by Darren Dash
“Whatever,” I shrug, returning to the meal.
“My words fail to impress you,” the Alchemist notes.
“Being remembered never mattered to me,” I tell him. “You say it’s an honour, and I believe you, but I won’t turn cartwheels. The way I see it, it’s how you’re thought of while you’re alive that matters, not what happens when you’re dead. You think, if Van Gogh’s spirit is knocking about somewhere, he takes comfort from the success that art dealers have enjoyed at his expense? You think he wouldn’t have swapped those decades of posthumous fame for a couple of months of recognition and cash while he was alive?”
“I’m sorry,” the Alchemist frowns, “but who’s Van Gogh?”
“Precisely,” I grin. “Who’s Van Gogh? Who’s Newman Riplan? A dead man and a lost one. Does it matter if we’re remembered? I don’t think so. Death is death, and memories – legacies, whatever you want to call them – are bullshit. If I’ve learnt only one thing in this city, it’s that. Your people are right — live for today and sod the rest of eternity.”
“Time has embittered you,” the Alchemist says sadly.
“No,” I contradict him, “it’s opened my eyes. I thought I was superior to the people here when I first arrived. I realise now that I wasn’t. Knowledge is a drag. Acceptance and resignation are the keys to a happy, fruitful life. If I had it all to do over again, you know what I’d change?” He shakes his head slowly. “I’d have a lobotomy.” I lift my glass, tap it against his and wink. “Cheers.”
We retire upstairs when we’re done with dinner, where we recline in twin chairs and stare out an oversized window at the ever-darkening city beyond.
“No candles being lit in the streets yet,” I note.
“No,” the Alchemist says, “they won’t be ignited until the city has a full, working complement of humans.”
“When will that be?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “My concept of time is nowhere near as developed as yours. I can’t recall exactly how long this operation takes. I spend two or three days in a location, my wolfers haul in as many animals as they can find, I transform them into humans, then we move on to another sector and begin again. It is, I believe, a long and arduous task.”
“Do you transform every animal in the city?” I ask, unable to put a halt to the questioning spheres of my brain.
“Of course not,” he says. “I transform a lot of them, but it would take forever to track down each and every product of your emissions. Besides, it’s good to have animals. We can feed on them if we run out of drones.”
“Can that happen?” I ask.
“Oh yes,” he says. “We’ve never completely exhausted our supply, but once we were down to a couple of hundred, with no sign of any new loads, so those of us with the stomach for it tucked into the animals, although even they were running out by the end. Eventually the drone holds began to arrive again, but many citizens died of starvation before the larders could be restocked.”
“What if I hadn’t survived?” I ask. “If I’d died and there was no outsider left to create the animals?”
“Another would have arrived from your place sooner or later,” the Alchemist says. “He’d have found an empty city and wandered the streets, bewildered, alone. At some point he – or another, if he’d failed to grasp his potential – would have discovered his powers and things would have started over. That’s how life sustains itself — the elements cut us down, men from your world build us up. No matter how low our numbers sink, or how high they soar, we always return to a happy medium.”
That sets me thinking. Is the world I came from really so different to this one? They reproduce by a mixture of masturbation and alchemy, we reproduce by sexual contact, but the result’s the same — regeneration. Their numbers are controlled by changing suns and moons and the unleashing of lykans, ours by wars, diseases, storms and earthquakes — again, the same result, the trimming back of numbers, the freeing of space for new life to take hold and blossom.
“Have your numbers ever fallen as low as this?” I ask.
“Not in my time,” he says. “There have always been survivors, sometimes only a few dozen, but never less than that. This time, apart from my assistants – wolfers, sandmen, baggers, drone off-loaders and some others who exist in sections of the city inaccessible to lykans and the general populace – you were the only one to pull through.”
“Any idea why that should be?” I ask.
He frowns. “It may have been simple bad luck, or…”
“Yes?” I prompt when he doesn’t continue.
“When you arrived,” he says quietly, “this city was bursting with people, more than I ever remember seeing previously. It had been a long time since the sun and moon last changed and several men from your world had been operating throughout the city, adding to the ranks. Jobs were becoming scarce. Buildings were getting crowded. That parade you saw me in when we first met? I often go on such outings, to track down animals and transform them, but I’d ceased that part of my work by the time I ran into you. I just paraded through the streets, waving my arms at the people, unwilling to add to the chaos. It was the first time – the only time – I’ve acted contrary to instinct.”
I muse on that awhile. The city became overcrowded, things got out of control, balance was lost. As a result, there followed a purge of humanity that puts the worst of my people’s war crimes to shame. An entire cleanout, down to the roots. I think of my world and its ever-increasing billions, people living longer and longer, babies being born in their multitudes, major wars on the decrease, technology and medicine continually figuring out new ways to save and prolong lives.
Then I think of the alleged meteorite that wiped out the dinosaurs, and how one could strike from the heavens any time. I consider the nuclear weapons we’ve stockpiled, the diseases we’ve cultivated, the way the world has been moving so quickly since the early days of the twentieth century, the leaps we’ve made, the incredible bounds we’ve taken. I used to assume that it was down to us, that we were smart monkeys in control of our destinies. But maybe we aren’t so smart. Maybe our brains are doing the job that the lykans did here. Perhaps our world is also due for a cleansing. Maybe…
I turn away from the thoughts. Even if I’m correct, what good will brooding do? I can’t get back to warn the people of my world about the possible impending apocalypse. Even if I could, I couldn’t change anything, as no one would believe me. The people I left behind will have to grapple with their own affairs and deal with their future as best they can. I can’t reach them from here.
We continue to chat, of this and that. I ask about the humans I’ve seen and why they’ve appeared so mechanical.
“They’re always that way right after creation,” the Alchemist informs me. “In time they’ll become more animated — it’s remarkable how swiftly they click into the swing of things once they get going.”
“What about names?” I ask.
“They’ll have those too,” he says.
“How?” I ask, to which he only shrugs.
“That’s not information I currently possess,” he says, “though I think it has something to do with the sandmen.”
“And jobs?” I continue. “Do they walk straight into employment?”
“Yes,” he says. “There are positions which must be filled immediately, teeth extractors, public car drivers, cooks, enemaists and so on. People are assigned those roles arbitrarily. When things have settled down, they’ll be free to chase their own careers, though most will choose to stay where they are — with no real sense of the future, few feel the need to improve upon their present.”
“What about your people?” I ask. “The sandmen, wolfers and the rest. Are they created the same as everybody else?”
He nods. “As I said, we’re protected from the lykans, but some of us invariably wind up caught outside our shelters when the sun or moon changes, while others meet sticky ends in the course of our hunts — it’s not easy tackling li
ons and the like. I replenish the ranks occasionally, when they fall below acceptable numbers.”
“You’re going to need a couple of people at the drone port,” I advise him. “Mannie and Jess are no more.”
He frowns. “The names aren’t familiar, but I was aware of the vacancies.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you interested in filling one of the positions?”
I think about spending my days in the company of Phil and Bryan. “No thanks,” I grunt.
“So what will you do now?” he asks.
I scratch my beard thoughtfully. “Dunno,” I mutter. “Go on creating animals for you to fiddle with, I guess.”
“A noble pursuit,” he smiles, “but hardly fitting for one of your ambition and drive. Have you no other plans? A new quest, perhaps?”
I shrug. The truth is, I haven’t a clue. The future stretches out ahead of me like a desert and I don’t know what I want of it. Retreat back inside my mind and try losing myself again? Not with people around — you need solitude of an exacting quality in order to sink that deep within yourself. Go back to a nourishment house and spin stories for a living? Can’t picture it. Fall in love with one of my surrogate daughters and settle into domestic bliss? After all I’ve been through, it’s hard to imagine myself in such a cosy situation. Climb a tall building and step off the…?
Best not to think about it. Time will provide the answer. And if it doesn’t, who gives a snuff? Stop worrying, Newman old boy. Tension doesn’t suit you.
We talk our way through to dawn. I’m bright-eyed following my afternoon nap, while the Alchemist never seems to feel any strain. We’d go on talking, except one of his wolfers interrupts and reminds him of his duties in the square.
“I must take my leave,” he sighs. “Time waits for no man, not even here. Do you wish to accompany me?”
I shake my head. “No, I’d only be in the way. Let’s meet for another chinwag when your work is done and you have time to spare.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” he says, though by the melancholic shade of his eyes I can tell he doesn’t think we’ll enjoy a night like this again.
We shake hands and he departs. The rest of his team are leaving as well. This is their last day in this location and they wish to establish their new base before nightfall. I wait until they’re gone, then explore the boarding house, examining the refuse they left behind.
People begin to arrive later in the day. They stand outside the building, waiting patiently to be activated. I never asked the Alchemist how the people select their homes, but I guess it’s something they just instinctively know. I do a head count — eleven. Even if two or three times the number arrive later, there’ll be plenty of rooms available. I look round, decide this is as good a spot as any to situate myself, and head upstairs.
I choose the best room in the house – first dibs! – slip off my clothes and leave them outside the door, marking my territory. Then I lie back on the bed and wait to see how things develop.
TWENTY
It’s weeks before the humans are released from their (e)motionless shells. I pass the time pottering about the boarding house, cleaning the rooms, fixing broken pieces of furniture, making the beds. I don’t leave the premises, and keep a careful watch on the inert crowd outside, afraid I’ll miss their revival if I turn my back for more than a couple of minutes. I dine on drones, plenty of which pass by each day. Animals came sniffing round during the first few days but I chased them off, even the more vicious creatures like bears and cobras, and now sightings are rare.
I’m upstairs cleaning the sinks when things start to happen. I hear footsteps on the stairs, then doors opening and bed springs creaking. Abandoning my duties, I rush down to the next landing and begin slamming open the doors to the rooms. About halfway along I barge in on a naked, fat man sitting on a bed. His head jolts up and he shouts, “Hey! What the snuff are you doing in my –”
I’m gone before he can finish, down the stairs, through the lobby and out the front door. A sandman and four wolfers are outside with the statue-like humans. The Alchemist’s men jump with alarm when I burst into the open and the wolfers raise their heavy swords and advance threateningly.
“Wait,” the sandman stops them and steps forward, eyes narrowing. “Are you Newman Riplan?” he asks and I nod warily. “I thought so. The Alchemist told us to expect you. It’s alright,” he says to the wolfers. “He’s an ally.” They retreat and the sandman approaches. “You could do with some clothes,” he says critically.
I glance down at my naked body. “What’s wrong with the natural look?” I ask.
“Nothing,” the sandman says, “except you’re going to have to start interacting with people again. They won’t take kindly to your nudity.”
“Snuff ’em,” I sniff.
The sandman shrugs. “Have it your own way. Just thought I’d mention it. You won’t get far in job interviews undressed like that.”
“Snuff jobs too,” I grin.
The sandman sighs and shakes his head. “The Alchemist said you’d want to watch me breathing being into the humans.”
“Can I?” I ask excitedly.
“Of course,” he says. “It’s no secret. Just don’t get in my way.”
Returning to the line of people, he beckons a woman forward. She steps up and kneels at a signal. The sandman licks his thumbs and nods at the wolfers, one of whom brings him a pouch of sand. He rubs both thumbs in the sand, then gently rolls them across the woman’s open eyes. Her body shudders but she doesn’t pull away. Rubbing his thumbs in the sand again, he murmurs something I can’t hear. The woman’s mouth opens and he places the thumbs on her tongue and leaves them there a couple of seconds before casually removing them.
The woman coughs, blinks, looks around, gets to her feet. She appears both aware and confident, not in the least awed by her sudden ascension to the ranks of the conscious living. The sandman hands her a bag of drone teeth. She thanks him, turns and enters the boarding house, simple as you please.
“She’ll buy clothes later,” the sandman tells me. “Stores will be opening soon. The teeth are to get her started, to spend on clothes, food, rent. These people won’t be fully cognisant for another couple of days – they’ll dress, eat and work, seemingly of their own volition, but actually in accordance with the Alchemist’s will – but they’re capable of speech if you wish to engage them. They’ll even overlook your disregard for clothing conventions, but only for the time being.”
“Is that all you have to do to bring them to consciousness?” I ask, feeling let down by the procedure. “Just rub some sand over their eyes and tongues?”
“Of course,” he says.
“It’s a tad simplistic,” I gripe.
He laughs. “If you think it’s easy, try it yourself — you’ll be in for a surprise.”
“What about names?” I ask. “Do they know their names now?”
“Yes,” he says and shows me the balls of his thumbs. The flesh of both is raised into boil-like letters. D E L N A.
“Delna — that’s her name?” I ask.
“Apparently,” he says, studying the letters as if wondering how they got there.
“What about the next human?”
“The letters change every time I pass my thumbs across a pair of eyes,” he explains. “I draw the name from the eyes and, by pressing down on the tongue, make the host aware of his or her identity.”
“Cool,” I whistle.
I watch as the sandman animates the rest of the humans. He doesn’t seem to take much pride in his work, just brings them to life, sets them on their way, then yawns as though he’s screwing nuts onto bolts on an assembly line. The joys of creation are wasted on this guy.
The sandman brushes the last crumbs of sand from his hands when he finishes and smiles tightly at me. “You may accompany us on our rounds if you wish,” he says, though I can tell it’s politeness and not desire for my company prompting him to make the offer.
“You won’t be doing
anything different further along the line, will you?” I ask.
“It’s always the same,” he says.
“Then that’s alright,” I reply. “I’m happy where I am.”
“Please yourself,” he says, not bothering to disguise his mild relief.
“When will the city be back to normal?” I ask as he gathers the wolfers around him and prepares to depart.
“Soon,” he promises.
“You’re not the only sandman doing the rounds?”
“Snuff no,” he snorts. “There’s a whole fleet of us out on the streets, covering the entire city. I’m almost finished in my sections, and the others will be wrapping up too. A day or two more and everything will be back to normal.”
“Normal,” I smile, only half-remembering the time when that would have made my upper lip curl.
“Well, goodbye,” the sandman says. “Mustn’t linger. I don’t want to fall behind schedule.”
“Goodbye,” I say curtly.
We don’t bother shaking hands.
I head inside and up the stairs as the sandman and wolfers move on. I’m still smiling, taking the steps slowly, dwelling at some length on that word – normal – and looking forward to finding out what the new normal plays like.
Within a week it’s as if life in the city had never been interrupted. Nourishment houses open their doors for business. The hum of production lines can be heard inside factories. Cars return to the roads. Candles are lit every night to illuminate the streets. People meet and chat and fall in love, and it’s like they’ve always been here — they don’t realise how new to this world they are or where they came from. Had this happened months (years?) ago, I might have tried telling them about my adventures and the debt they owe me, but I’m a different man to the one I once was. I no longer wish to rock the boat or disturb its passengers. They have no answers, so why bother them with questions?
