The Hawler (part twenty-five)

It is difficult to imagine the world being better or worse than it actually is. However, without humanity to stain its pages, who knows what will then become imaginable or even real? There is a theory – to which I subscribe – that humanity “strobes” in and out of existence, selective collective-memory then forcing the ‘alight’ stage to forget the previous ‘switched-off’ one … time and time again. Mass consciousness flickering in and out of existence like a faulty lighthouse … or, indeed, a fully working lighthouse.

****
The Drill’s corporate lounge is empty and silent, except for the odd eerie shaking of the wall maps as its relentless path – through the ribbons of reality that is Inner Earth – continues towards the Core. There is now nobody, even Nemo, to watch the vista through the windows, as the vanes once more struggle to clear the Drill’s off-detritus to the rear from the leading-edge. There is what seems to be an old-style caravan stuck on a crag – above a deceptively real sea – and (in the Core’s scatter-orange light), a sign can just be discerned saying ‘The Angerfin Public House’ planted clumsily on its roof – but then it is gone. Must be a crazy dream. But whose?

****
The jolt has finally finished, if one can actually imagine a jolt (by definition) that endures for more than just a few seconds. The rearward cabin is empty – as can be seen when the light slowly wells back into it. The window still simply shows the passing crazy-paved slabs of earth. So, at least, that vista was not just the inhabitant’s imagination. A tortoiseshell hairbrush falls to the carpet, having sat as an object ill-becalmed for a while on the edge of the dressing-table following the initial jolt. Then silence again. And a mirror merely reflecting yellow wallpaper.

****
The city pub was empty. Merely that. The optics of the shorts gleamed as time threatened to begin another diurnal round with unforgiving dawnlight. The city started to thrum, but thrummed with what? It may never be known. A barstool clattered to the pub carpet (clattered, despite the carpet) and remained there, unlifted and artistically sacrosanct like a Turner prize. What caused it to topple was a short sharp jolt that nobody felt.

****
The top flat still retained its open curtain policy on silent runners. The empty Dry Dock could be seen, even in the dark. A tall tower-block in the distance winked like a gigantically based but underwhelming lighthouse light. A computer screen in the room blinked blankly in curious yellow. An empty veil fluttered on the carpet like a butterfly.

****
The covered market was at rest, no commuters changing for even the wrong routes, let alone the right ones. A route exchange, a root filling … and the container lorries neatly parked alongside – perhaps forever, until they dropped an inch or two upon tired wheels.

****
In the service tunnel - where the Hawler and his party (now unknown, unnamed, forgotten or even nemonymous people) had been training for further encroachment towards the Core itself - there was still the rattle of buckets as if in automatic fire-drill climbing towards the surface on pulleys. There were a few discarded carpet coats and yellow clogs. One pair of clogs had spurs and silver toecaps, the spurs still slightly jingle-jangling as if someone had just taken them off in a pique of feminine tantrum.

****
The city zoo echoed with snorting squawks. After all, it was only humanity gone missing for the nonce. And a few (very few) residual clockwork toys in the insect enclosure were still pitifully trying to bury themselves.

(END OF 'NEMONYMOUS NAVIGATION')

Here is some more background reading:
RIBBONS OF REALITY 'Mystique' 1995

(THE HAWLER continued here: part twenty-six)

===========