A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was nothing left for the crawe bird to observe now, except for the littered alleyway, and the darkness it harnessed through coincidental existence. There was no prey, so the bird took to flight, upon the thermal air it had perched near, moving now ever onward, choosing to follow the path of action, catching up quite easily with the Vigilants who had by now alighted their Worker-passenger and were on to their patrol, sectional as it was and ever concentric in a monotonous repeat of the last few hours, but banter kept them busy, the false structure of perceived authority making them cocky and talkative to people they would have, civilly, avoided if they had been alone.
“Damnable Deviator! He made me sweat!” spoke Rulf, who held the long stick.
“Move along there! Sure Rulf. It’s the first bath you’ve had all year.” added Berinon, smirking and causing laughter about him.
“You’re one to speak! Was it not last night that your Wife threw you out of the marital bed, because of the pungent odour you omitted?” This elicited more guffaws.
“I told you that in confidence, Rulf.” admonished Berinon, a little hurt.
“Oh, don’t worry, Berinon! Merek there said she was well looked after!” joked Doran, coming between the two suddenly, pointing to the torch bearer, who continued a vigilant eye upon the citizens of Unity, suddenly illuminated by the yellow light of the torch. He was too concerned with the business of others to hear his name being used in reference to jollity. Berinon tussled humorously with Doran then, bringing the four of them into the circle of trust.
“We’re here. Grey house, top floor.” said Merek.
“Right. Merek, you wait down here just in case, you two follow me.” instructed Rulf.
“Stairs. Always stairs. Why can’t the Deviators live on the ground floor? And why does Merek get to stay there at the door?” asked Berinon.
“You know why.” explained Rulf, with a withering look.
Berinon turned his eyes toward the ground sheepishly, “Right. Sorry. I forgot. My mistake.”
“Okay then. Almost there. Here we are. Doran?” said Rulf, making way for the man, who immediately began thumping a fist upon the door they had arrived at.
“Destrian! Come out! Come out now and we may be lenient!” There was no answer, and Rulf nodded to Doran for a further tirade of thumps, “Destrian! You know we will find you, and woe betide you when we do! Listen to me, Destrian! Give up now or -“ The door was pulled back an inch and a woman’s face appeared apprehensively in the gap, “Ma, give him up, or -“
“Who’s this? Vigilants at my door? Begone!” called a man’s voice from within. Doran pushed the door open fully, forcing the woman to stagger back into the room. It was a tiny garret, barely enough room for a bed and table, where a man, stocky and untidy, sat upon the mattress, leaning his back against the peeling wall, reading a thick and yellowed book distractedly.
“Krea? Gavin?” nodded Rulf in greeting to first the woman, then the man, “How’s business, Gavin?” smiled Rulf, standing an intimidating closeness from him, the long stick resting protectively before him.
“Now, you know I’m out of that stuff, Vig. So why are you here, at my home?”
“Hovel, more like. And you know perfectly well why, Gavin.” said Rulf, gesturing for the other three Vigilants to search every nook and cranny, every opening and windowsill for Destrian, the Deviator.
“We haven't seen him.” expressed Krea, from a spot in the corner of the room, keeping her arms about her chest protectively.
“Don’t treat me like a fool, Krea!” said Rulf suddenly moving to her, practically nose to nose, breathing his odorous breath at her as she cringed from surprise, shock and fear.
“Vig! She’s talking the truth! We haven't seen him!” called out Gavin, rising straight backed, but still seated.
“You know what happens if you’re harbouring him, Gavin? You’ll be for the chop this time.” Gavin grunted a reply to Rulf, who watched him for long seconds, waiting for signs of any twitch or indication of where Destrian was, but Gavin was too practiced with the Vigilants to give up so easily. The Vigilants were left with no option but to leave, with a hope to capture the Deviator while on the beat. He would turn up eventually. Besides, next go around, surely back in the alleyway he would be, awaiting his next victim? The Deviators were criminals, and it didn't require intellect to take with menace. The Vigilants thundered heavily booted back down the stairs, even as Gavin came from the mattress and pulled it out, revealing a trap door, which he opened.
Inside, Destrian lay recumbent upon the dusty stone, shaking nervously and wide eyed at his Father. Gavin reached down angrily into the ground, grasping his Son by the tunic, “What did you do boy?!” he called angrily. But all that Destrian could manage was whimper.
Once back upon the beat, the Vigilants fell back into a regular pattern. The streets certainly needed cleaning.
“You know what?” said Rulf to anyone who would listen, “Those up there, in their Towers - why don’t they come down here and see what we really do, what we really have to deal with? Instead, they sit up there, giving orders, while people like us carry them out.”
“Sounds like your Wife, Rulf.” jostled Berinon, to which Rulf gave him a withering look, even as the other three fell about laughing.
And on it continued, as the ladies who worked were moved on, while the criminal element with dangerous deed in mind if not in action, sauntered, as well as the Aberrants with nothing to do but wander the streets and explore the City for want of something to perform.
There was, of course, the Worker who walked with meaning toward an occupational endeavour, head down and muttering, dispelling the continued and ever present resentment to another working day, regardless of politic, religion and coin. And it was the Tacens, the preachers of the three religions, who mauled and savaged the word into a dysfunction of intent, manipulated cleverly for maximum impact and attention, with the same slow, sad promises of the politician, intending much the same outcome.
‘Believe in me, and I shall give you the world’. Nonsense, and everyone knew it. Yet they conformed even still. It was the nature of apathy. It was good enough. But this was not the care of the crawe bird, who flew over it all, blinded to the machinations of the people below. Yet it observed still, impassive, aloof, alone.
Somewhere close, three Tacens reposed, ensconced.
“How goes it Lief of the Old Ones?” asked Favian the Monotheist, pouring the dark yellow and light brown liquid from the clay pot that stood upon the table the three Tacens sat around, as they often did upon a certain hour, when there was no one to preach to. Fendrel the Shadowed rattled his cup impatiently. The table sat in the Many Faiths Garden, bereft of worshipers as it always was. This area had been planned as up and coming once upon a time. Now it was regarded as a dangerous place to be, especially if one had no reason to be there. The straggler, the wanderer - they were the targets, the weak of the flock picked off by the strongest of beasts. First come, first served, and the Tacens were neither. They fought with words, and only with staves when the words had dried up.
“As per, Favian. As per.” replied Lief of the Old Ones.
“Come now. Titles or it doesn't count.” mocked Favian the Monotheist.
“Very well. Favian the Monotheist. Better?”
“Always, my friend. Always.” grinned Favian the Monotheist.
“You two are incorrigible. Really, I don’t know why I still drink with you.” explained Fendrel the Shadowed.“And you, Fendrel the Shadowed. How goes the Veiled? Still waving those torches about, I see?” smiled Favian the Monotheist, taking a long swig of his drink before pouring another.
“Favian the Monotheist, let us not start throwing stones.” said Fendrel the Shadowed.
“Why, Fendrel the Shadowed? Is your God going to - what - hang there and just be? Spreading Himself a bit thin, is He not?” grinned Favian the Monotheist.
“Don’t you start laughing, Lief of the Old Ones.” admonished Fendrel the Shadowed.
“Look, at least my Gods walked the ground. Favian the Monotheist’s isn’t even substantial.” said Lief of the Old Ones, flicking his eyebrows tauntingly.
“Why am I drawn into this?” commented Favian the Monotheist, taking his part in the joke, with his cup to his lips.
“Because, as always, you began it, Favian the Monotheist.” explained Fendrel the Shadowed.
#
The crawe bird was with intent, as the smells of the kitchens within the South Tower caught its attention. It took the circuitous route, however, in order to use the thermal air, avoiding the spent energy of moving its wings, when action was not its intent, but nourishment - the instinctual modus of all living things to survive. Yet why not take in a show as it went?
The Shopkeeper rubbed his hands against the chill that only the lack of light could provide, with no heat save that made by the individual, or that by which the individual found succour, often within a shop, or close to, or indeed inside some kind of factory or workplace where heat was made from the machines, or the abundance of fellows within that confined space. This Shopkeeper, however, stood upon the step of his shop, watching the comings and goings, a ritual to mark the difference in day, as the lack of light did not provide a natural chronometer within the body. It was this man, or that woman, that wave and this call of greeting that conveyed the correctness of the day - that without it, some would perceive this day had not begun, or the natural order was awry, which spelled trouble, even if illusionarily so.
And converging upon the street were two of like mind.
“Barda!” called Asher, upon the broad thoroughfare between home and work.
“Asher!” replied Barda, upon the same road, but in contrary direction. The two men came to a stop facing each other, even as the stream of milling Workers bifurcated, and diverged around the break in the flow, continuing on unabated.
“Heard about Peyton?” asked Asher.
“Peyton? What’s up with him?”
“Oh, you know, caught it big, last shift, apparently? His supervisor is a friend of my Wife.” quipped Asher.
Barda shook his head, “Really? That’s so sad.”
Asher nodded in agreement, “I know. We were only just talking to him, a couple of shifts ago. Shame isn't it?”
“Oh, it certainly is, Asher. His Family alright?” asked Barda, seemingly concerned.
“Well, you know how it is. Life goes on.”
“Doesn’t it just. Still -“ agreed Barda with a knowing look.
“I know, I know. Looks like I’m not getting that two hundred back from him now, doesn’t it? I thought about going round to his house and asking his Wife, but - you know?”
“Definitely.” agreed Barda with furrowed brow, “Far too early. I would give it a few days, until it’s passed over.”
Asher scratched absently at his unshaven face, “You think?”
“Definitely. Better to err on the side of caution, eh?” said Barda.
“I think you’re right. Still - squish, eh?” Asher pulled a face of disgust.
“I know. Doesn't bare thinking about. Anyhow, better go before I’m out of a job too.” Barda extended his hand for Asher to shake.
Asher took it, “Of course. See you next shift?”
“Definitely. And it looks like we need to find a new Peyton now, doesn’t it?”
Asher laughed, “That we do. How about him?” he said, pointing to a dishevelled man of advanced years and gaunt face.
“Him? Are you sure? Look at him!” joked Barda, pointing and laughing.
“Haha. Perhaps you’re right.” agreed Asher with a nod, “See you!” he said with a wave.
Barda returned the wave and continued home, “You too, friend. You too!”
And the stream returned to its natural and infinite flow.
For all Aberrants, it seemed, there was structure, order, monotony - and it became a distraction to many, preventing the need for reflection, as function was enough to parley their existence, be it with their Maker or the simple orderly passage of time. Again, the crawe bird cared not, unless opportunistically speaking, it could win some kind of prize by doing so. It didn't matter, because as the Shopkeeper returned to his shop, now filling with Workers, habitually in requirence of their daily succour, post or prior their working day, the crawe bird swooped and dived for the open window, deep in the bowels of the South Tower, where a light shone for the Storage and Cellar within.
Within the Towers, action did not stop because of the time of day. It simply continued, forever, with different faces, and different monikers upon the same.
The odour of grain floated out of the window, which was high upon the wall. The crawe bird took a perch upon the sill, motionless as much as it was able, in order to observe silently for its opportunity to strike at the abundance of food in readiness for the kitchens above, and a milling of Chesniks were already upon the floor, measuring out the quantities and returning to the kitchens for the Cook to perform their magic.
Yet, alone, two Chesniks took their relief from the energetic tremble of the Service Area.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” asked Rose of Robin, finding a shadow to hide within.
“Oh, don’t start.” began Robin, exacerbatedly, “I’ve been run off my feet all day. I just want a minute or two before the big rush.”
Rose nodded, “I know what you mean. I could do with a minute or two myself. Seed?”
“Thanks.” smiled Robin taking a couple and dropping them into his open mouth, “You shouldn't have these you know? If they catch you -“
Rose shrugged, a wicked light catching her eyes, “Ah, what can they do? They don’t really care about a handful here or there.”
“Says you,” said Robin, “But, well, whatever. Give me a couple more.” he said, jokingly grabbing for a few more seeds in Rose’s palm. From under her tunic, Rose pulled out a small bottle with a resealable stopper and popped the cork off.
“A drink?”
“Ha! You didn’t!” grinned Robin.
Rose put the tip of the bottle to her lips tantalisingly, “Just a swig. It’ll be alright.”
Robin looked to a spot upon the flagstones, where a stray grain had become crushed numerous times under hurried boot, “You know, I just wished I’d studied harder. I never thought this was going to be my outcome. Just shows you what good choices mean when you’re younger.”
“Don’t I know it.” nodded Rose, taking another swig of the green liquid.
“I could've been an Apprentice, you know?” explained Robin, taking the bottle from Rose and drinking long from it himself, wiping the tip once he had finished.
“Really?” asked Rose, taking back the offered bottle and hugging it to her chest.
“Absolutely. If only I had been born to the right parents, I could be an Engineer, a Maker - who knows?”
“Instead, you’re stuck down here with me.” said Rose, jostling Robin with a playful elbow.
“There are worse places to be, I suppose.” joked Robin.
“Where?” asked Rose, looking exaggeratedly around her.
“Ha. You’ve got me there.” agreed Robin, resting his head against the cold stone wall.
An Attendant came around the corner and into the pair’s covert space, “You two! Get back to work!” she said, with an authoritative wave of her hand.
“Damn it!” muttered Robin under his breath, though he called out loud, “Coming!”
“Never mind.” said Rose, “Shift’s over soon.”
“Then what?” asked Robin, rising from his resting place and beginning to walk back to the kitchens, “More of the same?”
Rose wondered in that moment, indeed, then what?
And above, the Broken Boy was about the Tower.
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