The Music of the Machine (The Book of Terwilliger 2)

by Michael Stiles

  The Music of the Machine

  Michael Stiles

  The Music of the Machine

  Copyright 2016 Michael Stiles

  All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  For Sean, Alex, and Elena

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: Into a Pit

  1 – A Green Door

  2 – Charlie Brown

  3 – Garbage Men

  4 – Black Pajamas

  5 – A Broken Mirror

  6 – Crossfire

  7 – Nightfinger

  8 – The Breaking of the Society

  9 – The Blue Horse

  10 – Unexpected Help

  11 – Blueberry and the Weasel Coffee

  12 – Souvlaki

  13 – Scarface

  14 – Better Wet than Dead

  15 – Croaker Norge

  16 – Blake Peace

  17 – The Eyes of Fire

  18 – Monkeys

  19 – The Doctor

  20 – Eddites

  21 – Someone in the Dark

  22 – Myelin

  23 – Starlight Audio Magic

  24 – Walter Bismuth

  25 – Shenanigans

  26 – Blue Pills

  27 – Great Balls of Fire

  28 – Howard Johnson

  29 – Tummy Trouble

  30 – The Giant Bug

  31 – The Dusty Galaxie

  32 – Old Hickory

  33 – ODESSA

  34 – Beethoven

  35 – The Dark Man

  36 – A Pillar of Filth

  37 – Mountains

  38 – Novus

  39 – The Black Lake

  40 – The Machine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements and Notes

  Prologue: Into a Pit

  November 1967

  Rachael was fifteen when her father was murdered.

  It happened on a dark Thanksgiving in 1967, just after her family sat down for dinner in the formal dining room that they normally used only when they had company over. Her father, preparing to carve the turkey, stood over the bird like a victorious predator, brandishing the carving knife with a hungry gleam in his eye. Ira was a big man, and hairy, with a single bushy eyebrow where most people would have two. And he was always hungry. Rachael hated him.

  It was just the three of them this year. Rachael’s sister was gone—none of them knew where. She had just taken off one night a few weeks ago, leaving Rachael alone with their parents in their big house in Beverly Hills. Rachael hated her for leaving.

  Her mother, Ruth, sat quietly at the table, watching Ira and his knife as she sipped her wine. It had to be her fourth glass this evening, Rachael thought. At least it was wine and not brandy tonight. Rachael did not hate her mother. What she felt for her mother was something closer to contempt than hatred.

  Ira plunged his knife into the bird. Juices oozed out as he sliced the meat. He carved it with no particular skill, cutting off big, ragged pieces and leaving a lot of meat on the bones. His face was sweating. Rachael watched the butchery with a mild feeling of nausea rising in her stomach. She had no appetite this evening. Or any other evening.

  She envied her sister. Rachael would have left too, if she’d had any guts at all. But that would have devastated her mother. Rachael couldn’t leave now, not with her sister gone.

  Ira looked up from his work, wiped sweat off his face with the back of his hand, and went back to the carving.

  Her sister had left her alone to fend for herself. Rachael supposed she couldn’t blame her for wanting to go. Their father had been doing things to her for years, things that no father should ever consider doing to his little girl. So she had run away. Good for her. But now it was just Rachael and her parents, and Ira had recently discovered that she could serve the same function that her sister had.

  Ira stopped carving again and looked out the window. “There it was again. Did you see it?”

  Rachael and her mother both looked, but it was dark outside. “What did you see?” her mother asked.

  “Somebody looking in,” said Ira. He put down his carving knife, then thought better of it and picked it up again. “I’m gonna go see.” He took two steps toward the front door, but stopped when a creak sounded from the kitchen.

  “That was the kitchen door!” cried Ruth. She stood and clutched at her husband’s arm hard enough to pull the skin off. “Somebody’s in the house!”

  Ira clenched his teeth—Rachael could see the muscles in his jaw bulging—and turned toward the kitchen. The back door was not visible from the dining room. “Who’s in there?” he called, then swallowed hard. “I have a kni—I have a gun!”

  All three of them watched the kitchen doorway in silence.

  A floorboard creaked. They heard footsteps. And then, to Rachael’s astonishment, her sister appeared in the doorway.

  “Sarah!” cried their mother, rushing forward to capture her daughter in a deep, smothering hug. “Oh, Sarah, you came back!” The rest of her words were muffled, but she seemed to be asking questions about where Sarah had been and what the hell she had been thinking, giving her parents such a scare.

  Sarah returned the hug in silence, keeping her eyes on Rachael all the while. The look on her face was strange. Devoid of emotion.

  She came over to hug Rachael next. “Has he touched you yet?” Sarah whispered into her ear, so quietly it was hard to hear even from an inch away.

  “Who?” Rachael whispered back.

  “Daddy.”

  Rachael, still dumbfounded, could only nod her head. Sarah stepped back, put her hands on her sister’s shoulders, looked her in the eye, and pursed her lips for a moment. “Rach, I’m… I’m so sorry.”

  “For leaving? It’s―”

  “No.” Sarah turned to her father next. “Daddy,” she said in a voice that was choked with emotion.

  Ira stood, frozen, apparently unsure what to do next. The knife dangled loosely in his hand. He put it down on the table and wiped his hands on his pants. “Sweetie.”

  Sarah blinked tears out of her eyes and took a deep breath. “Daddy, I came back to tell you that I’ve learned not to hate you anymore. For what you did.”

  Ruth looked in confusion at Sarah, then at Ira. “What’s she talking about? Honey, what are you talking about?”

  “I know you can never change,” Sarah went on, “but I don’t hate you. Not anymore.”

  “I don’t know,” Ira said to his wife. “What she’s talking about.” But Rachael could tell that he knew.

  Glancing once more at Rachael, Sarah took three steps forward and hugged her father. Ira raised his hands in the air, held them up for an uncertain moment, and then put them around her. Sarah was whispering something to him. For a moment, Rachael thought her father was about to break down and cry. But Sarah kept whispering and holding him close, and his expression changed. His eyes grew wide.

  In that instant, Rachael realized why her sister was here. “Sarah!” she said, but she couldn’t find her voice. “Sarah, stop! Please!” She reached out toward the two of them, knowing it was already too late.

  A sudden wave of pain hit Rachael, knocking her backwards so she sat down hard on the floor. Agony exploded inside her head. She heard her mother cry out in pain.

  Ira Greenbaum twitched once, violently, before his legs buckled and he slumped to the floor. His eyes were still open. Sarah stepped back
and let him fall. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she was holding her head with shaking hands. Rachael had seen her do this once before; it made Sarah’s head hurt a lot when she did it. It caused pain to anyone who happened to be nearby, but it was much worse for someone who was very close, as Ira had been. Much worse.

  Sarah ran toward the front door and fumbled with the doorknob. It took her a long time to get the door to open. She was sobbing uncontrollably.

  Rachael and her mother rushed to Ira’s side. His mouth hung open stupidly, and his eyes were open wide. A single tear oozed out of one eye and ran down his cheek. Rachael listened for breathing and felt for a pulse. There was none. He was dead.

  Rachael looked up and saw her sister looking at her from the doorway. They locked eyes for an instant. Then Sarah turned and ran out into the night.

  * * *

  September 1969

  Elmer Nosgrove read the report a second time, slowly, to absorb every detail. The report had been written by a young agent by the name of Driscoll, who had quit the Bureau immediately after filing it. The failures described in the report were so numerous, and so egregious, that Nosgrove almost suspected the whole thing had been sabotaged.

  Albert Wensel had been the one in charge. He had borne the brunt of the blame for the bungled Summit project, and had paid with his life. Nosgrove had never liked Wensel. No imagination. Tom Kajdas, though—Agent Kajdas might have amounted to something. He might have become a true believer, if Nosgrove had had more of an opportunity to work with him. Now Kajdas was as good as dead, comatose in a hospital bed.

  There were photographs in the file—some taken in Los Angeles, some in Toronto. Nosgrove flipped through these until he found the face he was looking for. The man was in his twenties, not very tall, with dark hair. The hair was not too long, but it was unkempt and needed a good washing. He had a troubled look about him. Nosgrove held one of the photos up so he could look at it closely.

  Terwilliger. An interesting name. Terwilliger was gone. He’d vanished without a trace after the incident in Toronto, along with the pretty dark-haired girl and the Chinese man. Nosgrove wanted very much to know where Terwilliger was right now.

  Nosgrove leaned back and looked out of his office window at the city outside. Washington was not a large city, but the decisions that were made here were felt around the world. From his office, he could look down and see people walking, riding bicycles, enjoying the pleasant spring weather. None of those people knew that the man looking down on them would soon be their master. All of the city before him would be his, to rule as he pleased. This city, then the whole country. And then the world. In truth, the power Nosgrove already wielded was significant. He was already spinning his web in this capital, setting tiny threads that would eventually topple governments and reduce kings to slaves. Nosgrove had owned slaves in the past. It was a luxury that he couldn’t enjoy at the moment, but he would find a way to change that soon enough.

  Elmer Nosgrove was not his real name. His real name was unknown to all but a select few. It was all part of the endless game, the great Cycle. His true name, like his true nature, was a secret that almost no one in this modern world would believe even if he told them. His body was almost human, but his mind, his spirit, was something most humans could not comprehend. They would call him a demon, a monster, if they believed in him at all. A few of the people in this modern world might have heard of William Blake; those who knew his name thought of him as a mad poet. Nosgrove knew better. Blake had been a prophet.

  There was another like Elmer Nosgrove in this world. His counterpart—his ancient enemy. The enemy had been easy to find. He had always loved to show off. He called himself Arthur during this iteration of the Cycle; that was the name he had chosen for himself. Nosgrove knew him by a different name, one that the prophet Blake had invented nearly two centuries ago: Orc. “Lover of Wild Rebellion,” the prophet had called him, “and transgressor of God’s Law.” In the same way, Blake had given Nosgrove a name: Urizen, the Starry King. The Father of Jealousy. Blake had comprehended Nosgrove’s true nature, although the prophet’s madness had led him down strange paths in his last days.

  Orc was out there, plotting his rebellion. Nosgrove expected him to rise up any day now, with his devoted followers, to overthrow and destroy. He had done this many times in the past, during dozens of iterations of the Cycle. Sometimes Nosgrove won; sometimes Orc was the victor. When it was over, they retreated from the world and slept until the next time.

  The Cycle was now coming around once more. Orc would be waging his war soon. He was a known threat, something Nosgrove could prepare for. He was not afraid of Arthur, of Orc. The real threat, the one that truly made him uneasy and kept him awake at night, was just a man. A perfectly ordinary man in every way—except that this man had been foretold by Blake as the one who could bring an end to the endless game. A man who, if he wasn’t stopped, would destroy both Nosgrove and his old enemy, stopping their Cycle forever.

  That man was named Edwin Terwilliger.

  Kajdas had stumbled across this man, Terwilliger, without having any idea of the importance of his discovery. Naively, Kajdas had tried to use the man in his plots, and his attempt had backfired. Kajdas, with his limited vision, had not recognized him for who he was. In Blake’s writings, Terwilliger was called Palamabron—the embodiment of conscience, of pity and empathy. One of the Sons of Los, destined to break the Cycle. He, not Orc, was the one Nosgrove knew he had to watch out for. And now Terwilliger had vanished. Nosgrove had dedicated many resources to finding him.

  Nosgrove opened an ancient book that he kept on his bookshelf—a collection of William Blake’s illuminated writings—and reread the lines from the Song of Los that had been keeping him up at night.

  When Rintrah banish'd Lucifer from the body of flesh

  And Palamabron led Ezekiel out of the burning night

  The silver man raised his arm to destroy.

  Palamabron twisted and tore the soul

  And the bringer of death fell

  Dead! And yet alive.

  Palamabron fled Golgonooza on the path that leads to the Grave.

  Urizen and Orc their aeternal battle waging

  The dark wings of Urizen drowning the earth in flame

  Rintrah donned his metal helm

  Palamabron rose triumphant, the Cycle broken

  Orc and Urizen were no more

  And thus the Song was ended.

  Although it had been written at the end of the 18th century, Elmer had never been able to puzzle out the meaning of this passage until recently. With Kajdas’ failure in Toronto, the meaning had become clear. The silver man had to be Kajdas, who was both dead and not dead. Terwilliger was the one who had torn Kajdas’ soul, and if this prophecy could be believed, he was the only person in the world who could end the endless game.

  Nosgrove closed the book and picked up a photo, a grainy black and white picture of a one-eyed man with yellow, close-cropped hair. Nathaniel Gannim. Elmer didn’t know what to make of Nathaniel. Once a servant of Orc, Nathaniel had turned on his old master and was now acting on his own. He was, as far as Nosgrove could tell, driven by nothing more than personal envy of those more powerful than himself. Terwilliger had attempted to kill the man, but Nathaniel had learned something of the old secrets. He would reappear, Elmer knew, in another body that no one would recognize. Until then, all Elmer could do was wait. But Nathaniel was not the real danger.

  Nosgrove packed up the Summit file and locked it in his personal briefcase to burn later. He had many things to do, and each one had to be done just right. There was still a risk that everything would all fall apart, especially if his disciples failed to locate Terwilliger soon. But Elmer Nosgrove was a meticulous man, and quite patient.

  As he stepped out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, he whistled a tune and smiled disarmingly at the passersby. They all gave him a little extra room, instinctively, as if sensing that something was not quite right about him. That made his sm
ile grow even wider.

  * * *

  Tom Kajdas awoke after what felt like a very long sleep. He was on a hillside overlooking a vast forest. It was cold and windy; the trees below were tinged with a deep red, and the wind picked up dry red leaves every time it gusted.

  He had no idea where he was.

  Memories were hard to hold onto. He couldn’t recall how he’d arrived here. The last thing he could remember with any certainty was Terwilliger’s face. Good old Ed. Kajdas had tried to kill him. Why? He couldn’t remember. The reason had seemed important at the time. He had pointed a gun at Ed, had tried to shoot him, and then something had gone wrong inside his head. Ed had done something to him. And now he was here.

  Kajdas stood up and looked around. From his hillside, he could see miles and miles of thick, red woods that seemed to go on forever. There was enough light to see, but there was no sun in the sky. The sky was odd: it was purple, and the stars were out.

  Something moved at the edge of the trees, a hundred yards or so down the slope from where Kajdas stood. It was a man, wandering aimlessly, stopping every few yards to look into the darkness among the trees. No, not wandering: he was looking for something. He would walk a short distance, peer into the trees, then walk a little more. Kajdas wondered, irrationally, whether the man was looking for him. Tom started to walk down the hill.

  Then the man looked his way. Tom knew that man. He recognized the face, with the hideous scar from an injury Kajdas himself had inflicted on him. The man looked up the hill with his one red, glowing eye, and saw him.

  Tom turned and ran. He crested the hill and ran down the other side, sprinting easily without getting tired. He had no time to wonder how this was possible; the one-eyed man was getting closer. Beyond the hill was a grassy plain, with grass the color of blood. Why was everything red? Kajdas ran faster, and faster still, until the world streaked past him in a crimson blur. And still the one-eyed man gained on him.