The Falling Pt 1 - (Short Story)

[endlessvista]

A few drops of rainwater still in its transitional guise between a solid and a gas was all it took. Time and water working together to complete a lifecycle which began in the heat and sweat of a forgotten foundry. What started in a small country village would end in the sky above another, even smaller, country village. A few ordinary drops of mundane rainwater from an equally mundane cloud condensed and pooled itself into a defect. A structural fault, which had manifested itself inside an iron bolt that fastened together two proud but chronologically vulnerable iron girders. A rusted gash, opened up by twenty years at the mercy of the elements. Creeping corrosion, unstoppable, arrogant and silent. A wound of red oxide blood that grew and spread inside the bolt until it could no longer hold itself together. The few drops of yesterday’s rainwater that never fell enters the gap between rusted metal and rusted metal. The water turns to ice in the cold air above the clouds and then, SNAP!

A broken iron bolt, seduced by gravity, breaks free and returns to a world that gave it form and substance. This broken piece of fabricated metal, dismembered by time and exposure, begins its final decent. Plummeting downwards, spinning in the blue sky until its heavy corpse enters into a cloud. It passes through the mist, moistened by its cold, humid embrace to emerge on the other side. Further it falls, without objection, into a world hidden from the life-giving rays of the sun’s brilliant blaze above the clouds.



The shivering and now heavily pregnant woman walked along the rough, pebble-embedded old road towards her home village. Her boots crunched to an offbeat tempo of vigilant footsteps into the frosted surface of this year’s first snowfall. Its soft blanket covering the fields and mountains, which surrounded her and the child inside her womb. The smooth, undulating surface of unblemished snowfall cruelly disguising the shallow features of the landscape except for the narrow road she was now labouring along to bring her home again. The actual location and direction taken by this road was made visible through the snow mainly by the frosted hedgerow of hawthorn and bramble bushes, which lined the route on both sides. Other than this, the only other visible sign of the buried roadway were the footprints of animals and neighbours that had taken this route earlier.

She paused to regain her increasingly elusive breath. This young woman was somebody’s daughter and wife. She was carrying her first child and another person’s first grandchild. Her undernourished body had not, as yet, become accustomed to the demands now placed upon by her impending motherhood. The shivering mother-to-be had walked this road everyday since she was a child. Even in snowfalls worse than this one. However, on this particularly day, more than any other, she longed for the frugal comfort of the blazing fire inside the family cottage. The chill in her feet was becoming increasingly unbearable due to the miserable damp of melted snow inside her heavy boots.

She wanted nothing more of this day other than the simple consolation of rest and warmth, of buttermilk and potatoes, and of husbands and fathers.
Approaching the icy surface of the stone bridge that transported the old bog road over the even older river, she caught first sight of her village at last.

Instinctively, with this realisation of her journey’s end, she held tightly the lower abdominal swelling that betrayed her pregnancy to the world. Distracted from the hazardous path by the sensation of her unborn baby moving inside her body, she paused to adjust the black, woollen shawl that was lovingly wrapped around the precious cargo contained within. Up ahead, through the slowly tumbling snowflakes, she saw her cottage nestled in between a small group of equally complimentary ramshackle dwellings. The feet inside her boots became even colder as her nostrils filled with the delicious, intoxicating fragrance of burning peat. The aroma carried by the drifting smoke filled her senses with each intake of panting breath. She could almost feel the heat pulsating wafting over her skin in flowing waves off the fireplace as little sparks escaped the burning turf to float up into the chimney above. The terracotta roof tiles of the family home stood out clearly among the white landscape. The burning fire inside had melted away any snow that was unfortunate enough to land on the roof. She kept her mind at the task at hand and remained carefully attentive of the ice beneath both her feet, and her womb, until she was home safe and sound.

One of her neighbours was now making his own trail through the snow ahead of her. His antiquated brown overcoat and black hat peppered by falling snowflakes. She considered calling over to him for assistance. However, he was old, had poor hearing, and besides, she was managing fine now. The worst of the ice was now behind her. It would be relatively easy from here. The bridge had been crossed and both she and her unborn child were almost safe, almost. Now each footstep in the snow was one of approaching liberation instead of danger. A dog barked faintly in the distance. She looked up along the avenue of tall elm trees on either side of the road as it entered into the sleepy, desolate enclave she called home. The tree’s skeletal outlines hardly moving as there was little or no wind to give motion to their frosted braches. Her world looked more dead than usual.

Then, just as she was about to pass alongside the first of the barren elm trees, she heard a thumping sound in the snow. Something had landed on the ground in front of her. To her ignorant, freezing ears it sounded as if some heavy object had landed in the snow. There was even a small indentation, which now interrupted the smooth surface of its white blanket. She wondered what was could be in that fresh hole in the pristine snow. A bird that had dropped dead in mid-flight perhaps? A large hailstone? Maybe even a piece of heaven that had broken off and landed in front of her feet? She moved closer to the crater with caution. She had more than just her own welfare to consider now.

Unable and uninterested in bending down, she moved closer and peered into the perforation left by the falling object. She could now this hole in snow contained a piece of rusted metal about the size of, and slightly thicker than, a man’s thumb. She studied it for a few seconds longer, this somewhat disappointing mystery that had tumbled from the sky above her. She had now forgotten how cold she was. Then, taking in a deep breath, the young woman tilted her head backwards and looked up into the heavens with her eyes squinted, and her jaw clenched. Holding the mound that contained her baby, she continued for a few minutes longer to look up from where this object had originated. All she could see as she stared into the endless greyness of the winter sky above her where the falling snowflakes that peppered her pale completion. She saw nothing else. However, there was something up there but it was an aural and not a visual manifestation. Her ears could detect, just barely, the faint and distant tones of a bell ringing somewhere in the distance above her.

[hagbard_celine]

Great beginning of a story, EV. I'm looking forward to the next bit.

[endlessvista]

Arno opened up the hatch to the cloudcraft’s exterior platform, which hung suspended under the belly of the great airship. A gust of frigid sky poured upwards through the rectangular opening, pushing its way up into his nostrils before impacting on the back of his warm, damp throat. The icy current cascaded down each of his lungs, rescued only by this gut reaction of his diaphragm. Bracing himself in the wake of the expectant shock, Arno lengthened his trunk and then peered into the abyss below. The great city’s labyrinth streetscape moved through the framed access hatch under the moon’s blue-tinted illumination. The city streets were composed of numerous structures packed tightly together, side by side as if trying to keep each other from freezing to death during this winter’s night. Houses, both large and small, wide and narrow casting their grey shadows at the same angle away from the full moon’s glow, Arno counted the spires of twenty three churches, each of them reaching toward the cloudcraft. Some of the spires were pointed; others stood up like tall boxes with short spires each perched on one of the four corners. To Arno, they resembled a hand trying to seize the moon and tear it from the sky.

Then one gigantic church moved below Arno as he gazed into the hatch at the city, which moved below with each gust of wind that hit the cloud craft’s hydrogen cells. Arno almost jumped back as the church’s massive spire towered above the great city like a man-made mountain. The spire of the huge church sat atop an immense dome, which itself sat on top of an equally impressive stone structure. Arno leaned forward, moving his head out of the hatch to follow the mighty edifice as it moved out of the frame. His fingers clutched tighter onto the hatch’s brass surround. This mighty church was the largest and most impressive building Arno had yet looked down upon during all his travels. Transfixed by its awesome bulk, Arno studied it intensely as it moved further away into the distance.

The rusted steps down towards the metal skeleton of the lower exterior platform rattled in the strong winds cascading around the cloudcraft, instantly returning Arno’s attention to the task at hand. He descended the swinging gangway checking to see if the safety belt was securely attached to his own belt. He then pulled the leather balaclava over his head. Its hard sides scrapped along his ears until he could see out the holes cut out for his eyes, nose and mouth. The back, top and sides of his head grew warm and began to perspire while his face became even colder.

According to the Manifesto of the Atmospheres, “The head must be covered at all times when working outside the cloudcraft; even in hot climates.” Arno for a moment felt grateful that is was cold outside and then forgot almost immediately what he was being grateful for. He descended the swinging gangway of ladders and chains, checking once more to see if his safety rope was still attached. As his foot landed on the outside platform floor at the end of the gangway, Regio’s unblinking eye peered at Arno through the bow viewscope. Arno paused. Regio’s voice did not come forth from the speechtube’s loudspeaker. Instead, his giant eye continued to stare at Arno. Finally, the eye blinked and, accompanied by this motion, Regio gave the orders:

‘Check again that the safety rope is securely attached to your belt. Then proceed forward along the starboard girder toward the damaged section. Use the other rope you are carrying on your shoulder to fasten the two plates together. Make a note of any other defects.’

Arno, as was the custom, nodded in acknowledgement at Regio’s eye in the viewscope and then he moved forward towards the damaged girder. As Regio had instructed, he examined his belt to check for the safety rope for a third time. Walking across the outside workdeck - which was the primary function of the lower exterior platform, Arno could feel his boots sticking to the congealed blood, and other fluids originating from the bodies of the various animals, which had been slaughtered and dismembered on its oxidised surface. Above him hung the skinned and gutted carcass of a half-eaten horse, which Arno had captured from a field a few days earlier. He noticed that the animal’s flesh was preserving well due to the cold temperatures at this time of year in these latitudes. Flies and other vermin did not currently pose a problem and there was no signs of maggots present. Arno felt thankful for the preservation of the meat as it meant he did not have to find animals to kill so frequently as was the case during the summer. With this realisation, his attention was drawn to the aching in his left leg when his most recent kill, the horsemeat next to him, kicked Arno while he was trying to bring it on to the workdeck. Pulleys were used to bring harpooned animals up from the ground.

Sometimes the animals would not be killed by the impact of the harpoon crashing into their bodies. Usually such creatures would bleed to death while they were being hauled up by the pulley. This horse, being such a strong beast, struggled and fought to stay alive even with a harpoon through its body. As Arno was attempting to land it on the workdeck, it kicked frantically as it hung suspended in mid-air. Arno had to move closer to it in order to finish the creature off when its hooves caught Arno in the leg with such force that he flew across the workdeck almost falling off the other side. He had to take a machete and hack at the horse’s neck. The animal looked at Arno with its eyes opened wide as the blood spewed from its throat. It filled the sky like the tail of a red comet. The maroon stream flowed from the gaping wound until the horse fell silent. Arno watched the animal as it died. He didn’t enjoy that spectacle of the death. He preferred that the animals die on the ground rather than have to look into their eyes as life exited from their bodies. Even though the horse had attacked Arno, he took no pleasure watching its movements become slower and slower as the volume of blood pouring from its neck decreased. However, its eyes remained opened and transfixed on Arno until no more the steam rose from its blood-soaked body to fill the cold air around him.

Arno thought about the stories his father had told him about his days as a soldier back on land. His father always reminded him that the people on the ground will always kill each other in battle over land, even when the land they killed for has no value. This is mankind’s destiny. They believe that the surface of the land and seas are the only worlds that exist. So they will destroy each other to gain exclusive dominion over the land and seas until one is left standing, believing himself to be left with possession of everything. Soon afterward he will realise that in fact, he will be left with nothing. That is humanity’s quest - to be the ruler of an empty planet. Arno smiled when he thought of his father’s voice more so than his actual words, as he knelt down on the starboard girder to repair his great legacy.

Arno reached with his right hand and then his left hand. He made his way on hands and knees along the iron structure towards the hole left by the missing bolt. The beam was so badly rusted that flakes of the outer surface were crumbling off as Arno’s thumbs pressed along its sepia and orange skin. The corrosion had increased greatly in the last year, and certainly to Arno’s mind, more so than in the previous ten years. This made Arno feel uneasy. The disease was spreading. Would his father’s prediction of the skies being filled with cloudcrafts be fulfilled before this one decayed? He cleared his mind of these thoughts for a second until he looked over at the portside girder. Arno could see even from a view distance of twenty feet and lit only by the moon that the oxidisation process had feasted upon it to an even greater degree. Arno could only take comfort that unlike its opposite structure which extreme diligence and cautious speed, did not have any major damage. Nevertheless, Arno still wondered when he would be called upon by Regio to perform the same task on that side when its time came.

The great city was still moving below the cloudcraft as Arno crawled along its iron underbelly. The full moon flickered momentarily below his boots on the surface of a wide serpent-like river which divided the city into its two halves. Arno’s eyes had now become more accustomed to the night as the pearly light of the full moon lit up the metropolis so brightly it was almost daylight, but not quite. Such was the clarity of everything under its lunar wash. Regio’s voice burst forth from the speechtube just as Arno sat down in front of the damaged area with his legs hung over the sides, ready to commence his work.

‘Take the length of rope from your left shoulder and thread it through the hole left by the missing bolt. Then wrap it around the girder, securing it with a strong knot. Cut off the excess rope, no matter how short, and return it to the store room.’

Although Arno had difficulty understanding Regio’s words as the increasing winds started howling throughout the lower platform, he still nodded in acknowledgement of his brother’s authority. As instructed, Arno took the rope off his shoulder. It was slipping and sticky due to a coating of whale oil and melted animal fat which Regio had ordered him to rub on it before he left the store room. Arno had difficulty threading the rope through the hole, as it had become badly frayed at the ends.

‘Take your right hand and hold it about six to eight inches from the end of the rope. Then with your hand still tightly gripping the rope, push the oil and fat towards the end of the rope until the loose strands are held together by the liquid.’

Arno was just about to do just that as Regio’s voice emerged from the speechtube’s loudspeaker. Arno sighed, and then following Regio’s instructions gripped the rope with his right hand about seven inches from the end. As he moved his hand up along the rope, a ring of whale oil and animal fat pooled around the circumference of the circle formed by his thumb, touching his index finger. Soon the sticky, viscous mixture surrounded the individual strands on the end of the rope, forming it into a rounded point as Arno decreased the circumference of the circle as the nail of his index finger scraped along the underside of his thumbs. He moved his right hand off the top of the rope, revealing its now spear-like end. Arno held the tapered end up towards the bow viewscope for Regio’s examination and approval. Regio said nothing.

Arno inhaled deeply and then he bent forward to thread the greasy rope through the hole left by the missing bolt, holding onto the decaying girder with his right hand. Arno reached under with his left hand to grab the protruding length as he finished feeding the hole with a meal of roughly six feet of rope. Arno then began wrapping it around the girder. Once. Twice. Three times. As soon as he began the tying of the knot, Regio’s voice burst forth from the speechtube loudspeaker with rigid but emotionless authority.

‘Four times around the girder.’

As usual, when Regio gave commands with such force, Arno looked up towards the nearest viewscope in acknowledgement without offering any revealing expressions of his own. The composition of his face remained in its default state of expressionless resolve. He then continued wrapping the greasy rope around the rusted girder one more time. No sooner had Arno carried out this task when a sudden blast of wind smashed into the cloudcraft. Without any prior warning of its arrival, the side wind rotated the cloudcraft anti-clockwise. The swirling, forceful wind hurled and pushed the flyer vessel with unapologetic might. The metallic underbelly of the cloudcraft hull creaked and screamed into the night. Its iron muscles and skin powerless under the wrath of an invisible power whose mercy it yielded to with begrudging submission as the hydrogen-filled behemoth dipped its nose to prostrate itself before the atmospheric barrage. As soon as the cloudcraft realigned itself along its centre of balance, another wind would grab hold of its humbled mass, pushing its nose downwards. The cloudcraft was losing altitude as side winds and down draft pressed into its skin with each gust.

[endlessvista]

Many thanks Hagbard.