by E. B. Huffer
Beware All Ye Who Enter Here
It was cold – minus one degrees – when Auguste stumbled upon the red haired Margie lying in a twisted heap on the cobbled street. Her hair was a matted, tangled mess. Water and mud streaked her face. Nearby, a steam powered trolleybus – the Gravitonius – lay on its roof, beetle-like in its helplessness, blasting scalding vapour into the sky. A number of vehicles pulled over and a small excited crowd gathered. Some were directing traffic round the scene. Others speculated on what had just happened.
"She appeared out of nowhere," said an elderly gentleman pointing his cane towards an ominous looking passageway, "came racing out of Piston Alley over there like a bullet out of a gun."
Auguste, dressed in a top hat, brass flip-goggles and fur trimmed overcoat, studied Margie intently. Was this what he had been waiting for? Was this the reason he had been dragged away from his home? She looked so normal, so vulnerable.
A young woman leaned in and interrupted his thoughts. "She should be in a million pieces the speed she smashed into that trolleybus," she said.
Another woman called out as she scuttled past, "you’d better watch out for the Dog Beasts," she said, "they’ll have sniffed that blood from miles away."
"They’re not even that far away," said another young woman, head down, "I’ve seen them slinking about like demons in the shadows. Those dog machines are worse than wild dogs. You can’t train them or feed them ..." She looked over her shoulder, "or kill them!" She turned pulling her collar up around her chin and hurried away.
The young man bent down and placed two fingers on Margie’s wrist. He pulled a chunky armour clad stopwatch from his coat pocket, a seemingly impossible feat given the size of the watch, and concentrated on counting for a moment. "Did anyone see what happened?"
"Ran headlong into the Gravitonius," said an elderly gentleman, shaking his head in disbelief. "The bus swerved, clipped the girl then toppled over. Lucky it was empty. Riding on auto pilot it was ... that’s why it didn’t swerve in time. Modern technology, not what it used to be."
A stocky woman with a mountain of curly black hair and the makings of a beard tutted. "She’s lucky she’s not a gonner. Silly girl. Should watch where she’s going. And you," she hissed at Auguste, "you should be ashamed of yourself." She spat on the floor, inches from where Auguste knelt, then walked away.
Auguste ignored the saliva (he was used to it) and looked across at the Gravitonius. It was a hulk of a contraption created from an old steam boat. Old fashioned and clunky, not at all like the modern airships with their silent rotor blades and glider wings. The Gravitonius was almost part of the city itself and was Limbuss’ pride and joy, the first ever clockwork trolleybus. It had signified change; and was the celebration of the arrival of a brand new ruler – The Great Torquere. He’d promised change in a city that had fallen asleep standing on its feet; he pledged to invigorate the city and its people and commissioned the building of the great trolleybus as a symbol of this promise. But like so many people before him he was unable to break through the inertia that had gripped the city. The changes never came and The Great Torquere turned sour – very sour. And as time went on he lost himself, commissioning the Dog Beasts to guard the city and make sure it was run smoothly by fear. It was his way of punishing the inhabitants of Limbuss for their apathy and indolence.
The trolleybus, however, had remained his pride and joy; a symbol of the hopes he once harboured. The Great Torquere would want to know who was responsible for the demise of this great machine and he would be merciless in his revenge.
Auguste studied the young woman’s face and struggled to put an age on her. She could be anywhere between fourteen and twenty. He’d never been good at judging people’s ages and girls were by far the worst with their eye makeup, face powders and lip colours. They always looked older than they really were.
"We have to move her," he announced, satisfied that she wasn’t dead. "It’s cold out here. She’ll catch her death dressed like this. And if the Dog Beasts are nearby we have to be quick."
The arrival of a stranger in the city would have been enough of a threat to their safety, what with the Dog Beasts being programmed to track down any newcomers to the City of Limbuss – and anyone found to be associating with them. And it didn’t even matter how far away they were for in spite of being entirely fashioned from metal scraps, they had an incredible sense of smell. Like the Eastern American mole, the dog beasts used stereoscopic-smell-sensors to determine if someone on the other side of his city was happy, angry, sad or afraid. So tracking down the smell of fresh blood, the tinny sweet smell of life, was a cinch for these devil dogs.
Add to that the sound of the Gravitonius lying on the side of the road gasping for breath then they were in serious trouble. The engine’s great valves were still opening and closing, like the gills of a great monster fish in its final death throws. The result was a deafening cacophony of clanking metal and hissing steam; a noise that would attract attention to even the deafest and dumbest Dog Beast.
One or the other would have been enough to send the Dog Beasts into a frenzy, but both? Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. It was for that very reason that nobody stuck around. Very quickly Auguste found himself alone in the middle of the road, staring down at this strange looking child/woman. It confirmed what he already suspected; that he was very much on his own with this one. The sooner he got the whole sorry thing sorted out, the better. It had already cost him seventy-two years of his life.
As Margie slowly came to, she found herself in a small dimly lit room. A surge of adrenalin kicked through her body. Panic. She tried to sit up. Pain ripped through her chest, neck, back and stomach.
"Shhh". A man’s voice soothed. "It’s okay, you’re safe."
A million things raced through Margie’s head: had she been kidnapped? Was she safe? Could she trust this man? How did she get here? Why was she in so much pain? Why didn't she recognise anything? And more to the point, who was she?
Auguste read her mind. "You’ve been in an accident. You’re okay."
It took a few moments for Margie’s eyes to adjust to the dim light and when they did she could see that she was in what appeared to be a small room with a rug in the centre. In one corner was a mattress on which she found herself, filthy and stinking from her bloody and feverish convalescence. An old fashioned commode, a small stove, a pile of what could have been old coats and an oil lamp occupied the rest of the space. A long ladder in the centre of the room seemed to stand vertically of its own free-will stretching up into the darkness. It could have been a mile high for all Margie knew.
Auguste continued talking whilst stirring a large pot on the small stove. "Would you like something to eat? I have some soup on the boil. It’s nothing special. Some beef, potato, mushrooms and a sprinkle of herbs. It’s one of my mother’s favourite recipes. I’m not a great cook but I promise you won’t be poisoned ..."
Margie lay still, taking in the surroundings. She tried very hard to remember what had happened. It was a struggle to think coherently through the pain hammering away at her skull. In her mind’s eye her head had been crushed, her skull broken into tiny shards which were now piercing her brain and the backs of her eyes.
"Do I know you?" she finally asked.
Auguste shook his head sympathetically. "Can you remember anything?"
"Nothing," she replied. "Nothing at all."
It was another two months before Margie was strong enough to get off her mattress. She was still unable to remember anything of her life prior to knocking the Gravitonius off its feet, but she felt an odd sense of relief, like a child who had never tasted sugar and is suddenly thrust into a room full of marshmallows and liquorice, she devoured the stillness inside her brain. And because she had no memories so to speak of, she had very few thoughts. Occasionally she allowed herself to think about the ladder and where it might lead to. But her thoughts quickly evaporated into the dense silence. She didn't feel ready to fill her brain wi
th whatever was up there. She felt safe and happy where she was.
Auguste descended the ladder every morning to empty her commode, tend to her wounds and prepare her food then disappeared until the evening when the routine was repeated. And that was all Margie needed for now. She didn’t want to know where he disappeared to or whether he lived in the building or how she got there or why he was being so nice to her.
Auguste, on the other hand, clearly liked the sound of his own voice, his favourite topic of conversation being himself. Occasionally he asked Margie a question. But they were usually questions that she was unable to answer: How old are you? Where are you from? What is your favourite food? Do you like reading?
But mostly he talked about himself.
Margie was adept at blocking out the noise and ignoring him – unless he was describing her wounds and how they were healing nicely. He was none the wiser. He was just happy to have someone to talk to. But one evening Auguste came to check on Margie and was unusually quiet. He emptied the commode in silence. He pulled a piece of bread and a handful of dried sausage wrapped in cloth from his inside pocket in silence. He checked on Margie’s head wounds in silence. He boiled a pan of water in silence.
The silence seemed almost deafening in its conspicuousness. But there was something more. Something a little twitchy about him that disturbed Margie's sensibilities.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
Auguste stopped what he was doing and froze for a moment. Margie could see him force his shoulders down and relax his face into a wide smile. He turned to Margie and laughed nervously.
"I had some unwelcome guests this morning. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."
Auguste’s voice trailed off and he allowed his smile to drop. He looked tense and muttered something under his breath.
"You'll be damned if what?" asked Margie, not having caught the final bit.
Auguste ignored her question and, with the same smile painted onto his face, he scooped up Margie's dinner tray. "So anyway," he trilled, "how are we feeling today?"
"My head still hurts."
"It will do. You ran headlong into a six tonne monster. Knocked it right off its feet." He threw the dirty plates and utensils into a bag which he carried over his shoulder. "That's why they're looking for you; you wrecked their machine."
"Who are they?"
"The people who run Limbuss. Not to worry," he said shining a light in her eyes. "They will grow bored of looking for you."
"I'm really sorry," said Margie, suddenly feeling quite troubled.
"Don't apologise. I've waited a long time for your arrival."
"For my arrival?" asked Margie, raising her eyebrows in surprise.
Auguste hesitated. "Because of who you are."
"What do you mean, who I am! We don't know who I am, do we?" She looked at him quizzically. "Do you know who I am?"
Auguste was almost sure he knew who she was. The fact that she'd arrived in Limbuss out of nowhere was highly significant. Nobody just appeared in Limbuss out of the blue. Not anymore. There were channels now; procedures that had to be followed and Margie's sudden and mysterious arrival was a good sign indeed that she was who he thought she was. What's more, the fact that she had no memory suited him fine; the anonymity it afforded her would help keep them both safe, for he too was now very much on Limbuss' Most Wanted list.
"It really is of no consequence who you are," he said. "What matters now is that we get you better."
He studied Margie's face with great concentration for a moment then leaned in until he was almost nose to nose with Margie. "You really have no memory of who you are?"
"I don’t remember anything," she said. "Really."
Auguste smiled then left. It was the last time she would see him for a very long time.
The following day Auguste didn’t turn up. Or the next. Or the next. Even so, Margie didn’t think too much of it. Perhaps he was ill. Everyone gets ill once in a while.
On the fifth night however, Margie heard a distant banging sound, like someone hammering a nail into a wall. Then it went quiet. Quieter than it had ever been. The silence deafened her as she lay still and quiet in her hidey hole under the ground.
And then she made a startling discovery: she could no longer feel her heart beating. A dreadful feeling crept into her helpless mind. Was it possible she was dead? Maybe it was because she hadn't consumed anything since Auguste disappeared. But then she hadn't felt hungry either. Or thirsty for that matter.
Panic stricken she threw herself off the mattress and onto her knees. She gripped her wrist in a frantic attempt to find a pulse. Nothing. She pressed her fingers into her neck. Still nothing. She yelled, shouted, screamed, tore at her hair, gripped her wrists again, stared vacantly into space, paced and eventually, having worn a hole in the rug, she decided that she had no choice. It was time to venture out of this tomb-like sanctuary in search of life.
The Giant
Hands trembling she gripped the ladder and started to climb. Up she went, her body aching from the effort, until she found herself climbing out of the darkness into a colossal room filled entirely with junk.
Margie could not see where the room ended or where it began; all she could see were the mountains of furniture, paintings, books, wheelbarrows, motors, kitchen sinks, satellite dishes, televisions, lamps, mirrors, toys, pans, toolboxes, cables and other items that stretched as far as the eye could see. Chairs and bikes hung from giant butchers hooks in the ceiling and the air was heavy with the smell of old sweat, tobacco, food and dirt; ghostly reminders of the people who'd once owned these dilapidated castoffs.
Margie closed the trap door then stood for a while taking in the plethora of sights, sounds and smells. As she looked about her, she became aware of thoughts. Thoughts that had no bearing on what she was doing or what she was seeing. Very quickly her mind became a muddle of names and events, dates and anniversaries. Sad feelings followed happy feelings; while feelings of loneliness, fear and anger flashed intermittently through her body. Once or twice she felt overwhelming love and unadulterated joy. On these occasions she paused and savoured the emotion.
At first she followed the pathways that meandered round the junk mountains. But no matter how far she walked, they continued to disappear into the horizon. No sign of a wall, a door or a window. Tired and dizzy from her exertions, Margie curled up in an old bath which had been discarded at the base of one of the mountains and slept for several hours. When she awoke she was lying on her back and the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was a cave like opening half way up the mountain on which she'd slept. Suddenly feeling wide awake and full of energy she scrambled up the mountain.
The first tunnel that Margie scrabbled through was small but quickly led her to a larger room, which was also filled with junk. This room, however, seemed to be carefully arranged into specific sections, each containing junk of a particular nature. One of the sections contained old computer parts whilst another contained mannequins. Another section contained thousands of mirrors in a variety of sizes and shapes.
Margie had no memory of her appearance so she took a moment to study her reflection. A small, thin red haired young woman stared back at her. Her dark brown eyes appeared sunken against her gaunt pale skin and she could make out a small spattering of freckles on her nose. Her hair was piled untidily on top of her head, a mass of curls clinging to one another and her dress, which now hung off her tiny frame, was a simple white dress that resembled a nightgown. A pair of brown leather boots completed the ensemble. The clothes didn't trigger any kind of memory for Margie and it occurred to her that perhaps Auguste had removed her original clothes whilst she had been unconscious; a thought that filled her with shame. She made a mental note to herself to keep her eyes peeled for more practical clothes.
Margie made her way through another tunnel, taller this time, which led her to a tiny room. It was a small clearing approximately six metres square but it was filled with all manner of broken toys
and childhood belongings. An old crib lay broken in one corner, whilst a beautiful white rocking horse sat proudly across the room. Elsewhere were piles of things carefully sorted. Margie was drawn to a pile of linen Christening gowns, once gleaming white but now discoloured and stained. She picked one up and gently clutched the fabric to her face. Beneath the smell of mothballs and the soil of age, she could almost make out the milky scent of a baby. Elsewhere in the room she could see a pile of clockwork toys, a pile of teddies, a pile of wooden toys and a pile of dolls houses.
As she picked her way through the room she knocked into a pile of old clockwork toys setting off a frenzy of activity – monkeys crashing symbols, soldiers banging drums, racing cars racing, frogs jumping. The sudden loud noise startled Margie and in her panic she stumbled back into pile of broken dolls. Then somewhere amid the chaos she saw something that made her almost burst with excitement. It was a door.
The door opened into another large room – at least three stories high. Margie supposed it might have once been an old mill. High up on the walls she could see doorways where floors obviously once existed. This room itself contained row upon row of giant shelving units that reached from floor to ceiling, each stocked with all manner of mechanical rubbish – cogs, wheels, nuts, bolts, pipes, wiring, great metal engines and chains, radiators, hinges and all manner of other clutter. Margie could see no ladder and wondered how on earth anyone could reach whatever was stored on those upper most shelves.
Some of the pieces were bigger than she could ever have imagined; ships propellers the height of a house and immense hydraulic presses which must surely have weighed over a tonne each. The smell of rust and iron reminded her of another smell. The smell of blood.
But the thought quickly disappeared when, at the far end of this oversized industrial library, Margie saw two beautiful panelled doors with the words Emporium written backwards in the glass. The doors opened up into a shop. At least it would once have been a shop. Now, however, it was abandoned and derelict. The windows were crudely boarded up, a criss-cross of old wooden fence panels and much of the stock had rusted and fused together.
