by Tara Basi
“A little less time than it took you to ask that question.”
“Really? You have the result?”
Prof does not answer. He is studying his little oblong box. Little by little, he begins to sway from side to side. Still no sound has he uttered. The swaying grows more pronounced and I worry Prof will fall. My worry quickly becomes a reality. Prof is toppling over and drops towards the floor like a felled bunk-bed-tower. His gaze throughout his decline is fixed on his small box, even when his hips and then shoulders strike the lushly carpeted floor. Only the cushioned covering can have saved him from injury.
“Prof, are you unwell?” I ask.
Still, he does not respond. I prod his temple with my sandaled foot, gently at first and then, when I receive no reaction, a little more forcefully. Finally, in desperation, I draw back my foot in a bid to administer a small therapeutic kick to the head. Before I can land the medicinal blow, Prof speaks.
“Unbelievable.”
“Can you confirm my existence? The matter is urgent.”
Prof struggles to his feet and throws himself into a chair as though he has engaged in a great exertion. Fortunately, he has mastered his Encounter gown and maintains a semblance of decency.
“This can’t be true. You’re the source of our great anomaly. You!”
“That is most interesting, and I take it my existence is confirmed. I should now like to depart. Can you please uncover the stairway?”
“You don’t understand. All of space-time is threatened. The multiverse fundamentals are drifting out of alignment.”
“It seemed to me, for a little while, that although you are an arrogant and insensitive individual, you at least possessed some modicum of sense. I see now that what sense you had has evaporated like the liquids in your beakers.”
“Listen, you must restore the constants. Resume it.”
“What? What must I resume?”
“They call it the Terrors. A stupid name if you ask me.”
“You know what the Terrors are? Tell me immediately.”
“You really don’t know?”
“Can I speak more clearly? I can no more comprehend the Terrors than your gibbering.”
“I don’t believe you. How can you not know? Very well, I’ll tell you and then you can’t deny what you’re doing.”
I find the stool I had used before and take my seat, dreading what I might be told but unable to stop myself from learning something of the Terrors which might make more sense than that they are an artform, as Marlon had insisted.
“When you sleep in Terror, you are the unique regulator of a multiverse fundamental force that exists above and beyond all realties. It is the force that regulates the brane.”
“My brain?”
“Not brain, brane, as in membrane.”
“The membrane of what exactly?”
“The membrane that births new universes and absorbs collapsed universes is dying. If it isn’t repaired, the membrane will eat itself along with all realities. Why did you do it? Is it because you’re getting on? Decided to take us all with you? That’s really selfish.”
“It is true I am an old woman who makes buttons and lives in bunk-bed-coffin number Seven. So, how is it possible that anything of what you have said can possibly relate to myself, even if your unlikely premise regarding the existence of the membrane, about which my boxes have no facts to relay, were true? And what is this force called?”
“Save your excuses and restore the balance.”
“I would like to know what this force is called which you believe I am controlling.”
“Gravity. Gravity is the only force that permeates the brane, and every universe, and binds it all together. You’re slowly weakening it. Reverse the process, embrace the Terrors, tonight!”
My boxes begin an explanation of gravity, which I find quite difficult to completely follow. A rumble of machinery and a change in the lighting alert me to the rising of the model and the opening of the stairs. A more detailed understanding of this fundamental force that is gravity will have to wait for another time. I lift my gown and make my exit.
Prof does not follow. He only shouts after me, “Damn you, woman! My Judgement is that you are a Gravity Meddler. Sleep in Terror, Seven at Two Past Five, before it’s too late, for all of our sakes!”
With his accusation chasing after me, I depart the little cube and stumble out into the vast workhouse. I pause outside the little cube door and wait for a moment for my eyes to adjust to the relative brightness after the dim lighting of Prof’s lair. Before I can see clearly, my other senses stridently warn me that all is not as I left it. I can hear a low murmuring from all sides, which was not evident before. The blistering heat of an open flame suggests a burner has moved closer to the small cube than I had previously noted. As my eyes begin to clear, I realise I am surrounded on all sides by legions of Prof’s academicals. They tower over me on tall poles, swaying in a menacing fashion, as if they might fall on me at any moment.
I fall back as if I have been struck a mighty blow and collide with Prof, who has followed me. In other circumstances, I would be mightily offended by his unwanted proximity. Now he is of little concern. I can hardly breathe; my lungs have filled with ice. I spin around and push Prof out of my way and ready myself for flight. I search in every direction for a path to freedom. There is none.
There are more academicals at ground level, clustered in groups and holding aloft roaring burners, with every flame tilted in my direction. Filling the space between the poles and groups of burner holders are more of the Prof’s boys, with raised fists or pointing with stabbing fingers in my direction. I keep spinning in desperation, snatching ever more ragged breaths, while scouring the encircling mob once more for a means of escape. Still, there is none.
My feet lose their hold and I collapse to the floor. There is nothing to be done. I wrap my arms around my knees and will my limbs and my heart to be calm.
“Have you no shame?” I shout at the throng. “Why do you wish to frighten an old button maker? What is it that you want? I am occupied by my appeal and cannot be delayed.”
The threatening throng are not shamed or calmed. The murmuring only increases in volume. And then I hear a cry that I feel in my bones. At first, it is only one or two individuals. Within seconds, the whole crowd is crying out the same words.
“Burn the witch! Burn her now! Burn the witch!”
It would be useless to protest or argue. None will hear me over the roar of these hateful people. I clap my hands to my ears and shut my eyes and wait for the flame.
“Are we savages, lonely goat herders, PPE graduates with dung for brains? No, we’re scientists! So, act like scientists.”
I open my eyes and look around. It is Prof who is speaking into his oblong contraption, which is greatly amplifying his voice. The savage cries slowly subside until there is only the usual background roar of the workhouse.
A single voice speaks out, “I wouldn’t mind a goat, for herding experiments, obviously.”
This is met by a general murmur of interest and approval.
“Shut up! We’re scientists, not veterinarians, not vigilantes. Think like scientists.”
The groups holding up flames start setting them down. The aggressive gesticulating has stopped. Many in the crowd are hanging their heads, no doubt in shame at their behaviour. I feel the strength returning to my limbs, and I begin to rise so that I can thank Prof and leave as quickly as possible.
Then, a new cry arises, at first from only a few, but within seconds the whole crowd is roaring, “Incinerate the specimen! Irradiate the specimen! Invalidate the specimen!” Their new chant is, again, accompanied by angry gestures and burners lifted to shoulder height.
A numbness renders my limbs useless and I am again slumped, unable to breathe and swinging my head wildly from side to side, wondering where the first blow might come from.
“Listen, you lot, this is not the way. Seven can’t escape her Judgements. Now le
t the old bag go. We’ve got experimenting to do.”
I am grateful for Prof’s intervention, if not his actual words. The raucous cacophony begins to subside. One lone voice cries, “Inseminate the specimen!”
“Pervert! All of you, get back to work.”
After this exchange, the enclosure of academicals begins to thin out as they drift away. I do not wait to thank Prof. As soon as a path to the exit clears, I climb gingerly to my feet and, ignoring stiffness and cramping pains, I hobble away as quickly as I can, past dispersing academicals, avoiding their burners and giant glassware, until I am outside and back in the comfort of the dark.
I lean against the metal wall and steady myself. I need time to assimilate everything that has happened. Why is there so much hatred of me? Little of what Prof accused me of seems very likely. I hope the undersized Zero has matured sufficiently to help me or the real Zero is waiting in my cave. My heart has been pummelled, slashed and strangled by this morning’s events. I doubt that it can survive many more blows.
The lights are waiting to take me away, through the dark and to my next appointment.
Chapter Seven – Whore
It is difficult to be certain, but I do not believe the lights are returning me home. I have been walking for many minutes, many more than it took to reach the giant metal building. My feet mechanically trudge on, but my heart lags behind, wary of facing any new shocks. The delay in returning to my cave weighs heavily and dampens the little spirit I have left. I want to confront Zero and demand an end to this qualification torment, even if my appeal is forfeit.
Out of the darkness springs a flickering brightness on an enormous scale. It reminds me of the sparks which fly when I burnish my metal buttons. The buttons making these sparks must be larger than my bunk-bed-tower. I cannot help but smile at the thought of button-making, even if it is not by my own hand.
After a few more minutes of walking, my destination is clear. The impossible structure that bursts out of the darkness is by far the largest that I have so far discovered on my journeys and is easily the most spectacular. It is made entirely of irregular glass sections of many hues. Each is as large as myself and is set in a web of dull metal to form a gigantic cylinder. The tube climbs so high into the gloom that it is almost lost to my sight. The structure would take many hours to circumnavigate. The glass tower throws out flashes and flickers of brightly coloured light in all directions, as if it houses a million candles. Perhaps it does. The fantastical, radiant column lifts my mood, a little.
The path takes me towards a monumental double door of mirrored glass. There is a figure standing at the entrance. At this distance, and compared to the scale of the door and the tower at its back, the individual looks tiny. As I draw closer I see that it is wearing an Encounter gown, one that I recognise. It is the gown of Zero’s messengers and, this time, it fits perfectly, without dragging or dripping. The buttons, which had previously peppered the gown, have multiplied to such an extent that, from hood to hem, not a bare piece of cloth remains anywhere. Zero, or his latest messenger, is very tall; my head only reaches as high as his chest.
“Zero, is it you inside?” I ask, more in hope than expectation that Zero has finally exhausted his supply of messengers.
“Ma, how’s things?”
I can only respond with a sigh. I do not have the time to waste on arguing about our relationship with this latest mother-fixated idiot.
“If you are really Zero and not another messenger, what of my appeal? Am I now qualified? My ability to continue is near exhausted.”
“Now don’t freak out, Ma. You’re nearly there and we’ve got the lolly now.”
“What freak? And why can it not be let out? I am nearly where? Speak plainly. I am exhausted and not at all happy.”
“Chill, Ma, last appointment coming up then we’re good to go, appeal-wise.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely, Ma.”
“Are you really Zero? Have you finally come?”
“Absolutely, Ma. I’m the man. Son of woman. Took a little while to grow up.”
I am too exhausted to do anything other than accept that this full-grown man inside a button-skinned gown is Zero. Perhaps he is more knowledgeable than his messengers. “Can you explain my situation? Who are the Marys? What are the Terrors? Are all the awful things I am accused of true?”
“Heavy stuff, Ma. Really deep. Hurts my head. Maybe appeal first then worry about that other stuff. Right? Cool?”
“No, I am not cool. This dreadful gown is extremely uncomfortable and I am constantly perspiring. So, am I to understand that you know absolutely nothing about the wider context of my predicament and can only advise me on my appeal?”
“Harsh! I’m picking up on stuff all the time. Just need a quiet moment to, ah, mull and … chill. After this next appointment, you can go home and rest a while, okay?”
I have no idea what a mull and chill are or what stuff Zero has to pick up. Perhaps papers related to the appeal? A return to the haven of my workhouse to rest and attend to my needs would be most welcome.
“Here.” Zero hands me a blue envelope.
I am somewhat cheered to hear that this is the last step in the appeals qualification process and also that it is still morning. Then I read the envelope’s contents:
Soulless appellants may not appeal. The appellant must be assessed by a qualified priest. An appointment for the assessment of the appellant has been arranged for precisely sometime soon.
Zero
“What is this gibberish? What does it mean, soulless? I am never soulless. The carers provide very sturdy leather sandals. And I demand to know at exactly what time my appointment is for.”
“It’s not that kind of soul, Ma. It’s kinda hard to explain. It’s sort of like the thing that makes you you, like. And he’s waiting for you inside. Don’t worry, you won’t be late.”
“My very essence is to be qualified? I have my button-making tools; that’s what defines me. And my bunk-bed-coffin. And my workhouse. Will that be enough to qualify me?”
“Right, exactly, so deep. Wobbles my brain something wicked. Best get on, Ma.”
I turn away from the incompetent Zero and push one leaf of the giant mirrored door as hard as I can, partly in frustration and because I assume such a large door will be difficult to move. I am mistaken. It swings open effortlessly, and I find myself stumbling forward and in great danger of falling over. I only manage to save myself by clutching at the rear of a long bench made of a sturdy polished wood. Steadying myself, I lift my head to study my surroundings. I cannot supress a gasp of amazement.
There is a countless number of arced benches arranged in ever-decreasing circles around a central feature. Rising from the back of the benches, at regular intervals, are tall, slim poles topped with thick, white candles burning brightly. From the ceiling, which is constructed from the same coloured glass as the circular walls, hangs an uncountable number of wooden wheels with heavy spokes, laden with spluttering candles. Some wheels swoop low, almost to head height; others are so far overhead that their details cannot be made out, and I happily imagine they are colourful buttons for giants. The candlelight that fills the air is soft and warm and their subtle scent is soothing. Narrow aisles dissect the encircling benches, and every aisle leads to the central feature. It is an enormous white t. The same t that adorns the Marys’ gowns.
Most surprisingly, the grand, beautiful space is entirely empty. Not a single seat is occupied. Or so I think. Familiar, harsh voices emanate from my left. It is the very Mary women of the t. Immediately, my shoulders rise and my fragile smile falls away. The hysterical harpies are sitting on the same circle of benches that I am holding onto for support, though they are some way off and they do not appear to have noticed me. With little expectation of the Marys making any sense, I decide to listen to their conversation, as I am desperate for any small enlightenment.
“Mary J, I am fecking done with all this lunacy, unless you sta
rt explaining what the feck is going on, and none of that babysitter bollocks.”
“Mary M, it’s hard. My mind gets all rubbery, so it does, when I get too close to the understanding.”
“Mary M, don’t be so hard on Mary J; she’s trying, so she is.”
“Mary B, and you, Mary C, you dumb feck, keep out of this. Mary J, you just spit it out right now or so help me I’m gonna have to chin you.”
“Mary M, violence never solved anything.”
“That’s where you’re so fecking wrong, Mary J. Violence solves lots of things. Enough of it solves them permanently, so it does, and I should know.”
“Mary M, what were we taught, now?”
“None of my cheeks are for turning, Mary J. Now, you gonna start talking or am I gonna have to give you a knuckle enema?”
“Alright, alright. I’ll try. Imagine there’s this—”
“Mary J, what’s all this imagining bollocks? Why can’t you just spit it out?”
“It doesn’t work like that. Do you want to know or not?”
“Feck’s sake, get on with it.”
“So, there’s this woman and twenty babies in a house.”
“Is it a nursery? Is that what it is?”
“No, they’re her kids.”
“Is that the IVF nonsense? I’ve heard about that. After the old IVF, a woman just has to catch sight of a dirty looking vegetable and she’s popping out babies like wind after a dodgy curry.”
“Yes, it’s the IVF.”
“Is that allowed, Mary J? Didn’t himself ban it along with the old immoral tugging?”
“That would be an ecumenical matter, which the likes of us can’t be doing with. Can I get on now?”
“Sure, I was just asking.”
“So, the woman puts a giant chip fryer on the stove and starts boiling up the oil for the chips for the babies’ tea.”
“Do babies eat chips, Mary J? I’ve never heard of that.”