by Eddie Robson
Iona returned home and sat on the bench in her living room. She picked up a book and tried to read, but couldn’t focus so she put the book down. The image of that man leaping onto the coffin, the feeling of Alyssa’s hat under her fingers—these things kept forcing their way to the front of her consciousness. She tried reading the newspaper for a bit instead but couldn’t focus on that either so she reorganized her furniture. Eventually, after hours of turning over the events of a very strange day in her mind, she decided to go to sleep.
As Iona closed the shutters and settled down in bed her unease coalesced into a single thought: when Weston had started working at the school, she remembered realizing there had been a complete turnover in the school’s staff—except for her. Now, with Weston gone, there had been a complete staff turnover again. Except for her.
* * *
The king looked out across the city. He didn’t have a good view out of this window at the moment because this side of the tower was covered in scaffolding. His view was often spoiled by scaffolding. But he could see the Point of Return. At night the light from its furnace could be seen blazing through the windows.
“I feel like I should have gone to the funeral for that Weston guy,” he said.
“Why?” said Clarence, trotting over to him and jumping up onto the dressing table. “You only ever met him twice.”
The king turned to Clarence, surprised. “I met him?”
“At opening ceremonies. And only very briefly.”
“Huh.” The king turned back to the window. “He meant a lot to people though, didn’t he? There was a lot of warmth in those tributes. Maybe I should have gone down there and told them . . . I dunno, that I liked reading them.”
“It might have looked like favoritism, with the funerals of the other victims also happening today.”
“I could’ve gone to all of them. I had time.”
“Nobody expects that.”
“Hmm.” The king felt like it was a long time since he’d had proper contact with the public. He wouldn’t say he felt lonely exactly, but . . .
No, maybe that was it. Maybe he felt lonely.
“Perhaps I’ll write something about him in my column this week,” said the king.
“That’s a better idea.”
“If I’d known more about him I’d have given everybody the day off.” The king felt agitated, felt he hadn’t done enough. “I didn’t realize how big a deal it was for so many people.”
“Why would you?”
“It’s my job to know this city, isn’t it?”
“Look, if you’d given everyone the day off we’d have lost time on building the new planning department.”
“Yeah, good point,” said the king, nodding and closing the shutters. “If we don’t get that built, the city will never get finished, will it?”
2
WESTON’S REPLACEMENT WAS SO eager to get started he was waiting for Iona the next morning in the school’s front lobby.
“Hello!” said Carter, bounding forward to shake Iona’s hand the moment she entered. “Lovely words at the funeral yesterday—really lovely.”
“You were at the funeral?”
“Yes.”
There was an awkward moment as each wondered if the other was going to bring up the disturbing incident at the end of the funeral. Iona wanted to talk about it; she desperately wanted to know why it had happened, what it meant. But to take such an interest in something strange would only mark herself out as strange. She knew it was better left alone.
“Anyone who knew Weston would have said the same,” said Iona eventually.
“I wish I’d known him—as more than just a teacher, I mean.”
“If you knew him as a teacher, then you knew him.”
Carter looked around the lobby. “I mean, it’s a terrible way to get the job, but . . .” He’d been in line for a teaching post for some considerable time. He had worked fourteen years in construction and his body bore the scars.
“He’d be glad to know his replacement was enthusiastic, don’t worry.” Iona offered to show him to his new office—which was Weston’s old office—where she would give him a rundown of his duties and workload and make sure he had everything he needed. As they walked she became increasingly aware of loud noises—not the usual chatter of students but hammering and sanding. Was there a practical going on? No, there couldn’t be—the day’s classes hadn’t started yet.
As they turned the corner Iona realized the noises came from their destination. The door to Weston’s old office had been removed and members of a crew were coming and going. All Weston’s books had been removed and stacked up against the wall in the corridor. Iona and Carter tried to step though the doorway but were pushed aside by a bulky man who barely bothered to say “excuse me.”
Iona looked inside and saw that half the office floor was missing. The other half was in the process of being torn up. All the furniture was gone, including the filing cabinet, and the shelves and shutters had also been removed. The paneling on the walls was being sanded smooth.
The foreman saw the two teachers and strode over to them. “You can’t come in here.”
“Yes, we realize—” Iona began.
“This office needs a refit before it can be used—”
“By him,” said Iona, pointing at Carter. “It’s going to be his office. He’s supposed to be here, you know.”
The foreman peered suspiciously at Carter. “Thought you weren’t starting until tomorrow?”
“Oh sorry,” Carter said. “Am I causing trouble?”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” said Iona and then addressed the foreman. “Is this really necessary?”
“The school told us to get it done while it was empty,” the foreman replied, “and quite right too—it was so dilapidated.”
“But now he doesn’t have an office.”
“The sooner you leave us to get on with it, the sooner he will have an office.”
Iona sighed and turned to Carter. “I’ll show you the staff room,” she said and they went back down the corridor the way they’d come. She disliked seeing the last evidence of Weston’s presence being removed. The patches of floor he’d worn down by pacing around, the marks on the wall where he’d leaned back in his chair. The traces people left on this city all got removed sooner or later, but for it to happen immediately was a shock.
* * *
After her morning classes Iona had a three-hour gap in her schedule, so she took the proofs of the new edition of the textbook over to the park. She’d already gone through more than half of it—it was a fairly light job these days because each edition changed very little from the previous one. Once upon a time the changes from one edition to the next had been very substantial. New building techniques would emerge, existing ones would be refined and improved. But very little significant progress had been made lately. Perhaps there wasn’t much left they didn’t know.
While writing this edition of the textbook Iona had wondered how it compared to the first edition she’d written all those years ago. There had been so many editions they all blurred into one. She’d gone down to the library and asked for it only to be told the early editions of the textbook had all long since been withdrawn and recycled. Iona wondered why that was necessary. The library seemed to have plenty of space and the textbook was perennially the city’s most-read book. But then again, who’d want to read the old ones now? It was vain of her to expect they’d keep them all.
She finished going over the proofs sooner than expected. She put them in the post and decided to take a walk out to the forest.
* * *
This part of the forest was midway through its cycle, so it was deserted. At the start of their cycle the trees were given close attention to ensure they grew well; near the end they were carefully checked for disease and then prepared for felling. In the middle they were left to get on with it.
It was good to get away from the sounds and smells of the city for a while
—the hammering, the sawing, the burning. These were so pervasive one could easily forget what real quiet was like. The air here was fresh and the only noises were those of the forest responding to Iona’s presence: the grass rustling, twigs cracking underfoot.
Iona kept walking until she reached the very edge, the place where the grass petered out into the whiteness of the floor beyond. A meter or so beyond the last tufts of grass the floor banked sharply upward and merged straight into the wall. As ever the wall glowed gently and was warm to the touch. It was smooth and seamless—in all but one place.
Iona walked parallel to the wall: it took her a few minutes to reach the window. As usual a couple of citizens stood by the window, contemplating what was on the other side. Iona joined them.
The view through the window was murky: it was darker on the other side than it was out here. She might be able to see more if she got closer to the window (it had no shutters and unlike normal windows there was a flat, transparent sheet that filled it and formed a barrier, stopping you from reaching inside), but nobody ever liked to get too close. The only thing she could see clearly was the figure standing on the other side, staring back at her.
Nobody knew how many figures there were but people had reported seeing as many as four at once. They were gray, ugly things, their bodies uneven and untidy. Their eyes were huge and black. Their shape was similar to that of a normal person but their form was entirely other. Many people found the sight of them too disturbing and never came out here to look, but others liked to watch them, consider what they might be and what their presence might mean. Some people came out here to ask questions of the figures, looking to them for a sort of spiritual guidance, and sometimes even claimed to have heard an answer. Iona came from time to time, usually when she was feeling troubled. Not because she hoped the figures would give her the answers to her problems but because seeing them put her problems into perspective. They were an unknowable element of the world. Anything Iona was going through seemed simpler by contrast with trying to understand the figures.
At least, this was usually true. But now she found that however long she looked at the figure, the incident at the funeral refused to sink back in her mind.
After a while Iona realized she would be late for her afternoon class if she didn’t set off for the school now. She kept turning back as she walked away but the figure was still there. Eventually the window was obscured by the trees.
The sounds of the city returned to her ears. Iona wondered if the figure had ever heard them.
* * *
The king received the long rolled-up sheet of paper from his attendant and said, “Thank you,” but didn’t mean it. He found something inherently unsatisfying about looking at plans, they just made him want to see the actual finished thing. Also the technical detail went right over his head. But this design had been delayed in its progress through the various preapproval stages and the architect had an appointment at planning tomorrow to receive feedback, so he couldn’t put it off.
But first he was going to eat his dinner, so he sent the attendant away. Dinner tonight was a bland vegetable stew and flatbread. The food wasn’t enjoyable, but then food wasn’t something you enjoyed. It was something you did alone, quickly, before anyone saw. Even Clarence left him alone when he ate.
The king wondered what other people ate. Was his food particularly fine or was it the same stuff everyone else had? He didn’t know. Nobody ever talked about food and if he raised the subject people would lose respect for him.
The king finished his food and returned to the plans. He unrolled the paper and laid it on the table by the window. The paper rolled itself back up. He searched vainly for something heavy enough to keep the paper in place—a book perhaps, or a cup—but he couldn’t find anything. His attendants had tidied everything away.
He could call them back. But he was fed up with people doing stuff for him. He wanted to sort this out for himself.
The king removed his shoes and placed one on the middle of either end of the paper; this worked except now the corners rolled inward. He moved his shoes into the top corners and held the bottom corners flat with his hands. This was better. He could see the plans properly now.
But he couldn’t pick up his pencil, which lay on the windowsill. He needed his pencil to make notes on the plans. But if he let go of the plans they’d roll up again.
“Bugger,” said the king.
Then Clarence leaped up onto the table and sat on one corner of the paper, freeing up one of the king’s hands. The king used the free hand to pick up his pencil.
“Thanks, Clarence,” said the king.
“Not at all, Your Highness,” purred Clarence.
The king tapped the pencil against his teeth as he cast his eye over the plans, which were for a new forestry office building. The architect had coped with the limited space available by designing the building in a shape akin to a neat, evenly spaced cluster of trees. The building stood on a series of sturdy “trunks,” three stories high, each of which contained a stairwell: on the top of each trunk was mounted a hexagonal polygon containing a further six stories. This had the appearance of a very stylized mass of foliage. The polygons were linked by walkways. Yet as well as having an original, apt, and even witty design, the building was also practical—the upper floors would receive a lot of natural light, the lack of which was an increasing problem in the more built-up areas of the city. The lower floors, which would be quite dark, were to be used for filing and so on.
The king was much impressed, and said so.
“It is good,” Clarence agreed.
“It’s amazing,” said the king. It was so good it overcame his usual antipathy toward looking at plans. “We don’t have anything like it. I love it. I’ll be able to see it from my window, won’t I?”
“It should be bigger.”
The king glanced back at the drawings. “It’s already bigger than the old forestry office.”
“But it’ll fill up in no time.”
“You think?”
“Of course,” said Clarence, and rattled off a few statistics about the rate of employment at the bureau, which the king had no intention of checking. Clarence had a good memory for that sort of detail and the king relied on him to get such things right.
As usual the king was torn between wanting a city that worked for the people who lived here, with enough space and facilities for everyone, and getting the place finished. The city’s needs kept growing in spite of his efforts to keep it stable. It seemed there was nothing anyone could do about this.
Eventually the king was convinced by Clarence’s argument that a bigger building would be more future-proofed—they didn’t want to have to knock it down in a few years and start again because the city had outgrown it. The king picked up a pencil and located the space on the edge of the paper that had been left blank for his notes. He scribbled Looks awesome, pls make bigger, great work, and then a smiley face. Clarence jumped off the table and the king removed his shoes and put them back on his feet. The paper rolled back up of its own accord and the king left it on the table for his attendants to collect and take back down to planning.
* * *
Alyssa arrived late for their first tutorial, apologizing and claiming to have gotten lost on the way. She was not wearing the hat, although she was wearing a long, thick coat that seemed quite unnecessary for the weather today.
“You can hang up your coat over there.” Iona pointed to the ornately carved hat stand next to the door.
Alyssa glanced at the hat stand, then turned back to Iona. “I’m fine. I’ll keep it on. Can we start?” She seemed on edge. She was looking around a lot, and kept glancing over Iona’s shoulder to the window.
Iona was a little uneasy herself. The hat may have been absent but Alyssa’s appearance, her manner, her speech—all of them were strange in a way Iona still couldn’t put her finger on.
Yet Iona had kept the appointment. So maybe she wanted to put her finger on it.
<
br /> Iona started to outline what she was going to cover in this first session—a heavily condensed version of a ten-session first-term course on foundations she had taught more times than she could count, covering principles, methods, and common difficulties. Then she stopped and asked Alyssa if she was following along so far, because the young woman was giving her a blank stare.
“Actually,” said Alyssa, “I was going to ask if maybe you could show me a real one?”
Iona blinked. “A real one?”
“Yes. Like a real building site? I think I’ll learn much better that way, instead of just talking about it in this small office.”
* * *
Out in the city, downtime had begun. The manufacturing plants lay silent: so did the building sites, except for one or two where work had fallen behind schedule. The streets were quiet. Iona could hear chatter from residential buildings where citizens had gathered in pairs to talk, and realized that giving Alyssa this tutorial was perhaps the closest she had come to doing the same. This realization emboldened her to broach the subject that had been bothering her.
“Did you hear about what happened at the funeral yesterday?”
Alyssa looked up sharply. “What? No. There were lots of funerals yesterday, which one?”
“He was called Weston. My colleague.”
“No.”
“It was very strange,” Iona said, and described the event.
Alyssa listened and nodded, her gaze fixed on the ground. “Yes, strange,” she agreed when Iona had finished, then she looked up and said, “Wow, that’s an amazing building.” She was talking about the old sawmill. Back when this was built the forest had only been a stone’s throw from the center and the city had only been the town. The old sawmill was used purely for fine-cutting work these days: large-scale wood processing happened at the newer, larger mills. The building was the shape of an incomplete sphere set into the ground, with large open areas to let in the light. Its imposing shape bulged outward and then swept back like a wave before connecting with the ground again on the other side. The interior, most of which was visible from the outside, was functional and unprepossessing—but this made for a smart aesthetic contrast between the shell and the contents.
