Join me?
Like a bewildered shoal, the words emanating from the Artefact swam round and round in her head.
When the Youngling had first reached out and touched the alien object, she had experienced everything. In a single second, she saw the majestic wash of space and time, it was as if she were watching the motion of an atom from inside the atom. Dizzying. Infinite. Incomprehensible. Terrifying in its beauty and complexity. A vast endless ocean, with new and stranger tides, chaos and maelstroms, reefs and shallows and storms and uncharted depths. It sparkled like fresh stardust and raged like a clamour of broken harpies.
The Youngling saw the infinite variation, the vast tangle of gossamer threads unravelling across each new universe. As each one grew, she watched the beautiful but seemingly ponderous creation of matter; it moved at once oddly energetic and blissfully languid. It would coalesce here, or there, or at a different moment all together, or not at all. Every universe was in constant and elaborate motion; filled with beauty, fire and infinite possibilities. But until this universe, until the Celestial Ocean and the Pod of Mothers, the poor creature had witnessed every iteration podless and in cold isolation. The Bahamût, were the first elevated consciousness that the being had encountered, the first life that the creature could really communicate with.
She had never thought it possible to live as part of the universe and at the same time apart from the universe. Compared to this creature the lives of the Bahamût were over in the blink of an eye. It struck the Youngling that the pod knew nothing of longevity or endurance. This being has experienced so much: the stabbing pains of birth, the formation of matter and energy into new life all the way through to its inevitable collapse and decay, she thought. It knows the delirious feeling of rebirth and renewal but slowly, over time, that feeling has been stained, tainted by the knowledge that all that matter and energy would, eventually, wither and die. The rising tension of repetition, of so many beginnings and endings, lurked deep in the creature’s mind, like a growing monolith casting crooked shadows over everything the creature experienced. The Youngling saw fear and uncertainty growing like thick strands of kelp in those cold, dank depths.
Join me?
These two words burrowed into the Youngling’s consciousness. Repeating and repeating and repeating until they almost lost their meaning. Or perhaps the repetition could yield deeper truths? There was such deceptive simplicity contained in those two words. Join me? Find me? Help me? Hold me? Know me? Define me? Guide me? Save me? Join me because I am afraid. Join me because I cannot be alone anymore. Join me because I have seen too much and I need you to show me a better way.
She felt the creature’s fears, its regrets and its loneliness. Yet, it also had secrets and wonders to share and incredible stories to tell. The Youngling was certain that if she touched the Artefact again, she could reach out and hold on to the creature from across the celestial ocean. They could steady each other during the rough seas and violent storms or sit together and contemplate the mysterious dance of cool light across the ocean floor.
Join me, so that we can be together.
The creature had seen and heard and sensed too much for too long. All of time lay around it, stretching out in every direction. It was desperate, unable to remember the beginning or to envisage the end. There was only the overwhelming flow of this moment, then this moment, then this moment, then this moment. At first it had all seemed so beautiful but, the Youngling knew in her heart, that it is was also terrifying. What must it be like to have seen this over and over again? she asked herself. To have felt it over and over again, while the whole universe presses itself upon you continuously, moving and expanding and persisting in a blur of information and sensation, like swimming through a half-forgotten dream, but always alone.
In the quiet of night, as the currents cradled her sleeping sisters, the Youngling swam out to the Artefact. She swam close to and around it. The ocean here tasted different, it felt thicker almost oily. The strange object in front of her looked hard and brittle, in the shiny surface she saw her reflection distorted by the sweeping curves. A coldness swam up through her belly but determined, she pushed the feeling away as she came closer to the Artefact. Her fin came to rest on one of the thin, bony ridges that spiralled across the object’s body.
She stopped. Unable to move. Unable to breath. Her eyes widened. The endless universe formed in the centre of her mind once again and from the centre of that glowing inner star-scape she heard the voice, You are here! I am grateful for all we shall give each other. I am Gloam and you will be my Emissary.
***
**Insert Scene “Haven 2 Part 1” here**
The late afternoon sky was cold and hard like steel. People wrestled with scarves, and hats or tried to keep their shopping bags under control as the icy winds whipped around them. They trudged, trotted and ran from shop to shop, if they had to, or stood sullenly waiting for the next bus to pull up and take them home to their warm radiators and the bland comfort of tea-time game shows.
In the midst of the evening rush hour no one noticed the strange collection of figures that started to appear, like shadows at dusk, up and down the street. In the doorways and under the lampposts, by the bins and abandoned phone boxes; on window ledges and fire escapes, on the top of the bus stops and in the middle of the road they stood, silent and oblivious to the storm building around them. The cold commuters and bag laden shoppers did not really see these mysterious figures. Yet they somehow knew not to step where one of the figures stood: they didn’t fully understand why they could not use a particular bin or shelter in a particular doorway. Some primal part of them saw a flicker of something out of the corner of their eye so, unnerved, they told themselves not to loiter, best to keep moving and get home as quickly as possible.
When The Many had finally gathered, they all faced the same direction: looking at the thin light coming from the old music shop. Looking at the old woman pottering around in the store, pulling her ill-fitting cardigan across her thin frame. She looked lost and defenceless. For a moment the figures seemed to vibrate, flickering between this place and somewhere else. Then they solidified and bristled with purpose.
**Insert Scene “The Fang Sees The Many, What Do They Do?” scene here**
The shop may have been cold and damp but to Mags it was a second home. She finished dusting and rearranging the display of books in the corner, standing back to admire her work she glanced at the window. The wind rattled the thin panes and worried at the metal shutters. I wonder if Carol, or maybe Jess, would be able to give me a lift home, she thought. The street lights came on, one after the other adding a cool definition to the scene and slowly, she saw them. A collection of oily shadows, mysterious figures stood ranged across the street, all facing the shop, they all seemed to flicker for a second and then, the dozen figures closest to the shop window, moved forward as one.
Mags drew in a deep breath, as she exhaled, she could feel the shop around her, smell the damp and the cold, hear the steady tick, tick, tock of the clock behind the counter. She closed her eyes and took in another deep breath, within the confines of the walls, the displays and the grotty carpets lay something deeper, something richer and sacred. She opened her eyes. The dozen figures stood lined along the windows and the door, pressing themselves onto and through the glass. As Mags scrutinised the shadow figures she exhaled, and sang out a single, sustained F#. She caught the note between her delicate fingers and swiping her left hand released the note to be carried round the dusty shop; the intensity of the single note amplified with each revolution. When Mags was satisfied with its strength, she flicked her left hand up, as if calling a choir to order, and the sound rose through the building. A smile spread across Mags’ face, she planted her feet firmly on the carpet, rolled her shoulders and raised her fists.
**Insert Scene “Haven 2 Part 2” here**
Mags twisted to her left stopping next to the cracked bassoon. The cut on her forehead, spilt warm lines of blood down her face and dripped onto her cardigan. Her chest heaved and her knees ached but her heart sang: it felt good to be fighting again. The dozen invaders were spread out across the shop. Three blocked the door; two stood by the crumpled trumpets; a couple rested by the splintered book display; two more were poised by the up turned drum kit. The last three Mags had proudly left sprawled on the floor among the shattered clock parts. The rest waited outside, charcoal smudges in the darkening street.
The old Siren revelled in the power held in the aging building, the libretto of its history, the rhythmic ostitanto woven into its dank air. Under the rhythm of her own breathing, Mags could feel the music coursing around her like an orchestral ocean. Melody tumbled over melody in perfect counterpoint, crashing against the rocks of the architecture’s relentless beat, just like the waves off Worm’s Head. Mags’ eyes glimmered with the memories of her student days: dawn patrol, watching the spring sun rise over the Gower; laughing with Jacqui and Clara as they waited for the first decent wave.
The three figures on the floor rose upward like the fluid in an aging lava lamp. Mags looked to the myriad guitars lining the wall to her right. She stared into them, seeking out the vibrations in the strings, the resonance and tone in their molasses and honey-coloured wood. With a slow repetitive, curving motion, she drew the power into her body and held it tight in her chest, she inhaled deeply, increasing the strength of the music with every breath.
The Many flickered once and cautiously moved towards her, aware that she had tapped into the power of the place. They slid closer, and started to merge; twelve became eight, then eight became four. Mags balled her thin fingers into fists and concentrated on her breathing. From the back of the shop, she heard the fire exit door snick open, knew in that instant that her Sisters had heard the alarm. She glanced back. Carol was silhouetted in the doorway, a desperate look in her eyes as she took in the scene. Carol’s eyes locked on Mags’ face. The older woman shook her head once, gesturing to the street beyond the window. Carol’s face paled as she saw the rest of The Many. Mags pursed her lips together and blew her dear friend a kiss.
She turned back to the four dark shadows now sliding dangerously close to her. She could feel the cold magnetic energy that pulsed around her, threatening to wrench her apart. Mags closed her eyes, focussing on the energy in her chest. With a single fluid motion, she raised her fists above her head and went down one knee. She brought her fists thudding down onto the dusty carpet. There was a moment of pure silence. In slow motion Mags watched the dust rise from the carpet in tiny flurries. The music reverberated in her chest, pushing her rib cage outward. As the cold energy of The Many snatched at her, Mags pushed all of the harmonic history of the guitars downwards. All the rhythms, the notes, the chords, every last piece of music the guitars had ever known flew from Mags’ chest en belicoso. They surged down her arms and through her fists where they joined with the pulsing rhythms of the decades of footsteps, held in the floorboards.
The four shadow creatures vibrated to a painful new frequency; confused, they writhed in torment as the binding power held firmly in place. Mags glanced back at the fire exit to see the door click shut. Resolute, she nodded once. Hang loose sister, Mags pressed harder into the carpet, grinding her old bones into the floor. Let’s give ‘em hell!
She bound the raw sounds, and the unrefined rhythms together, sweat beading and stinging the cut on her forehead. The Many flickered and found a different frequency, trying to break free. Mags reached in and pulled out her own songs. She breathed life into the notes and pushed them down into her fists. Pouring the last of herself out and holding on to The Many for as long as she could. When Mags’ final notes left her body, as the guitar and the building’s music faltered, her grip loosened enough for The Many to reach out with deadly intent. Mags looked out of the window at the cold grey street and smiled: from nowhere the white capped surf had started to roll in, moving around her, gently rocking her. She closed her eyes and smiled, the sea stung cold as she paddled out, the sun was setting, glinting on the leading edge of her favourite board, but there was just enough time to catch one last wave.
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