Feeling some discomfort in the darkness.
I close my eyes and try to hear my way,
But it’s no use. I don’t know where I am.
There’s just the wind, and the baleful howling
Of something wild way off in the distance.
Santiago’s torch has some life left
And it’s been better looked after than mine.
By it, I find my way to a dirt road
And tread the tracks, on the way to Manus.
I pull my coat close, intimidated
By the limitless black to either side.
There are no buildings out here for the torch
To find; no comforting closeness of walls.
There’s a fence, and I stop to shine the torch
Into the field there, watch the waving grass
And the flabby blind white cows as they graze,
Calling out, softly, to one another.
They’re a pleasant sight, and I watch them move,
Rubbing up against each other, soft flesh
Meeting soft flesh, content in their small field.
Content to live not knowing what light is.
Further along the track lies the village,
A rough collection of wooden buildings
Looking fragile, like they might blow over
In a strong breeze; like they’re made of paper.
There’s noise coming from what looks like a church,
So I pocket the torch and step inside,
Join the congregation of mourning folk
Dressed in black and gathered round a statue.
Their idol of Phos is carved out of wood,
And while not as bright as the one in Vox,
There’s still something shining behind His head,
Extending His lengthy jagged shadow.
I’m expecting a coffin, someone dead,
But there’s no such thing. Beneath Phos’s feet
Is an ugly-looking piece of blown glass,
Blackened around the edges, slightly cracked.
‘You’re new in town?’ says a guy, approaching.
He’s speaking softly so no one’s disturbed.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask him, whispering.
With a gesture, he leads me back outside.
He’s short, round like he’s eaten a few meals,
Wisps of grey hair uncoiling in the wind.
The sign of Phos is pinned to his jacket.
‘I’m Pastor Michael. You’re from the city?’
‘Sure am,’ I say. ‘What’s going on in there?’
His eyes don’t meet mine. They rest on my scar.
‘We’re a simple folk out here, sir,’ he says.
‘We mourn the loss of our best filament.’
I suppose I really should have figured.
They mustn’t get too much light in Manus,
So far removed from Vox, it’s an event
When a bulb dies. No easy replacement.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name?’
Michael’s suspicious, which is fair enough.
Guess they don’t get too many visitors.
‘Detective Inspector Yorke,’ I tell him.
‘Welcome to my village, Inspector Yorke.
Welcome. But, if you don’t mind me asking,
What brings you all the way out to Manus?’
I ignite a cigarette and inhale.
I explain I’m here to look at the wreck,
The ruins of Cancer, and he reacts,
Says, ‘I thought we were done with all of that?’
Over the wail of someone from inside.
‘All of what?’ ‘Listen. We’re a quiet lot.
We just want to be left alone, all right?
Can’t you understand that?’ I shake my head.
‘You’re gonna have to bring me up to speed.’
‘So you’re not with the University?’
‘I’m not.’ He takes a while to weigh me up,
Caught in the slender strip of leaking light
From a crack in the door of the small church.
He sighs, at last. ‘Got a spare cigarette?’
‘You smoke?’ ‘Not very often, inspector.’
Leaning his head, he lets me ignite his,
White smoke drifting from between his fingers.
‘They came a few months back. A noisy crowd
Of students and academics, big cars
And bright lights, unloaded from the railroad,
Disturbing the cattle and crushing crops.
‘It took them another three months to leave,
And we’re still repairing the mess they made.
Of course they threw round plenty of money,
But the people here don’t care much for that.’
‘What were they doing?’ I ask. ‘I’m not sure.
Something to do with the ruins, I think.’
‘It sounds like a kind of expedition.’
‘I’d say so, but I didn’t ask questions.’
Vivian must have arrived with that team,
Which would explain her photos well enough.
‘I need to see the ruins,’ I tell him.
‘But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’
I stamp the stub of my cigarette out.
‘There’s been a murder,’ I say, ‘a young girl,’
And as I do, people start streaming out,
Their service complete, and Michael moves off.
‘I’ll take you there,’ he tells me, ‘in a while,’
And starts shaking hands, offering comfort.
People stare or glare at me as they leave,
Like I’m here to smash bulbs and scare cattle.
I take the time to ignite a new smoke
And watch them huddle, vanish in the dark.
Leaning back against the church, I wonder
Again about the colourful photo.
It’s occupied my thoughts for a while now:
That reflection I still can’t make sense of.
I realise, leaning there, a big part
Of why I came here is to look for it.
Maybe up close I’ll be able to see
Properly what it is, what Mrs North
Called a sun rising. I know part of me
Wants to find the reflection, prove her wrong,
But I think that I want her to be right.
I want there to be a place where the sun
Can make a sky blue, an ocean sparkle.
Where a sun can rise, and be made of light.
***
When I was young, my father would take us
On trips outside the city, to visit
My grandparents where they lived, in the dark
Outskirts of one of the coastal port towns.
We’d skim flat stones across the black ocean,
Eat by the light of my grandfather’s lamp,
That singular, yellowed, ancient beacon,
And listen to him telling his stories.
He’d tell us about lighter times in Vox,
When batteries and bulbs were plentiful
And houses had windows because the streets
Were all lit up by the brightest street lamps.
He’d tell us about the time Taurus failed,
Vox’s fourth Heart drained of its great power
All at once one cycle, core turning black
And ruining the Taurus family.
He’d tell us about faraway places;
Cities where red lights are hailed as lucky,
Entire countries living in total dark,
Types of insects with tails that hum and glow.
You could see the love in my father’s face,
His appreciation for his parents,
For my grandfather’s experiences;
His ability to tell a tall tale.
I hated every moment being there,
Repelled by the suffocating darkness
>
They always seemed comfortable living in.
I never understood their happiness.
***
Pastor Michael drives in total darkness,
His car rattling, shaking and jarring me
As it meets potholes in the earthen track.
I have to brace myself to keep stable.
***
Pastor Michael lights an ancient lantern
That looks like it’s been made out of pieces
Of a dozen different lanterns, repaired
So many times it’s been turned to patchwork.
‘You’re gonna have to be careful,’ he says,
Guiding me the rest of the way on foot
Along a muddy track between gnarled trees,
All snarls of branches trying to snag me.
‘The wreck’s half sunk into the bog,’ he says,
Stepping careful over a fallen log
And helping me across it with a hand.
My boots are starting to fill with water.
‘When they came, they cleared the track out, but now
It looks like the swamp’s nearly reclaimed it.
There’s a damn good reason the salvage teams
Tend to avoid Cancer: too dangerous.’
The trees get closer as we get deeper,
Wading through smaller pools of still water,
White leaves glinting moisture, the sky covered,
Until the track is difficult to find.
Still, the pastor knows his way well enough,
Helping me over the worst of the tracks
And before too long, he tells us we’re here,
That we’re at the ruins: Cancer’s ruins.
There’s nothing obvious that I can see.
I was expecting a big jagged shape,
Maybe something resembling a huge boat
Resting on a shore, but there’s nothing here.
Michael has to show me, lantern swinging,
The wide entrance like a cave, half buried
In mud and grown over by trees and vines.
‘I can wait, if you like,’ he says to me.
I tell him that it’s a good idea
And offer him a cigarette in thanks.
He takes it and holds it protectively,
Like it might grow legs and run off somehow.
I light Santiago’s borrowed torch
And nearly trip over a thick cable
Snaking into the wreck by the entrance.
It looks new. ‘What’s that?’ I ask the pastor.
Michael shrugs. ‘Power line from the railroad?
I remember they were having trouble
Getting it stable. Power comes and goes
In Manus. Probably the same out here.’
‘It gives me something to follow, at least.’
‘Sure. Try not to take too long, inspector.’
I nod my thanks and, ducking my head low,
I head inside, tailing the black cable.
The corridor I head down is a mess
Of rust, dripping, busted pipes and thick mud.
It’s hard to make out what this place looked like
Before it was a half-buried ruin.
The cable winds steadily on, deeper,
Through narrow hallways and wider spaces,
Past collapsed ceilings where roots have pushed through,
Heavy locked metal doors and flooded rooms.
The stench of the place is overwhelming,
Earthen and rusted and rotten at once,
And every few steps I disturb something,
Cause the place to creak and groan eerily.
Being here gives me the creeps, I admit.
It feels cold, and I have to keep stopping
To make certain it’s only me in here
Trying to find what was being powered.
The way the torch reflects sets me on edge,
Glinting off water and light surfaces
And casting weird shadows at odd angles,
Making me confused, lost and uncertain.
Despite my wariness, I get a sense
Of the place as I go. It is a boat
By the way it feels, all heavy sealed doors,
Low-hanging metal pipes and compact rooms.
I still have little sense of the boat’s scale,
Beyond the fact that it must be massive.
It’s at least twice the size of the biggest
Shipping tanker that I can remember.
Hard to believe how ancient this place is,
That it could ever have travelled the stars.
I guess it could just be another boat.
Cancer might have been spinning me a tale.
I realise that without the cable,
I would be completely lost in the wreck.
Each room looks the same as the last: a damp
Collapse of parts and the swamp’s incursion.
Yet, as I travel deeper in the dark,
The ruins begin to get less ruined,
Like I’m heading towards some untouched core,
As of yet free of the bog’s influence.
I turn a corner, following a twist
In the cable’s trail and take a wrong step,
Throwing me off-balance. Then, I’m falling,
Sliding in the dark down a muddy slope.
The torch follows me, whirling round madly
And throwing my panicked shadow about
Before crashing against something, crunching
And fading out, leaving me in the black.
I slide and roll, gathering fresh bruises,
For what feels like a near eternity,
And eventually come to a hard stop,
Slammed against a metal wall, jarring me.
I take a moment to breathe and calm down,
But my blood’s thumping noisily in me
And there’s a pain in my leg that won’t fade.
Slowly, I manage to sit up, take stock.
The torch is gone. I’m lost, without a glow.
On the other hand, my leg’s not broken,
Just twisted and bruised, causing needling pain.
And, above everything else, I’m not dead.
I have to laugh. Mostly for damn Cancer,
Who seemed pretty convinced that I’m lucky.
If anything, the past few cycles seem
To be solid proof of the opposite.
Here I am again, alone in the dark.
No ghosts here, no match heads, nothing at all.
Just good old Inspector Yorke, following
Up on a case he was meant to forget.
It’s one of those cycles that’s just so bad
You have to laugh. It has to be a joke.
Phos must be up there somewhere, tears rolling
Down His star face in mirth at my fortune.
At least I’ve still got some cigarettes left.
I ignite one, inhale deep, feel my blood
Begin to die down at last. I can hear
The sounds of the wreck again, so quiet.
Among them, there’s a sudden whirring noise
And a small doorway becomes apparent,
Lit up by some glow on the other side.
I stop laughing at last and try to stand.
It’s not much of a walk. I stumble through
To a room that seems to sparkle brightly.
The cigarette drops from my open mouth,
Made forgotten. It’s a hell of a sight.
Tiny lights flicker, like they’re uncertain
Of themselves, and between them, dark mirrors
Seem to glow, black but still emitting light.
This… is the place. The place in the photos.
I don’t know how the lights work. They’re tiny
Bulbs, smaller than my finger, and they glow
Brighter than any I’ve known back in Vox.
More confusing still are the black mirrors
.
There are words written on them, unstable
And scrolling up, and they look almost like
They’re writing themselves. I press my fingers
Against the glass and wish I could read them.
There’s a steady humming as I move round,
Studying the mirrors and tiny bulbs,
Trying to figure out what I should do.
I understand none of what’s happening.
Searching around in my muddied satchel,
I dig the envelope out, slide pictures
And try and compare them with the mirrors.
Some of the same words are there. ‘Conversion’.
And it’s that same word, over and over.
‘Conversion’, and ‘convert’, scrolling upwards,
Being written by whatever machine
It is controlling the lights and mirrors.
I move on through the busy and wide room
And there, like a dream, like it’s a mirage
Is the mirror reflecting or glowing
The image like no other. And by Phos…
It’s flickering steadily, unstable,
And I can’t look away, can’t comprehend
The way the sparkling water is moving.
And it is moving. The image… it moves.
The sky in the image is red, blue, white,
And so is the water, so is the sea,
And in that sky the clouds are drifting white
In swirls like smoke, trailing lazy, aimless.
And there are some dark shapes whirling around
That might be bats but bigger and broader,
And there’s a yacht in the sea with white sails,
Billowing massive in the gusting winds.
The image is on a six-second loop
And I realise I’ve memorised it,
Staring wide-eyed, wide-mouthed at the moment
Captured in the mirror and repeating.
And now I know Cancer wasn’t lying,
That this boat did sail the stars from a place
Where light comes easy, where all is so bright,
Because right there is an alien sun.
I press my fingers to the glass, trying
To feel the bright warmth of that fierce beacon,
That brilliant moment captured in time,
That sun. That bright sun. That bright sun rising.
And as I do, just like I flicked a switch,
The power fails and everything goes dark.
The humming stops. The lights and mirrors die.
But I haven’t forgotten what I saw.
How could I forget that moving image?
It’s scarred into me now, I can feel it,
Just like I can feel the scar at my neck.
In the dark, I wait, and I remember.
***
Even though I still can’t breathe, and there’s blood
Streaming down from my neck where the rope caught,
Dark Star Page 11
