A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER SIX
Aloof as it was, flighty and with beady eye, it relied upon the gusts of hot air that conveyed the vapour to bear the crawe bird above and observe the City of Unity through its energy of motion and daily activity. It was witness to the Third Prince of the North Tower on his journey to the South. They travelled parallel, one a watcher for the other through coincidental direction, and when their paths diverged, the crawe bird alighted upon the chimney of the Aberrant’s home, pleased by the smoke that created the pockets by which it could travel, with little effort, gliding upon the wafting stream to destinations guided by necessity and prey. It ruffled its feathers and shook its head, readjusting the sit of them, ready and willing, a caw the accented warning that be it friend or foe, prey or galavanter, it remained at alert, dancing from clawed foot to clawed foot, prepared for the vigil incorval.
The rolling vista and layered ascendancy of the buildings, from deep in the poor district, and up like a dune of stone, accenting the Towers which reached far higher than it was possible to see, they poked out, some light and dark stone, marked verdantly by moss on the darker sides. The buildings rolled up like broken needles punctuated by large bushy vegetation seeking nourishment. They accented like a cushion with the pins placed haphazardly, each construction demanding to be of the Towers, ever a futile goal, akin to match-heads that had been spent, or as fingers of a stone creature with a genetic disease - a monument built to aspiration, but always failing.
Some were tall and thick, some tall and thin, as though a strong breeze would snap them in half. Yet some were small and squat, with a lower centre of gravity, seemingly made to fill the gaps between the tall creeping ones that clawed for the sky, stretching beyond their limits, like an explosion in frieze, fighting for recognition, not to be hidden and lost amongst the many, with the only conformity to rising was upon the affluence of the builder. And the closer to the Towers the higher the buildings, with their windows in pock-marked imagery, like little black spots - the anatomical mutations of an aspirant and fevered mind, or an egotistical sense of pride in being noticed amongst its similarly proliferous siblings.
Some stood like noble watchers, vigilant to the passage of the years about them - unmoving, unwavering and ineffective to anything but themselves. They called a silent prayer, while also conveying a warning, that this was what would ever remain, regardless of influence from without. Yet they were always reaching, always grasping ever skyward, up, higher and higher to obtain that which always seemed the aspiration of the people - to reach that high ordained place, the highest, at the seat of the deity, or even upon their Throne. They appeared like slow running larva, bunching, buffering behind the previous, or building upon the ridge created by the last, like decorative claws carved out of living stone, now aged by weather and time, contained by the wall, to either prevent what was without from becoming within, or preventing what was within from getting out. It was largely academic, as the waves of buildings continued, in some self contained, simple and affluent symbiotic osmosis to the continued status quo of the City, to thunder and crash upon the walls of Unity and break.
Within, and upon the exterior of the building but interior of the City, they bent, twisted and contorted, as even the straight lines of construction were modified for more stability and strength, in order to support the structures fighting against gravity and between them, with no geometrically relevant angle understood or recognised by the original builder, or any current Engineer worth his salt. Yet it was unnecessary for them to understand it, simply building where needed, supporting the buildings about it, creating the complex and shadowy alleyways where even the most experienced would lose themselves, and the only means by which to trek their passage would be from above, where all absurdity was evident and the logic of the same surmountable, where one was able to look beyond the amendments and additions, with the contortion of stone down to the original, simple pattern of native design, now driven insane by circumstance.
Evidentially, if the City had a personality, it would urgently need a mental health professional. Yet there was hope, in that the basic structure remained underneath, and as long as it did, the stability of the mutation would hold, much like the occupiers within. In fact, the only difference between those in the Towers and those in the City was location. And influence. There was always that, and that would remain the overriding force for the ruling class, the Makers, the Inventors, the Nobles and the learners.
Yet what was not covered by stone and tile was coated in darkness and mud. It remained only the viscosity of that mud that changed, depending upon position, both physically and affluently. In fact, there were heavy patches of dark, like pools or moats around the buildings, turning all below into cool damp shadow, where low-light cast strange shadows in the yellow light that crept up the towering homes.
Below was the Deviator - the criminal of the darkness. The crawe bird watched as the Deviator pervaded the alleyway, a bridge to the gap between the busy thoroughfare and the homes without. Even as the Worker sped knowingly through the short cut, his manner was mollified by the presence of the Deviator, yet withdrawn, high in the shoulder and hunched in the middle, in the hopes that it was some other prey the Deviator awaited. Perhaps knowingly to the Worker, it was no specific person the Deviator required. It was anyone who fell into his observational purview that would become victim to his attention.
“Spare a few?” called the Deviator, preamble to the main course.
“Sorry, friend. Times are hard. Coin is few.” replied the Worker, his first mistake perpetrated by adjoining in conversation with the Deviator.
“For all of us - friend. Yet my needs are greater.”
“I think not.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“It was not to cause offence that I spoke, friend.”
“See, no one calls me a liar. Now you owe me.”
“I have nothing to give.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong. You have one thing to give. Your life!” began the Deviator, extending an arm where a weapon protruded from the end, a dangerous weapon well versed in getting what it was owed. The crawe bird watched as the Deviator raised his arm and moved rapidly toward the Worker, who involuntarily crouched and covered his head with his encompassing arms, a simple cry escaping the ball of soft and malleable flesh.
The crawe bird danced again on its feet, shifting its position to beadily watch the ensuing action with a detached passiveness as one would watch the passage of a snail upon the ground or a worm upon the grass. It cawed a salute to the sudden energy rampant below, when a whistle sounded, loud and shocking, from the thoroughfare end of the alleyway, which caught the attention of all, including the crawe bird, who called out its reply in several sharp caws. The Vigilants were upon their toes, running toward the melee, just as the Deviator high-tailed and ran further into the darkness of the City. The Vigilants followed a little way up the alleyway, but they knew it was ultimately pointless an endeavour, as the Deviator knew the shadows far better than they, and he would likely be within a system of protection by fellow criminals at this point, untouchable. What they could control was the victim, which they did, escorting him toward his original destination, except this time he was accompanied by a quartet of heavily armed Vigilants - the Night Watch, as it were.
No comments:
Post a Comment