We were certain it was this rock,
circling this star. Undiscovered, uncharted, dangerously far away, and yet it
was definitely this spot, emanating signals throughout the universe, driving
our wiser ones insane with the cosmic reverberance, a galactic scream.
Encroaching the atmosphere, we see nothing but a burned out sphere.
Ash. A
world of ash; clouds rain ash onto mountains and plains of yet more ash, the
whole thing wrapped in a confusing layer of signals and data echoing endlessly.
I can feel
it. This world was alive, all too alive, I can feel it resonate and pulse under
the piling of ash, in the very spot I am stood at now.
Covered by
bushes, their naked bodies, used to the whipping of wind and rain, silent and
filthy, observing. In the distance, on the hill overlooking the river valley,
men haul stones and clank tools at the whim of authoritative yells that echo
among the grunts.
“See that?
They’re setting up a castle.”
“This far
out?”
“You’ve got
eyes, haven’t you?”
Fen dragged
his dirty, tattooed fingers through his scraggy beard. This was bad. A castle
this far into their untouched lands meant that they intended to go further, to
war and conquer Fen’s people. It meant expansion and soldiers, and someone
sitting in expensive and exotic surroundings eating expensive and exotic meals
at the top of the castle. It meant permanence as well; not much could tumble a
castle, nothing the tribe had anyway, so it would remain to succeed in it’s
mission of expansion, or be replaced with other rich, fat occupants, or become
ruins; temporary bases for the violent wandering tribes, for sly and
troublesome bandits. This castle meant the end.
“All I
knows, Fen, is this land is going to be drenched in blood for a long time. I’m
not sure how we’ll survive this one.”
A high
pitch whistle screeches over the low grasslands, not from the woods, but from
beyond the trickling streams, and beyond them, the fields and hamlets. A man on
horseback approaches. He has caught Llewellyn’s attention.
“Hoy! Lou!”
“Aye, Fen.
Aye.” Exhausted, bloodied, bruised. Llewellyn didn’t want to fight. He was a
farmer, with simple goals and methods to reach them, but the Kingdom had
snake-like teeth and a little dogs yap, and kept nipping and scrapping with the
neighbouring kingdoms, sending the serfs and peasantry out to clash with one
another over petty matters, fighting arguments with fists strung from knights
and standing armies.
“You
alright? Hurt?”
“No, no,
just… Resting.” Killing doesn’t get easier. The neighbouring kingdom’s colours
flap from bodies and banners everywhere, torn, trampled and dirty.
“The
Lord’ll be happy with you, Llewellyn, out in the Forecastle. Just when the
charge seemed hopeless you had our backs, you got in there. I’m sure reward’ll
come. Just like your father, you are, just like old Stephen. You fight well for
your lord.”
“Just
surviving,” muttered Llewellyn’s heart to the bodies, to the bloody mud, to the
quiet and cold grass moist with dew.
“Come on!
Walk, boy!” Fen stumbled along, rope grinding at this wrists, the horse
teetering unaware, leading him along. He’d used up all the excuses he could
think of, about the law, the Lord, the King, the Church…
“No law but
me out here, boy. No law but the sword and the stone.”
What is the
law anyway… The king in his palace passes papers to his snivelling nobles, the
paper spread across the land to those privileged enough to be literate, to the
priests in their church, to the Lord in the Forecastle, what little business
hours he must keep between hunting and feasting.
They
stopped in the centre of an immense grassland, framed by some woods and a
collection of streams cutting through the turf. “There you are, boy.”
The rope
was untethered from the horse. Joshua Stephenson drew his sword, and breathed
the still, cool air for a moment. “Great battle fought here long ago, boy. My
ancestor fought in it, fought well. Little Kingdoms back then. All the King’s
now. All God’s.”
“Nothing
out here, boy, but God’s law; through the King, through the man in the
Forecastle, through me, it is exacted. Make your peace now.”
The fields
are fed another’s body. Perhaps the soul survives, perhaps it rots and
decomposes with the body.
Joshua
bends his knee, and reels of a short prayer automatically. His mind suffers a
sudden grip, A guilt, a doubt in God. He would repent later, once he had buried
the body. Few questions would be asked about Fen; a young man with a terrifying
mind, a peasant boy who troubles the lordship too much; his death was foresaw
by all. He was a lost boy, in the universe of the lost.
Killing
doesn’t get any easier. Thick sheen of cordite and rubble dust hangs in the
air, in the gutters of no-mans land that is the trenches. All British boys
here, whipped into being, practically children, torn from mothers, wives,
friends; females are tearful dreams out here. A faint suspension of class, but
very faint; everyone knows what fine broth the officers were poured from.
Mick’s
hands shook on the guns. Not a bad shot, even now, but his time in hell has
taken it’s toll on his nerves. Constantly exhausted, constantly exhuming,
chattering teeth in a broken smile.
Captain Forecastle
saw all, wandering the trenches. He saw the young Mick lose himself, his eyes
two glinting coins staring out of the mud. He saw the rats, the lice, the fetid
toilets, male tears mixing with rain. “Easy young Fen. Don’t want to trip.”
“No sir,
yes sir.” That boy couldn’t be more than fourteen, surely…? Through the
trenches with a pot of boiling water for the men to clean their guns. Mick’s
hand instantly scalded as he shudders his share of boiling water loose over
himself.
“How do,
Stephenson?” The glittering coins spark at Forecastle. No answer, the same
chattering teeth in a broken smile, rattling through. A fatherly pat on the
shoulder is all that can be offered in the way of healing. Again gazing out greyly
at the glinting coins, the rats; itching, raggedy soldiers, soot, grime, and
among it all, young Fen darting about with the water pot. “We’re never going to
survive this…” Whispered to nobody.
“Mrs…uh…
Forecastle?”
“Oh yes
that’s me. ”
Stands up, slightly soggy from a September downpour, slightly hungover,
definitely exhausted.
She follows
the young nurse through the corridor, her gait strained with a few grocery bags,
her drenched coat, her hand bag; the nurse’s relaxed and open in the freeing
scrubs, in the heated building, but sullen and bored at the angles. They
arrived at the door, partially opened, a plaque on it displaying “Dr.
Stephenson.”
Come in yes
put your coat over there yes fine sit down sit back relax relax now open wide…
Dr. Stephenson had seen twelve patients that day, all children and old people,
both of whom eat the wrong things, forget to look after their teeth, and react
strangely to basic practices of hygiene. Exhausting.
What long nose hair he has. Intermittent
thoughts as metal clack-clacks around her mouth. What a strange smell. Dr. Stephenson spoke to the nurse, foreign
science words, fresh and exciting to the ears but just as soon forgotten. “Fen
could you pass me some…” and the tired Fen would gently fetch various items.
Just as
Mrs. Forecastle was near sleep, the Doctor announced, startlingly bright, that
all was done and everything was fine. She sat up in the dentist chair, that
began electronically following her motion, gathering about her things,
receiving a short bit from the Doctor about the intricacies of her mouth, while
Fen leant against the worktop with his palms flat on it’s surface behind him.
“Just keep surviving until your next appointment now!”
“Want to
know more about your ancestry, Mrs. Iona Forecastle?” No I bloody don’t… Stupid
adverts, they draw out the loneliness, but I don’t have any money to make them
go away. Out of work for months, constant striking, friends speak up and
disappear to black blocks out on small rocky islands where no one can hear
them. I’ve chosen to hide away. I’ve had the projected screen up for almost two
days straight. Who cares about my ancestors anyway, whether they were
conquerors or servants, rich or poor. It’s nullified now, unless the past is
alive and screaming, but it’s not, it’s shod skin from a constant ripping reel
of the present. Fen made that present worth something, but he’s gone now, and I
know he’s gone, skin shod, heaping up on the floor…
More
adverts. The loneliness is almost climactic, like a dusty, guttural,
tea-stained orgasm, humiliating and unfulfilling amid city lights. I know out
there armoured trucks roll down avenues, megaphone blaring. The show’s back on,
some gel-haired idiot with prefect teeth yells into the microphone, probably
some dick off the street with a head of air and a head of hair given a leg-up
into the ridiculousness of money on screen. Something Stephenson, Mr. Stevey…?
Falsehoods layered on one another. In this room with this show, it’s like the
world has already forgotten about the food wars, about Big Ben being hit, about
the strikes, about me. More adverts. No money. More loneliness. More dead skin.
There’s
always suicide I suppose… But I feel too much pressure from the past, from my
entire heritage, starting with a cell billions of years ago in a dirty puddle,
breeding and mutating and breeding, until my parents squirmed and screamed and
dropped me, and I met Fen, and he is gone now, but here are more adverts, more
skin, a world in a room and a room in what could be an eternal night. I’m not
sure who’s ranting more, me or the television. Mr. Stevey smiles away. I wonder
which of us will survive.