Metronome

by Oliver Langmead

  ‘Then the second brother stood, and he did not bow, and he said, “I will not accept this gift, because I know of the war in heaven, and I believe that you are one of the fallen, come here to tempt me.” He too turned away and left the hillside and the angel and the chest full of gold. When both brothers stopped at the foot of the hill and turned back, the angel was gone and the chest full of gold was gone with him.

  ‘Now, both brothers led good and full and happy lives, but they never prospered. Their farms remained modest, and their families remained modest, and each winter was as much a struggle as the last. And as they both lived, each felt a gnawing of regret. They knew that the gold the angel had offered them would have allowed them to live comfortably for the rest of their days, and even live charitably, able to share their wealth with the less fortunate of the world. Thus ends the tale of the two brothers.’

  The air between me and the creature wearing Thyme’s face is now full of pieces of the Metronome. I watch in awe as the bulk of the wrecked skyship shudders from its resting place and gently falls apart, joining the maelstrom of floating parts, whirling slowly around as if gravity no longer applies to them. I clutch hold of Thyme’s sword with both hands.

  ‘Are you telling me that you’re an angel?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m telling you that you should learn to accept generosity where it is given.’

  ‘Give me a name at least. Something to call you.’

  The tangled brass shaft first raised begins to unravel itself as if it is made of string instead of metal. Cogs and coils coalesce around that central piece, unbending and repairing themselves as they do. I am reminded of those books I would read as a child, filled with the cross-sections of various mechanisms.

  ‘Do you know what the word “Satan” means?’ asks the creature wearing Thyme’s face.

  ‘I know it means “Adversary” in Hebrew.’

  ‘I am a voice of dissent in a universe designed to affirm its creator. As such, you may call me Satan. However, I do have six siblings also named Satan, and if you would like to avoid confusion, then I suggest that you might instead wish to use my title. Solomon and his followers used to call me The Magician because I was the greatest liar they ever met. You may call me The Magician as well, if you like. That name belongs to me and me alone.’

  As the Metronome begins to come together, reforming in the air before us, I wonder if I really am stood before a piece of God. I wonder if this is one of His nightmares. Perhaps I should be falling to my knees in worship of this absurdly powerful being with his casual God-like powers, just as June would. Instead, I stand my ground and try to avoid the floating pieces of the clockwork skyship as it is repaired.

  The creature calling himself The Magician brings his hands together, and so too the skyship comes together. ‘Generosity,’ he says. ‘I will be generous. Your time will come soon. I will see to it that you are well rewarded.’ The last pieces of the Metronome fall into place, the golden feathers of the phoenix figurehead smoothing themselves over. She looks complete again. With the triumphant flourish of both of his hands, The Magician bids her to tick.

  It is such a wonderful sound.

  ‘One more thing…’ I say.

  The Magician turns to me. ‘I do not mean to linger here. Your friends have earned a lot from me, but they have not earned an audience. This privilege is for you alone.’

  ‘Could you remove the storm for them?’

  Solomon’s Storm rages still in the distance, a great black ring around the sea, brightly flaring where lightning flickers. ‘Yes,’ says The Magician, still smiling his benevolent smile, and I consider just how genuine that smile really is. Maybe this is some old god of liars. With the wave of his hands, as if he is some parlour magician performing a trick, Solomon’s Storm begins to dissipate, revealing an endless blue beyond. ‘Fair skies all the way back to the Golden Gate.’

  I am still very uncertain about The Magician, but I am glad for Reid and Slint.

  ‘Now,’ he says, ‘for your reward.’

  This time, instead of gesturing at the sea or the Metronome, he gestures at me, as if he is casting some conjuration upon me. And the world shifts around me again.

  *

  When I regain my senses I am standing along a cobbled lane.

  Before me is the mouth of the Firth of Forth, where it yawns widely and becomes the sea. The buildings around me are tall and close, and the sky seems low, as if at any moment it might rain. I wander along the lane, feeling as if I should abandon the sword I am carrying, because just ahead of me are Leith Docks, and I rather think that the medieval weapon feels a bit out of place this far north of Edinburgh Castle.

  Where the lane widens out it becomes clear why everything around me seems so damned familiar, and I feel a welling of excitement within me. Further along the docks, beside a wooden bus stop, a broken-down double-decker bus flounders, grey smoke rising from its exposed engine. Men stand around it, leaning the engine grille against its flank and pressing their hats to their chests as if they are in mourning for the dead vehicle. I was on that bus, barely able to sit still. I remember it breaking down. In fact, I know every detail of this day, close to sixty years ago.

  It will rain soon.

  Standing at the edge of a jetty, divided from the Firth of Forth by a low chain, stands The Magician. He is still wearing Thyme’s pointed face, but instead of armour he has instead donned an ill-fitting brown suit, perhaps one size too large. The Magician beholds the Forth estuary and tugs thoughtfully at his beard.

  ‘How did you…?’ I feel breathless with excitement.

  ‘This is your dream,’ says The Magician. ‘This is my gift to you.’

  ‘But… how…?’

  ‘Sweet dreams for as long as you live. This is your reward.’ He turns to me and reaches up to my head. I flinch, startled by the sudden movement, until he reveals that his empty hand is no longer empty. From behind my ear, he has conjured up a small green velvet box, which he holds out to me. ‘You’re going to need this,’ he says. My joyous reaction triggers laughter; his great smile returns.

  I give The Magician Thyme’s sword, and in return I accept the green box.

  ‘You should get going,’ he says, holding the dull blade at his side. ‘She’s waiting for you.’

  I want to run, like I did that day. I want to go and relive every moment of what happens next. I clutch tightly at the small green box, and remember how I held it so tightly that the lid cracked at the corner. I step from foot to foot, ready to dash back up the cobbled lane and through the streets of Leith. But I hesitate.

  ‘What will you do,’ I ask The Magician, ‘now that you’re free?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I need to resume the work that Solomon interrupted. It has been a long time, and I have a lot to do. But don’t worry about me. Go on. Go to her. You’ve earned this.’ He nods at the cobbled lane, and the static storm in both of his eyes flickers madly. It is enough to send me on my way.

  Helplessly grinning from ear to ear, I hasten back across the road, and up to the first tall buildings there.

  At the point where I will lose sight of The Magician, I stop and turn to see him one last time. He has his back to me, observing the river. He brings Thyme’s sword up before himself, and in the same manner as a street magician, flicks it through the air, causing it to transform miraculously. Instead of a sword, he now holds a long wooden flute, which he brings up to his mouth.

  I hear the song he plays. It is the fourth from the sequence that led us to Solomon’s Eye. A pretty, dancing piece, with enough rhythm to make even the most stalwart tap their foot along.

  I rush through Leith, running with all the flightiness and swiftness that I can muster, pushed along by my joy. Strangers move aside to let me through, shouting at me to slow down, and friends laugh to see me, so red-faced and determined, and they call at me to run faster, because they know what this day means. Uphill I go, until the lanes become streets and the crowds get thicker. The beating of my
heart in my ears is almost enough to drown out the song. But still the song persists, impossibly through Edinburgh, following me. No matter how far from Leith Docks I run, I can still hear The Magician’s flute.

  At last I reach my destination. Leading off from a highway at the very south end of Leith, where it very well may just be central Edinburgh, is a small side-street. At its entrance I wait for a moment, listening to The Magician’s music. The song is long and jolly, and it drifts through Edinburgh and my thoughts, causing me one last moment of doubt. I reach for March’s compass, where it is still wrapped up in my pocket. But I change my mind. I know what waits ahead of me, and I will not miss it. I will return March’s compass another night. And with that thought, I carry on, catching my breath and strolling down the street.

  It begins to rain, at last.

  At the end of the street, two storeys up, I can see that Lily has opened the windows of our new living room wide. White curtains billow in the winds as they pick up, and the first of the rains patter against the glass. As I approach the song slowly changes. Instead of a flute, it is being sung, drifting out from that open window. My steps become shorter as I listen, entranced – until the flute is gone altogether, and there is only Lily’s voice, singing the song wordlessly as she paints our living room white.

  I use my new key to open the stairwell and head up, taking my time now – enjoying Lily’s song. Quietly, I open the front door to our flat, and close it behind myself, doing my best not to interrupt her. I slip through the hallway, shaking the rain from my hair, and feeling just as nervous as I did back then, fumbling clumsily at the green box between my fingers as if it is a puzzle I am unable to solve.

  Then I see her. She is halfway up a stepladder, wearing overalls coated with just as much paint as the walls, and her hands and fingers, and the brush she is holding, are all white as well. I admire her for as long as it takes her to notice me. When she does, her song fades, and she smiles her sly slip of a smile for me. She steps down from the ladder – perhaps sensing my nerves, wondering what it is that has me so excited.

  Strange, how difficult it can be simply to kneel at a time like this, as if I have forgotten how to operate my legs, but somehow I manage. On one knee, I raise the green box and open it towards her, feeling so overwhelmed by nerves and love and joy that I forget that I am dreaming. I forget that this has happened before. I forget everything except for the moment – the wonderful, beautiful, moment – and I live it again.

  The dream is long and sweet, and it lasts for as long as it lasts.

  Keep in touch

  “Everything has to come to an end, sometime.”

  L. Frank Baum, The Marvelous Land of Oz

  Just not right now.

  We hope you enjoyed this book from Unsung Stories. If you did you can join our mailing list to get the latest news at www.unsungstories.co.uk/keepintouch.

  If you've got something to tell us we'd love to hear from you too. Get in touch at info@unsungstories.co.uk. We like jokes, pictures of freaky animals and eye-burstingly good stories. We like lots of other things too, surprise us.