Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  It is one past five. Zero may need my help. I must not wait. Yet, what was the purpose of my imagined struggle if not to restore order? An instant before Two Past Five, my hands take matters upon themselves, and, with my eyes still tightly closed, I wrench open the panel. It opens as smoothly as it always has. There are no nails. I have not been nailed up, but I might still be cruelly punished for my Two Past Five transgression. Timidly, I crack my eyelids. The ladder light is on. No thunder and lightning greets my misbehaviour. It is dark and tranquil. Still, I wait. Not breathing nor moving. Nothing happens. Nothing at all. How disappointing that my split-second of revolutionary courage has gone unnoticed. Or is it that I have not transgressed at all? I leave for my workhouse at Two Past Five. Only the panel was opened a fraction of a second before the appointed moment. I have not yet departed. There is no time to waste in worrying about something that is already done and beyond my ability to correct.

  I hurry as best as I can down the ladder. My limbs and body are bruised and stiff. Is it evidence of the physical traumas that I recall? Were they even real? Being dropped by the drunken bat, weighed down in a wire-mesh gown, chained in a cage over a sulphurous pit and its choking vapours?

  On arriving at the waterfall, I quickly bathe. My skin reeks of fetid sweat, and I notice that it is also speckled with small bruises and scratches. Feeling more alert, if no happier, I gather up my work clothes from their usual place on the drying room shelf and quickly dress before hurrying on.

  I catch my breath and wipe my eyes when only an empty cave greets me. Even in my un-gowned state, I had hoped that a figure clutching a blue envelope and clothed in a button-encrusted gown might have been waiting.

  The green light above workhouse number Seven draws me on past my disappointment. Inside, the familiar sights of my workhouse bring more tears, though these are bittersweet. Everything is in its place: tools and workbench, chamber-pot box, napkin meals, sour milk and water, my worn and polished stool, the red, blue and green telephones and, a sight that has me smiling and sobbing uncontrollably, a blue envelope atop a blue box. Everything is perfect. There are no anomalies, no black envelope, not a thread nor button out of place. I caress my workbench and lift a tool to feel its weight and take some comfort in its clarity of purpose.

  None of this can dispel my melancholy for very long. There is no message from Zero. Was Zero and everything that happened only a dark fairy tale that I told myself in the absence of the Terrors? It would be better if it were so, for then Zero has not been executed. It was merely a trauma, a brain fever induced by the shock of the Terrors’ absence.

  I slump, defeated, onto my stool and can find no energy to do anything but stare at my wrinkled hands lying listlessly in my lap, catching tears. I should be happy. Everything I fought so hard for in my daydream is here. I will make buttons and dedicate them to Zero, the Marys, Grunge and my wonderful witnesses. Imaginary or not, it was an exhilarating odyssey.

  More out of habit than with any great urgency, I take the blue envelope and open it up. I am in need of a distraction from my pointless, gloomy musings. My eyes stretch wide. There are two vanilla cards, not the single card that is to be expected. The first I scan quickly and note that it is the usual button order, setting out button numbers, types, decorative finishes, sizes and ending with an inventory of the materials in the blue box. It is no small comfort to be reunited with my button orders. The second vanilla card is entirely different and unprecedented.

  Be in the Even cave at precisely forty past five this very morning.

  Encounter Code: Gowns Optional.

  Cherub Telegrams

  I jump up from my stool and squeal with delight. It must be from Zero. That was to be our great escape plan. He and Mary M plotted to resurrect me as an Even. I was to be reborn as Abi of bunk-bed-coffin number Six. Mary M must have saved Zero. My darling appeals process administrator is waiting for me in the Even cave.

  I pick up the little invitation, read it again and kiss it gently. A wicked smile puckers my lips. In the recent past, it would have been an impossible and incomprehensible request. I am Odd, from bunk-bed-coffin number Seven. The Even door is barred to me. I could no more open that door than sup from my own chamber pot. Today, I opened the panel on my bunk-bed-coffin before Two Past Five, albeit by an immeasurably small instant of time, also a previously unthinkable idea. This morning, anything is possible. Though, of course, I shall be punctual, arriving neither before nor after the stated time of the appointment.

  There’s a burning sensation in my eye, as if a sharp piece of glass has become lodged there. There is something disturbing about Zero’s note. In my excitement, I failed to fully comprehend one shocking statement. Encounter Code: Gowns Optional. Instantly, my gaze snaps to the back of the workhouse door. It still hangs where it has always hung. Pristine and pressed. My Encounter gown. I shudder and hold onto my stool with both hands. I might challenge the Two Past Five imperative that has governed my whole life. I might even brave the Even door, a previously unthinkable and unknowable destination. My adventures have tempered my timidity. They have not tempered my modesty. And there is another curiosity: the message is not unsigned, as button orders have always been. Nor does it explicitly claim to be a message from Zero. The signatory is unknown. Cherub Telegrams is meaningless nomenclature.

  Tick.

  I have twenty minutes till the appointed time, and my stomach has its own priorities. I decide to enjoy my sour milk and eat. Opening the breakfast napkin, I find two slices of chocolate-dark pumpernickel bread. I raise them to my nose and sniff deeply. A heavenly, sweet and earthy scent fills my nostrils. Besides the bread, there are two slices of bright yellow, semi-hard cheese, a boiled egg and two thick cuts of honey-infused smoked ham. I forget gowns, missing Terrors, Judgements and obese babies and fall on my delicious meal.

  Minutes pass and my stomach is pleased, and so am I until the hunger, the distraction of eating and the delicious tastes fade away.

  It is thirty past five. I will not go un-gowned. I robe. It smells fresh and is exceedingly comfortable compared to the memories of being crushed by the ruffians’ chainmail garment and nearly suffocating under its weight. Within a few moments, I am standing in front of the Even door. There is nothing to distinguish it from the Odd entrance apart from its faceplate. Gingerly, I rest my hand on the polished, black wood and timidly push. Immediately, I jump back, fearing that some monster might emerge and fling itself at me to deliver a terrible punishment for my trespass.

  The door swings open as easily as the Odd door would, providing me with the briefest glimpse of what lies beyond and, after a moment, swings back. There is nothing that I do not recognise and no monsters lurking in wait, at least not as far as I can see. Tensing my sore muscles, I push again at the Even door and step through.

  Inside it is identical and yet completely different to the scene beyond the Odd door. The first part of the corridor is lined with stainless steel and the floor is of stone. Unlike my space, they are pristine, as if no one has ever passed this way. There are no handprints on the steel, no footprints worn into the stone. I move at a measured pace so that I will arrive in the Even cave at exactly forty past five. The waterfall brass and its tiles are unblemished. It is as if they were newly installed this very morning. As I approach the dressing area, I pause, steady my nerves and stiffen my spine. While I may be gowned, those I Encounter may not be.

  The cave is empty and, likewise, my heart is emptied of all joy and anticipation. It is obvious now that the events of this day past were only a malevolent hallucination. Zero may only exist in my mind, but the invitation to the Even cave is real enough. Why have I been summoned here? A terrible thought batters my mind. Could the summons have come from Priest? Or worse: the insidious Liberté? I vigorously shake my head. If Zero was a mere imagining, then so was every other character in my disturbing fantasy. Nevertheless, I clutch at my breast and nervously study the cave. There is workhouse number Ten, Eight, Six, Four and … Zero Z
ero One Zero? I shake my head. I must have miscounted, mistook, misread. Carefully, I scan the workhouse doors once more. Number Ten, Eight, Six, Four and … My breathing is racing away, chased by my thumping heart. How extraordinary. Only the light above workhouse Zero Zero One Zero is green. All the others are red.

  With caution and on boneless legs, I approach workhouse Zero Zero One Zero as quietly as I can and press my hooded ear against the door. Instantly, I pull it away as if the door were made of burning metal. I heard muffled laughter and faraway voices. Recovering my courage, I listen again. The sounds I hear are not possible. It is not just the many distant voices of all ages, whose words I cannot make out but whose joy is obvious, that shock me. There are also the sounds of gentle music, babbling water and of a light breeze whistling through a wood. The soundscape is that of a great open space, not that of a cramped workhouse, barely large enough for a single worker.

  Keeping my eyes fixed on the Zero Zero One Zero workhouse door, I retreat away as rapidly and as quietly as I can until I am brought to a painful and abrupt halt by the immovable cave wall. Shaking with fright, I turn and lean against it for support. My breathing is raspy and rapid, my insides are burning up, my legs lose the will to support me, and I slide down the wall to settle on my haunches. How could so many be behind that little door?

  Knock! Knock!

  I start and jump to my feet. The noise is coming from workhouse Zero Zero One Zero. I pull further away. Someone is slipping a card under the door. A vanilla card filled with writing. It fully emerges and looks at me. Or so it seems. A card with writing, neat writing, is there to be read. I long to call out to the voices and the author beyond the door. My words are trapped in my stiff body. Only a strange combination of a croak, wail, laugh and squeak emerge. Different emotions are battling for dominance; none is winning and my mind cannot find an understanding. Biting my lip, I crawl forward, hesitate and crawl a little further till the mysterious workhouse door is too near and yet the card is out of reach. With all my strength, I lean and stretch till my gloved fingertips collide with the edge of the card, and, with great effort, I draw it towards me. Grabbing the card, I retreat to the furthermost cave wall as if I were a timid little mouse stealing cheese from a trap.

  The writing on the card jumps and slides. I lean back and try to settle myself. It is useless; my thoughts are being blown about like autumn leaves in a gale. My mind will not calm in the strange surroundings of the Even cave and the peculiar presence of the workhouse door leaking familiar yet disturbing voices. Better to return to my own workhouse and face the card’s contents in the comfort of accustomed surroundings and away from this alien place.

  I retrace my steps and exit through the Even door and return via the Odd door to pass beyond the silent and dry waterfall and into my cave. With much effort, I stumble towards my workhouse. Back inside, I lay the vanilla card from the Even workhouse on my workbench and remove my Encounter gown. Feeling more at ease, I set myself down on my treasured stool and stare at the card. With some trepidation, I pick it up and carefully study what is written there.

  Hi Ma,

  It’s all cool. Mags and me (sorry – Mary M), we’re married now, and the twins can’t wait to meet their granny. I know, heavy. Right!

  You’re probably stressing about what happened with that weird La Deux business. I was resurrected, like usual. A touch of eczema around the stigmata but otherwise it’s all good.

  Dis and Ges are fine and they send their love. They’re with me now, back home. So are our witnesses, Grunge and all the Marys.

  Mary B and Mary C are really not down with the harps, so I’ve introduced tambourines and bongos into the mix. Nice vibe. Major paperwork hassle.

  When you’re ready, we’re up for a face-to-face gig. Can’t wait to find out what happens next. Liberté’s been trying to explain what’s going on and all the choices, though the dude’s definitely got a preference for calling it a day. See what you mean about him. Obviously, Ma, whatever you decide is cool with me.

  Understand you still need some hassle-free, deep-thinking time to make your big decision, Ma. Whenever you decide you’re ready, we’ll be here waiting for you.

  Zero

  Your loving Son of Woman

  The strange contents of the card bumble around inside my head, and I feel utterly confused. My emotions are so stirred that I am unable to distinguish joy from sadness, elation from fear, hope from despair. Gradually, the overwhelming waves of bewildering moods ebb away and I realise that I am left … happy. Very happy.

  The weight of a bleakness so great that it threatened to extinguish all hope is lifted. Zero is alive. He has somehow survived and thrived despite his ordeal. It is also most pleasing to learn that M, Grunge, Ges, Dis, my witnesses and the black and white Marys are all well. And now I know that my Judgement ordeal was as real as the Terrors. It is less pleasing to learn that Mary M has somehow bullied my darling Zero into marriage. Whilst I might never overcome my doubts as to Mary M’s suitability as a partner for Zero, I shall do my utmost to guide her. I shall be relentlessly and painstakingly helpful, which I am sure she will appreciate. Mary M must be in great need of proper supervision.

  Twins! Twins? A pair of offspring, an heir and a spare. It seems a little extravagant. No doubt Mary M had something to do with it. Still, it would be wonderful to meet them. If one is a little girl, will she perhaps be called Abi? That would be thrilling. Though I will not mind what names they have, it will just be extraordinary to meet them. I have such little memory of my own childhood, and Zero has none at all.

  I have broken so many rules this morning. I defied convention and passed through the Even door and almost left my bunk-bed-coffin before Two Past Five. Could I also be de-gowned for an Encounter with Zero and the others? To be un-gowned with Zero has one tempting advantage. I have never glimpsed my own face. I do not know the colour of my eyes or exactly how my eyebrows are drawn. Are my nose and mouth pleasantly symmetrical or clumsily positioned? Is my chin sharp and angry or rounded and pleasing? When I smile, am I reassuring, or do my missing teeth turn an expression of warmth into one that chills. My hair is now white. I can recall, though without great certainty, that it might once have been a rich buttery colour. If, indeed, Zero is my most unlikely offspring, then it is possible that some of myself will be reflected in his features, and, through gazing on his face, I might for the first time see something of myself reflected back.

  Other aspects of the letter are confusing and disturbing. How is it that Liberté has become acquainted with Zero? I do not trust that awful man. And what are these choices that Zero speaks of?

  Knock! Knock!

  With a jump, I realise that someone is pounding on my workhouse door.

  “Who is there?”

  Knock! Knock!

  A terrible fear grips me. My workhouse door does not lock. What if they come inside? Immediately, I reach for my gown and hurriedly re-robe.

  Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

  The banging is louder, more insistent. It is no use. I shall have to open the door or risk being trapped inside my workhouse if someone should burst in. Many different thoughts of who might be outside jangle around inside my head. At best, it would be Zero or the plump baby with wings. At worst, there are too many horrible possibilities to imagine. I must gather my courage and find out for myself.

  Knock! Knock!

  The sharp sounds are like a physical assault that beats the bravery out of me.

  “Answer me! Who is there? What is it that you want?”

  There is no answer. I cannot hide away. I must face whoever is outside.

  Chapter Twenty-Two – The Terror

  I hold my breath, tiptoe forward and press my ear to the workhouse door. There is only silence, apart from the shockingly loud thump-thump of my own heart. Not a single auditory clue reaches me that might suggest who is outside. As quietly as possible, and with great trepidation, I reach for the door handle with fluttering fingers and slowly turn the k
nob. For the first time, and after so many years, I notice how loudly the handle squeaks and the hinges creak. A stood-upon cat would make less noise. My attempt at stealth is undone. I throw the door open. And, for a moment, that is all I do. Clasping one hand with another to steady my shaking limbs, I peer out into the cave from the doorway. There is nothing to be seen, unless my mysterious visitor is hiding behind the open workhouse door. Gingerly, and while keeping a tight hold of the door handle ready to slam it shut, I step outside and peer behind the door. Nothing. With growing anxiety, I take a further step and then another until I am standing at the centre of the cave. It appears empty.

  I fail to notice a darker shadow lurking in the gloom at the back of my cave until it moves. I shriek and stumble, landing painfully on my hands and knees. Ignoring the hurt and with as much speed as I can muster, I scramble upright and lurch towards my workhouse door. Sanctuary is a step away. A shadow falls on me. The door is hidden behind a swaying Encounter gown that blocks my path. I fall backwards. My heart has stopped. I am on my hands and heels. Weakly, I scuttle away. I am not breathing. The figure does not follow. I only stop when my head cracks against the stone of the cave. Any ache there must surely be is unnoticed. The figure steps forward. I scream. It stops. It is far too large to be Zero, and its vague, jagged shoulder outline is somehow familiar. Slowly, I pull myself upright. A wave of pain shudders through my body. My knees are throbbing. My head is drumming. I feel sick. I remember to breathe. My heart restarts. I cower against the wall with my arms raised to protect my face, too terrified to move. If I could I would retreat into the solid stone.

  “I don’t believe it. You’re still pretending to be Seven? After everything that’s happened?”