peace through freedom. They’re free to practice their religion, and you’re free to not like it and get yourself another apartment.”
And this city’s over-abundance of criminals, Strand thought, are apparently free to run rampant while you sit here preaching to me. Spirit of peace my ass. But he didn’t vocalize this, and ended the call with an insincere thanks for the lieutenant’s time.
As he lowered his arm to which the wristcomp was strapped, Strand noticed that one of the birds nicknamed a pig-hen, abundant throughout the city, had alighted on a metal ledge below the giant spinning disc. It waddled along a few steps, its little tapir snout no doubt snuffling for insects. “Stay away from the guts of that thing,” he warned it under his breath. On his first week in his new apartment, he had seen a pig-hen fly into one of the recesses at the base of the clock, perhaps thinking it might provide a good shelter for the night. But the foolish animal had flown straight into shadowy gnashing gears, and Strand had seen a couple of metallic blue feathers spat out to drift and spiral down, down to the street.
He turned away with a muttered string of curses, and therefore didn’t see a thin white arm reach out from one of the glossy orbs on its downward pass and snatch hold of the bird, drawing it inside.
***
Strand emerged from his apartment building’s foyer into a bright warm morning with a touch of a cool breeze that might just invigorate him on the short walk to his workplace, and he had started along the sidewalk toward that destination when he spotted a row of four Groi standing on the opposite sidewalk in front of their temple. An impulse seized and redirected Strand then, and he turned left instead and found the nearest crosswalk, waiting for the light to indicate it was safe to cross the multiple lanes of Steel Street to its other side.
As he approached the Groi he snorted in distaste. He had seen less aesthetically pleasing races, and more than his share of mutants, but something about the physical demeanor of these people grated him. They were very tall, maybe seven feet, their bodies entirely covered in stiff black robes, and so they conveyed to him what he saw as an excess of pride. An arrogant pride. As though they felt they towered above all the other people walking by them, just as their metal temple towered over the street, casting the black stain of its shadow over the unknowing flow of traffic.
“Hello there,” he called to them as he approached, emboldened by his anger. The cool breeze was now less inviting, conveying as it did the smell of incense or the like, wafting out of the structure’s open front door – swirling tendrils of yellowish-green smoke with a scent like burning manure. So, now it was an assault on the nose as well?
The Groi did not turn their heads to acknowledge him, so he stopped directly in front of them. They loomed above him like black cones topped with hairless white heads with blank, flat fronts. All they possessed by way of features – in the very center of each leathery, wrinkled face – was a single puckered opening. Could they even see him, understand him? He spoke regardless.
“You should really do something about the noise your clock thingy makes up there, you know that? It’s so noisy I can’t get a decent night’s sleep! Can’t you enclose those open areas where the machinery shows through? That might cut down on it, you know?”
The second Groi from the left opened its eyes then. He’d never known th
ey had eyes before, seeing them from afar, and he hadn’t noticed them up close now – closed as they had been in the wrinkles of the faceless faces. They ringed the outside of the face like black marbles set in drying dough. Perhaps thirty of these tiny orbs altogether.
“You don’t hear that?” he persisted, hoping to get more of a reaction than the opening of one’s eyes. Even with eyes opened the entity was as inscrutable as the depths of a black ocean. High above them, distant but still heard over the sound of traffic: gur…gur…gur…gur…gur. “Do you think you could try to do something about it, before I lodge a formal complaint with the city?”
He saw the small puckered orifice in the center of the ring of eyes stretch open a little bit then. Though the other three didn’t open their eyes, their orifices widened as well. So they meant to speak at last?
They didn’t speak – issuing only one rumbling, short blat instead. A wet-sounding expulsion of air. The sound was synchronized, as were their movements as the four Groi then turned on unseen feet and filed back inside their temple at an unhurried pace.
“Fart in my face, huh? Huh, you smug momfucks?” Strand cried, actually quaking with fury. “Okay! Okay, then!”
***
Strand was only thirty-one and he swam at the gym every weekend. The gym also had an indoor rock climbing wall that he had used on occasion with a friend. He felt he was in good shape, and up for the mission he had set for himself.
He had waited until two in the morning. Punktown never slept, so this was about as quiet as it would get. He had dressed all in black, and he carried a spear. The spear was actually his shower rod, of lightweight but tough metal. As he traversed the street via the crosswalk, he tried to look as casual as a man dressed all in black and carrying a shower curtain rod could look.
He passed through an alley, around to the back of the temple where he couldn’t be seen from the street. He just hoped no one in neighboring buildings happened to look outside and witness his activities. One plus was that there were apparently no windows amidst all the brambles of detail in the ziggurat’s armored flanks.
It was these spines and spikes, and the fact that the structure was in fact a ziggurat, that made it possible for him to scale the side of the building without climbing gear. The rod; well, he had torn a long strip from an old towel and knotted both ends around the rod to form a carrying strap, so that he could sling it across his back like a soldier’s rifle.
The sound grew louder the higher he climbed. Gur…gur…gur…gur…gur…
He reached the ledge at the base of the clock fairly quickly, and with a minimum of exertion, considering the height he had ascended. It had helped that he didn’t suffer acrophobia. Smiling, proud of himself already, Strand said quietly, “I asked you nicely, didn’t I?”
His smile drained as he observed up close the yellow-greenish luminous face of the clock tower, that ring of black orbs turning counterclockwise. So near now, but he couldn’t really make out their contents any much better for that. Indistinct curled bodies, like fetuses pickled in alcohol.
He felt the rhythmic thud of the mechanism through the soles of his shoes now, passing up through his body. It only inspired him all the more. Strand approached the same opening he had seen the doomed pig-hen fly into that time, holding his lance out in front of him. Within the cavernous shadows he could just make out the turning of great gears. He steeled himself – then thrust.
The end of the shower rod slipped perfectly between two large, opposing teeth before they could mesh. They clamped down on his lance like the fangs of some hidden dragon that Strand had come to slay. The gears jammed with an abrupt metallic screech. Strand took several leaps backwards, afraid that the rod might be snapped at any second and he’d get half of it through his skull for his trouble. But he was grinning now, because it appeared to be holding. Grinning because the sound of the clock had finally stopped. The clock face no longer turned.
He had backed up beside one of the now stationary orbs, but he didn’t turn to look at it until movement at the periphery of his vision alerted him. By the time he did start to turn, a thin white arm had reached through the orb’s outer membrane and grasped his arm above the elbow. He cried out as the hand tugged him off balance.
Strand’s cry was cut off quickly, though, as his head passed through the liquid skin of the orb. A second later, the rest of him was dragged in as well.
Only a few moments later, the shower rod snapped and the dial resumed turning. Gur…gur…gur…gur…gur…
***
Sometimes he opened his eyes for a brief period, aroused from dreams. Often in his dreams he was a boy again at Punktown’s annual fair, riding on the ferris wheel. So happy, seeing the carnival all spread out below him, feeling the cool breeze flutter across his face. Smiling, elated, around and around and wishing this elation would never end.
Below and above him in the warm black sea were his brothers and sisters, of various very different races but peacefully united. There were some gaps remaining in their orbiting ring, but he had no doubt they would eventually be filled.
In all his adult life he had never cared to seek out religion, but now religion had found him. He didn’t know its name, but what did that matter?
A lullaby pulsed through the black sea, a deep comforting heartbeat, like a mother’s heard by a baby in the womb.
Strand smiled, then closed his eyes to return to sleep.
And a blissful sleep it was. In all his life, he had never slept so well.
THE HOLY BOWL
I don’t blame you for crying. I cried for days when I first came here myself. Don’t ask me how many days. As you can see it’s impossible to judge the passage of time here. I can’t even tell if it’s day or night. I don’t know how far from my cell the nearest window is. Sometimes when a guard comes to bring my food I can smell that his clothes are warm from the sun. So a window or maybe even a door can’t be far. Once I swear I saw a patch of sunlight still clinging to a guard’s shoulder before it faded away.
You should come to the bars so I can see you. It might give you a little comfort. I’m sorry for your situation whatever it is but I hate to confess I’m happy to have someone to talk to. I don’t know when I last spoke to someone other than the guards or the interrogators. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.
For some time I believed I might be the only prisoner in this place. Actually I believed that right up until I woke up and heard you in your cell. I never hear voices from other prisoners. If people other than me were being interrogated you’d expect to hear them cry out as I do. Or wail in their cells from the pain afterwards. I don’t hear other doors slamming above or below or around me except for one big metal door down the hall when someone comes to see me. I was blindfolded when they brought me to my cell. But if there were other men in the cells I passed I’m sure I would have heard them or even smelled them.
When my blindfold came off and I was left here I realized what an old place this is. You can see for yourself. They did take your blindfold off I’m sure. When you’re ready you’ll look around a bit. I can never see my reflection clearly but I can see enough of me to know I match the surroundings now. These surroundings surprised me when I saw the shape this place is in. I can’t see any windows or doors when I get right up to the bars like I am now but I can still see enough of the hallway and the vacant cells. Your cell in particular vexed me. It was so black and empty directly opposite my cell like an open grave waiting for me. Funny that they put you so close to me. It seems too considerate to give me company after the way they’ve treated me otherwise.
So you’ll know what to expect I can fill you in on things I’ve had to learn on my own. For instance they’ll only feed you once a day. It might be at the same time every day but to my body clock it doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes I think they skip a day or two. It’s always a thin greasy chicken broth and one piece of bread and a cup of water. The cup and the bowl the broth comes in are made from dented tin instead of glass
or ceramic that I might break to make a knife from. They don’t want me to hurt myself. That’s their job. They’ll probably kill me when they’re ready. I’m not sure about you because your crime might be different from mine. Not that I know what crime I’m here for.
This place is in a sad state. It looks diseased. You’ll see when you’re ready to come to the bars. In the cell to the left of yours big chunks of concrete have fallen from the ceiling. Water damage I guess. A pipe on an upper floor might have burst in the cold weather. And yes it gets even colder than this. It can get very hot as well. So hot you can’t even draw in a breath the air is so thick. I’ve experienced changing seasons but I can’t judge the passing of time from that because I think the heat comes on and off too. The furnace has to be as antiquated as the rest of this place. That is to say as much as I’ve seen of the rest of it. Which is only this bit of this hallway. The bars are rusted but they’re still solid enough. You’ll see the paint on the walls and ceiling is blistered and flakes of it have shed all over the floor. You can hear them crunching under the guards’ boots when they come clomping to take me to the interrogation room. And just so you know they always blindfold me when they take me to and from the interrogation room. Which by the way is in as much a state of decrepitude as this hallway and our cells. Even the tin cup and bowl they bring my daily or maybe daily meal in are all dented and dinged as if a thousand prisoners before me drank and ate from them. I wonder if their tears dropped into the cup and bowl as they drank and ate like mine have done. Maybe I’ve drunk and eaten the residue of the tears of a thousand men. It surely feels like I have.
Worship the Night Page 4