Metronome

by Oliver Langmead

  Planks of wood shudder and branches sprout from their edges in fast-forward. The crew are thrown about as those branches curl and cover themselves in leaves. I can hear the crew shouting, and the ticking of the engine faltering, and above it all a long howl from the Captain, hauling hard on levers, trying to save us.

  I try to reach, to grab Callister, but the vines are up to his waist. I can only watch as they crush tightly around him and he is awoken, eyes filled with surprise.

  The Metronome is tilting to starboard. More trees are spawning from the wood of her hull. I can hear gears groaning, and her ticking becoming an unpredictable thing. I skitter around sudden trunks, trying to find some balance between them, and run towards the Captain. She is snarling at the forest tearing her ship apart.

  ‘Will!’ calls someone, over the sound of the Metronome’s slow death.

  I see Delaware vaulting across sudden branches, until he meets me at the centre of the new forest. The deck tilts further beneath my feet as the scarred man thrusts something into my arms. I see that he has given me my violin case.

  ‘Delaware?’

  As the ticking of the Metronome begins to fail, I feel the scarred man pull something across my shoulders. ‘June’s still asleep! We didn’t wake her!’ he snarls, as he pulls me across to an empty patch of hull, where the railing has been pried free. ‘We’ve got to carry on, Will. We’ve got to stop her!’ Only at the edge of the ship do I realise what Delaware is doing. I have no time to put up a fight. There is no ticking now, only the ripping of the hull, the howling of the Captain and Delaware shouting unheard commands at me as he pulls something onto his own back.

  Then I am pushed.

  As I fall, I see the Metronome as it is wrecked. Trees have sprouted at every angle across her, and there is barely anything recognisable left of the clockwork skyship. It is green from bow to stern. The last trees pull apart the skyship’s guts, raining cogs and coils, gears and levers, but I can hear nothing more of its distress. I only hear the rushing winds as I plummet, and see the silhouette of Delaware as he makes to follow, ready to leap after me.

  He is stopped. The branch of a tree whips out and skewers him through the chest. The scarred man is awoken.

  Through my horror, something of Delaware’s commands comes back to me.

  The speed of my descent shakes at my arms, and though I am terrified, I reach across to the place at my shoulder, where there is a cord, and I pull hard. I catch a glimpse of white cords and canvas, and I am hauled hard suddenly upwards.

  Then, I am floating, as the parachute billows above me. Breathing heavily, I watch the waters below as they are sprinkled with glinting copper parts from the wreck of the Metronome.

  The Metronome is being destroyed in the same way that the Smog was, but I do not know how it is possible. I do not know how the Sleepwalker June is wrecking us. I do not know where she is. There are no other ships in the sky.

  The remains of the clockwork skyship hurtle past me. Somehow, Reid has steered her wild descent towards the shore of the island. And though the ship is nothing but green ruins, and though it ticks no more, the Metronome still meets the sand, drawing a long line through it, crashing to an ugly halt.

  The world is suddenly very quiet.

  It is then that I hit the water, the cords of the parachute winding themselves around me. I barely have time to take a breath as I am pulled under. The sea is warm, and I struggle to find air. There is only the confusion of the deep blue, and the canvas and cords of the parachute.

  No amount of kicking is getting me free. I realise that I am drowning, and if I do not save myself, I will wake up.

  Driftwood

  A moment of clarity.

  With my feet skimming the white tile floor of the swimming pool, I take stock of my surroundings. Teenagers dive and cannonball, wearing too little, and older folk swim lengths, dressed modestly. The sun glows across all their backs, tanned and pale, slender and overweight, athletic and flirtatious.

  Among them all, at the centre, as if she has been positioned there by divine hands, is Lily, caught in a pillar of sunlight.

  She pirouettes as if she is dancing in slow motion. Behind her the pool is a chaos of limbs and bubbles, but she is a picture of calm, as if she is the eye of a storm. Her suit is white with a small bow at the breast, and she is fascinated by the tiny bubbles rising from between her lips as she turns.

  She is completely absorbed in her moment, and I am completely absorbed in watching her, with the chlorine stinging my eyes, and my lungs complaining for oxygen.

  Her nails are painted white, and her arms are raised, fingers moving as if she might weave the sunlight. Then she rushes upwards all at once, dark hair streaming behind her. The girl in white is gone, and the moment is broken. I kick up from my dark corner of the pool.

  Gasping for breath, I break the surface.

  The ruins of the Metronome litter the waves of the bright sea around me, bobbing and colliding. The strings of the parachute are cutting into me in places, and I am bounced between waves, but I kick hard, keeping my head high. I breathe.

  Blinking enough to clear my vision, I spot the case of my violin as it too bobs to the surface nearby. I pull myself across to grab it. Then I kick and struggle, and haul myself through the sea towards a floating shard of the broken skyship’s hull.

  Grabbing on with one slippery hand, I take the time simply to catch my breath and get my bearings. The salty sea slaps my back, birds wheel overhead, the sun is warm and I am not certain about what just happened. I was drowning, tangled up in my parachute, but then… I was at the swimming pool where Lily loved to go in summer.

  I saved myself, somehow – with a fragment of a distant dream.

  I can see the island in the near distance, but I am given no time to judge how long it would take me to swim there. There is an enormous dark shape in the sea below me, rising fast.

  The creature narrowly avoids me as it comes to the surface. The surface of the sea domes, before bursting. It could be a whale, spewing its breath into the air, except that it is covered in irregular protrusions, and has hatches along its back all in a row.

  A submarine.

  I watch the froth of water as it slides from the submersible’s streamlined back, and see the silhouettes of crew as they haul hatches open and clamber to their feet. I bob as the sea ripples, struggling to keep hold of my raft. When the waters have stilled, a rope ladder is rolled into the sea, and I am called to climb it.

  I lope across, struggling against the weight of the parachute. Still tangled, I wearily clamber up the curved hull of the submarine. The hull is made of a kind of wood, flecked with salt stains and barnacles. Rough hands help me up the last rungs, hauling me to my feet and reaching around me with knives to cut the worst of the parachute away.

  I take deeper breaths, and were it not for the hands beneath my arms, I would collapse to my knees. I do not even have a voice to thank the folk that have offered me salvation from the sea.

  The figures around me are an unfamiliar gathering of rough-looking dreamers with dark rings beneath their eyes, and they seem jolly in the light of the sun, stretching their arms as if they have awoken from a lengthy sleep. They wear practical wools and carry the equipment submariners might – knives, and wrenches – but just like the crew of the Metronome, they are a motley lot, with no distinctive uniform.

  From somewhere behind them an unusual figure emerges. I try to step away, but I am the only one out on the narrow deck who seems surprised by its approach. It has to be a nightmare.

  It looks as if it is made of stone. It is the shape of a man, and the size of a man, but constructed out of rocks, as if a statue has come to life. It hauls itself completely free of the interior, and none of the crew run screaming, or seem even slightly perturbed. The rocky nightmare stretches itself in the light of day, a minor mountain come to life.

  When it laughs, it sounds like a rock-slide. ‘We caught ourselves a fish, mates!’ I find it difficul
t to determine the direction of the nightmare’s gaze, because its eyes are no more than two shallow reliefs, like empty sockets in a skull. ‘Welcome on board, little fish,’ it rumbles at me. The rocky nightmare thumps the wooden deck of the submarine with one of its oversized fists. ‘I’m told we’re to keep you for now. Our Captain wants a word with you before you wake. We’ll have no nonsense from you while you’re on our little boat, mind, or you’ll be answering to me.’

  I finally find my voice, and every word tastes of salt. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Dust, first mate aboard the Driftwood.’ The nightmare flexes its pebble fists, and they clatter like marbles in a bag. ‘Take him below,’ it says to the crew. ‘Put him with the other fish. The Captain will call for him when she’s ready.’

  *

  Beneath low ceilings I am led.

  The submarine’s corridors are made of trees. Their trunks are pressed together so tightly that there is no space between. The floor is a tangle of roots matted into a flat surface, and judging by the occasional green leaf dangling from an errant twig, these trees are still very much alive.

  It feels as if I am being led through some kind of peculiar secret garden.

  Eventually, I am brought to a room where there is a pair of barred wooden cells. My captors have allowed me to keep my sodden violin case, and I clutch at it as I am directed between the bamboo bars of the nearest cell. Within, there is a comfortable-looking bunk, and even a wooden bowl with a metal tap. I am told that should I feel hungry at all, I am only to call out and food will be brought. The tired-looking crewmen mutter happily to one another about the sunshine as they leave, locking the gate to my cell as they go.

  This room is much like the rest of the interior of the Driftwood: an airtight alcove. There are some wild red roses in my cell, lit up by a dull orange lamp, and beneath them is a thicket of thorny stems. It is a pretty sight.

  I sit down upon my bunk with a sigh. Placing my violin down beside me, I tug at the last strands of parachute cord still wound around my leg. While I pull ineffectively at it, I remember the look on Callister’s face when he saw what it was winding its way up his ankle, back on the Metronome. I recall his terror as he was awoken, and I feel a sharp pang of regret – that I could not help him, help any of them, or perhaps that I did not try hard enough.

  Glancing about, I find I am not alone. There is movement in the shadows of the far corner. Whoever is inside the other cell appears to have either broken or dimmed their lamp, obscuring them from sight. I squint, letting my eyes adjust, and when I realise who it is that I am seeing, I feel my eyes widen in surprise. Standing at the very back of that other cell is Slint.

  The dull metal of his helmet is covered in dings and dents. There is still that pool of utter blackness in the porthole of his helmet, but Slint looks wounded. With one heavy gauntlet, he is holding the fabric of his suit closed. There is a great long tear across his belly.

  I spend some time considering what to do.

  Eventually I manage to get the coil of white parachute cord free from around my leg. There is still a good length of it, and winding that length up around my wrist, I make a new coil. Then, I lean over the thicket at the edge of my cell and take the time to find the perfect thorn. The one I choose is wickedly sharp – a red hook – and there is enough roughness in its edge that I am able to tie the end of the parachute cord around it.

  With my labours complete, I hold my peace offering between my palms and wonder if it will have any effect at all.

  ‘Slint!’ I call, nervous about getting the dark nightmare’s attention. I throw the coil of cord across to his cell. For a small while there is no sign that he has seen what I have done. But then, as slowly as if he is moving through water, I watch the nightmare diver approach the coil and bow down so that he can pick it up.

  With that, he vanishes back to the far gloom of his wooden prison.

  In my own cell, I watch, and wait to be called up by the Driftwood’s Captain, considering if I am correct about her identity. I think about my friends as well: those members of the Metronome’s crew that must be awake now. I hope that their awakening was gentle. And as I continue musing upon my predicament, I find a small amount of relieved amusement in the idea that I have just presented a proverbial lion – thorn in its paw – with a literal thorn.

  *

  I am escorted through to what I am told is the submarine’s bridge.

  The room we emerge into is stunning. Not for the crew behind various instruments, or Dust the stone nightmare, who is steering, but for the display that encompasses the entire nose of the ship. It looks like a window. Or maybe a hundred windows, in a vast crystalline concave arrangement, as if we are standing inside the eye of an insect.

  The light in here is strange because the windows are uneven and flawed, and each gives a slightly distorted view. I approach in awe. As I get closer I see that each window is a large scarred block of glass, embedded together in a tight network of branches. The submarine bobs between the waves, and while the upper half of the windows show the blue sky and island, the lower half reveals the sandy depths below, where fish dart to and fro.

  Pieces of the Metronome clatter gently against the glass.

  ‘If you follow the coast shadow-wards from Babel, then you’ll eventually get to a city called Impetrus.’ I blink and turn to see June, who leans against a small desk beside me. Somehow I missed her. She is just as bright and wonderful to behold as the last time I saw her, wrapped up in luxurious yellow cloth and gold sequins, as if a shaft of sunlight has tumbled through one of the windows and come to life.

  She continues speaking. ‘It’s an old, old city. Mostly ruins. But some doors still show up there, because people are interested in it. It’s great for looking at what people used to dream about, a long time ago. It’s full of statues, just sitting or standing around, as if the whole city was turned to stone one night.

  ‘The stories say that it was ruled over by a benevolent nightmare king during the Nightmare Monarchies. A sort of gorgon, apparently, which makes sense. But according to that same story, the people of Impetrus loved their ruler. She was wise, powerful and peaceful, and the city prospered. That is, until Solomon came along, woke everybody up and killed their nightmare king.’

  June shakes her head sadly. Her gold-star earring swings and glitters. ‘One of the strange things about Impetrus is its beaches. Instead of sand, they’re made of marbles. Hundreds of thousands of marbles, clattering with every wave. And the way the marbles work, they vanish every time the waves cover them. It’s beautiful.

  ‘I got curious. I wanted to know where all the marbles came from. So I put together a team of nightmares and dreamers, and I built a submarine – the first version of the Driftwood, in fact – and we all went down together to see.

  ‘It was even better than I’d imagined. There’s another city out there, sunken beneath the waves. A city even older than Impetrus, and made completely out of glass. It’s in ruins, now. In fact, it’s been down there for so long that it’s mostly just marbles rounded by the tides. But here and there are some chunks of buildings. Maybe towers or maybe temples – it’s difficult to tell.’

  June stands before the Driftwood’s windows and presses her palm against one. ‘We took some samples with us. There aren’t any carvings or symbols on them, and they’re so worn and scratched by the sea that if there ever were any, they’re long gone. But we polished what pieces we had, until they were as clear as they once were, and I incorporated them into the nose of the Driftwood.

  ‘The point isn’t so that we can see outside, though. We’ve got periscopes for things like that. The point is that we’re looking through glass reclaimed from dreams maybe thousands of years old. Older than us. Older than anything any person can remember.’ She turns back to me, folding her arms and appraising me. ‘Remembered only by the sea.’

  I am unsure how to respond. Indeed, I believe that I should be very angry with June – for taking my notebook
, waking my friends and wrecking the Metronome, and for trying to do whatever it is she is trying to do here. But now that I am before her, I cannot find any rage inside myself. Perhaps it is the brilliant windows affecting me.

  ‘Hi, June,’ I say at last.

  ‘Hello, William,’ she replies. ‘I really didn’t expect to see you again. I certainly didn’t expect you to find your way to Babel. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, you know that? I’m telling you the truth when I say that I didn’t want to wake anybody tonight. But I had to. March is… tenacious. His whole line is. If they get an idea in their head, then they follow it to the edge of dreaming and a lot of people get hurt on the way.’ She sighs. ‘I am so sorry for every dreamer that I had to wake tonight. Worse, I’m sorry for all the nightmares that sacrificed themselves for me. I know you thought that getting March involved was good, William. But it wasn’t.’

  She returns to her desk, leaning against it and opening a drawer. She takes a familiar object and holds it out to me. Of course it is my notebook. I take it, but as I do, I notice the desk behind her, where there is another familiar object. Beside her own compass, which is a finely carved wooden affair, is March’s compass – salt-stained.

  It takes me longer than it should to realise how she has it. I remember it falling from March’s outstretched hand, tumbling away beneath us and in to the red sea below June’s fleet. And suddenly everything about that fight makes sense. I can imagine June here, stood before her incredible windows, conjuring life back into the wooden supports of the Smog.

  Our plan to find her was doomed from the start. We had assumed that she was on one of her stolen skyships, but she never was. She was below us the whole time.

  ‘Was it worth it?’ June asks.