On my fifteenth attempt, my herald struggled to develop, relying too heavily on mortar and stone. His foundations were weak, and his tower unsteady. How long, I wonder, would mortals live underestimating matters of the spirit? Some things natural law cannot explain: blood, bone, and faith making far better supports than limestone and springs. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
Pyramids, trusses, and fortified right angles. Alexander stacked polished wooden pieces against the cold cellar floor. His tower had to be flexible, so he broke the old grandfather clock in the corner next to unopened bottles of ivory ale and recycled the metalwork, creating a spring and pulley system that he mounted against the wooden foundation. He dug up the bricks and laid them against the base, burying his tower with the springs and gears. The structure wobbled as he stomped the ground but did not topple.
Alexander wiped the sweat from his brow, sitting back, pleased with his progress. Working on models kept him occupied and less concerned about the screams above, but they were getting louder.
Dust fell from the ceiling as footsteps clamored against the wooden floors. There were shouts and cries for water, a harsh thumping noise as the screams reached a fever pitch. Which young woman was it this time, and why hadn’t they fetched him yet?
Alexander would’ve rather been called, beaten, and shunned. At least then, there was a certainty to it—a comfort that came from knowing fate rather than waiting for it. He’d asked Decima, but she refused to read his tapestry. The woman was convinced that it was better not to know, telling him that her father had met his end through such arrogance.
He disagreed.
Certainty was better than gnawing at his fingers, forcing the butterflies in his belly to heel, waiting in anticipation for the birth of a true heir. Perhaps his father had grown tired of venting his frustrations, or rather, he felt it was more cruel to make Alexander wait, lying in fear, unaware of the outcome.
No, Alexander refused to give his father what he wanted and so he stuffed rags in his misshapen ears and sorted the wine collection, stacking bottles on the cellar floor and freeing circular wooden pieces from the wine racks.
Circles worked better than squares, so he bound and bundled tubes with elastic bands and sunk them into the model’s foundation. Then, he worked on the triangular trusses, mounting wooden pegs and iron pins against every right angle. His structure grew steady, jutting from the earth and toward the ceiling, but it wasn’t enough.
He stacked the circular wooden bricks higher, tearing apart the cellar for materials, rusted bottle openers from a dusty shoebox, legs from a broken rocking chair, and springs from a worn mattress. His model became a chimeric collaboration of antique cellar junk shaped into an impressive tower, but soon it grew unstable.
Alexander licked his lips, standing on his tip-toes as he carefully placed a bottle on the leaning structure. Something cracked, striking his knee as the adhesive moaned and split. The tower collapsed, showering against the floor in a rain of wood, metal, glass, and cork.
He blushed, throwing a wooden strut against the wall so hard it broke into pieces.
How was he to construct a tower capable of piercing the heavens if he couldn’t even build a model to the ceiling?!
He sighed, lying on his now deflated mattress, the curve of his back forcing him into an awkward position as he tossed and turned. There wasn’t even wind and still, his towers fell. The forces of nature were his greatest enemy, and he hadn’t yet overcome them.
Alexander ripped the rags from his ears, and his breath caught in his throat.
There was nothing but silence. His heart hammered in his chest as beads of sweat formed along his brow.
The clamoring above had stopped, leaving nothing but hushed whispers. Then came the soft clicking of a cane tapping towards the cellar door. It opened, flooding the basement with light.
He squinted in pain, holding his hands against his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, his lips curled into a mocking sneer. He carried an infant child in his arms swaddled in thin white sheets.
“Alexander,” he called, never leaving the doorway. “I want you to meet your baby brother.”
Alexander’s stomach dropped, shrinking from the cellar door and hiding behind the bottles and broken shelves.
The man laughed. “Sleep well, my son.” He slammed the cellar door, casting the room in darkness.
— ✦ —
Alexander couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling with salt caked to his cheeks. His throat was dry, and he coughed, a rake against his tongue. He longed to see Decima again, to lie in her lap and have her stroke his cheek as they kissed. There was so much left unsaid. If only he’d asked her to marry him, but then what if she said no? The thought seemed so silly now that it was too late. Who cares if she did? At least he would’ve tried and left no regrets.
“If only I could do it all over again,” he said. “I’d ask you… No, I’d take you as mine.”
“And if I allowed you a second chance, would you do as I say?” came a voice like the protesting of iron against a hot anvil.
He went stiff, a cold chill running down his spine and setting every fiber of his being on edge. His nostrils flared, a metallic scent burning his nose and leaving the back of his throat tasting like rusted metal.
Something moved in the darkness, the sound of heavy feet grinding against the loose bricks and broken bottles. A lens emerged; a camera tethered to leathery bellows that extended like the neck of a foreign mammal. Its fingers retracted, blades into a sheath, and gears spun within its throat, pressing against the leather, leaving hints of advanced metalwork beneath.
Alexander yelled, pushing himself off the mattress and scrambling against the wall, his arm trembling and his eyes wide.
“Be not afraid. I come only to offer guidance,” the creature said, sifting through the remains of his model tower. “You relied too much on uncured adhesive and your pinwork leaves much to be desired.”
Bits of super-heated iron snapped against the floor from its exposed chest where a heart made of nylon, glass, and brittle bones thumped against the loose piping, bending its ribs outward.
Alexander’s jaw went slack staring at the spinning gears in its joints and the tattered cloak draped over its shoulders. It was as if a steam engine were aware of its nakedness. “What are you?” he asked, his lips quivering.
“A concerned observer, nothing more.” The creature dug up the model’s foundation, running the razor edge of its fingers along the splintered wood and broken springs. “Tell me, child. Do you love my daughter?”
Alexander gulped, the bricks breaking beneath the sentient machine’s cloven metal hooves as the bellows of its neck extended. The creature’s lens hovered mere inches from his forehead and though he couldn’t see its jaw, he could feel its breath against his throat like the heat of a hungry furnace.
“You need not answer. Your tapestry has but one seam. The first men would scoff at such a fate, but my daughter wasn’t given a choice either. Still, traditions must be upheld. Did you not know that a man must always ask the father’s permission before marrying his daughter?” It shook its head. “I suppose not. You were raised in a sewer and though she has taught you to read and write, much of etiquette remains foreign to you.”
“I will forgive you this once and forgo the initial rituals, but you must provide a dowry for so precious a gift as she.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Isn’t that obvious? Who do you think stitched the makings of a great tower into your fate? That is to be your dowry to me, Alexander. Nothing of lesser value shall I accept in its stead, for she is worth far more.” The creature’s neck retracted, returning its attention to the debris littering the floor. “I’ve tried many times, child of death. At first, I thought riches would be sufficient motivation, but men stumbled, and the tower faltered.”
It plucked the broken wooden splinters, tiny metallic digits erupting from its knuckles, stroking the wooden grain with a strange silvery thread that bound the pieces together. The machine sunk the bundled tubes and hollow triangles deep into the earth and layered springs and pulleys within the tower, creating a pendulum like the innards of a clock.
“I next offered a monarchy with lands as far as the eyes could see, but again man faltered, growing lazy and complacent, their architecture crumbling into dust. I learned then that such banal motivations wouldn’t do.”
The tower took shape and on each layer; it fashioned a new pendulum, working in tandem with the one beneath a counterweight and balance for each floor. The creature used pieces of its own body, herringbone, rack and pinion, hypoid, miter, and sprockets. It left the layers open as it proceeded, instruction through vivisection, an unnatural lesson of architecture, porous cork, and glass.
“What motivates men to climb the tallest mountains, reach for the heavens, and betray their faith to a god in favor of another?” the machine asked, shifting its focus back to Alexander. “The answer was in front of me all this time.” It paused. “A woman, of course. And for so great a structure, not just any woman would do, but my daughter, a duchess of fate.”
“This is impossible,” Alexander said, touching the model’s inner workings, his hand trembling. “The laws of nature forbid such a construction.”
Its chest heaved, steam erupting from its neck as it laughed or coughed. It was hard to tell from the sounds of grinding metal. “Iapyx, the god of fate, was killed by his brother and cast into the depths of the underworld. He built the first tower on the back of a giant and escaped Tartarus. I assure you that even with the poultry laws of your peninsula, it is possible.” The creature’s hands rested on his shoulder. “It’s time for you to take fate into your own hands. Subdue the giant in your life and bury him beneath the foundation and I swear, in the name of the god of fate, your tower shall never fall.”
— ✦ —
Alabaster stood before a wash basin, lifting his chin as he smoothly drew a razor’s edge along his jaw. Thirty degrees downward with even strokes, no pressure, haste only cut deep. His fingers pressed on the tang and his thumb rotated about the heel as he slid the blade along his neck. He winced a close shave, slapping the razor against the basin’s edge. He dabbed his jawline with a towel and ran his fingers under his chin, satisfied.
Alabaster straightened his vest, tied a sash along his waist with the knot facing his beltline, and polished his leather shoes to an unnatural shine. The pants were pressed, the collar tucked, the cufflinks silver-gold, and the laces spun with ivory. He pressed his fist against his chest and knocked his heels together, a perfect salute.
Balance. Nothing in life was more important. He smiled, drawing his fingers through his thinning gray hair.
There was satisfaction in having one’s house in order, the sheets turned down, and the silverware set. Those who worked for him knew how to arrange books alphabetically and pour tea with the silver chin up; not a drop spilled on the tray.
He’d beaten people for less.
Strict adherence to the rule of law and order. Discipline was just another form of training. His subjects learned and grew as men and women into fine, upstanding members of his court. Scars were but faded chalk marks on a prized lecture board. He took pride in their achievements and felt shame in their failures as a father should.
He slapped the leather strop against his shoulder, his lips curling into a sneer.
That Delilah had produced such a grotesque monstrosity before her death. The gods spat in his face the day Alexander took his first breath. Such an unyielding creature that skulked in the dark. Rumors spread about that monster with hushed whispers on the streets, claiming it was his son. Alabaster couldn’t have that, but now that his true heir was born, Delilah wouldn’t have to be alone much longer.
Alabaster nodded, carefully checking the buttons of his vest and the shape of his collar. A baby cried from the crib in his bedroom. He frowned, dropping the razor in an empty bronze bowl.
“Be patient, my son,” he said. “I will be there shortly.”
He turned to look in the mirror and saw swollen, tattered lips and a crooked jaw, Alexander’s eyes flashing over his shoulder. He screamed, reaching for the razor, but he was struck from behind and everything went dark.
— ✦ —
Alabaster woke moaning, his head throbbing, and his vision obscured by dried blood. His hands and feet were bound, and he felt weak, the world spinning as he was dragged by his ankles deep into the cellar. He recognized the smell, mold, sour wine, and the spicy tang of a summer ale. His head thumped against the stairs until he reached the hard cellar floor, broken glass and wooden splinters catching on his uniform.
Alexander towered above him and in the dim lights of that cramped storeroom, he saw him as he was, misshapen and broken. The boy’s left arm grew into his chest, his back hunched and swollen, his face framed with benign growth, whisps of hair, and crooked teeth. It was as if his sins stared back at him, ugly and festering, desperate for a way out.
“Despite our differences,” Alexander said. “I’ve never wished for you to die, father. A sentiment I wished we shared.”
These were not the words of a savage, an unlearned boy who knew nothing of the surface world save for wine and wood. This creature looked back at him and something in his eyes set the hairs on Alabaster’s arms on end—foreign intelligence like a parasite inhabiting the body of a plague-touched gutter rat.
“You are not my son,” he said, spitting blood. “Who-what are you?”
“How many years has it been since we’ve spoken at length? Of course, I’ve changed, father. If you’d bothered to notice me over the last ten years, you’d known that, but instead, I must take matters into my own hands.” He leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “I’m not afraid of you any longer. Ironic, isn’t it, that a god of fate would have to show me?” Alexander threw him against the wall where a large stack of bricks lay next to a trench more than a foot deep. “Have no fear, father. The gods have shared with me your role in this divine theater.”
“Don’t be a fool! You can’t possibly get away with this! You’ll be killed!” Alabaster bit his lip as Alexander tied him against the wall. “I may have been too harsh with you. Untie me and I will reconsider your position. Don’t make things worse for yourself!”
“I want to believe you. I do, but wanting and reality so often contradict,” Alexander said, securing the chains and mixing bottles of uncured ale with a thick powdery substance in a discarded iron vessel. “I find it interesting that you have yet to ask after your child’s safety. A real father wouldn’t hesitate, but not you. My half-brother will live a far better life with his mother.”
Alabaster’s jaw went slack, his tongue wagging, unable to find the words. It didn’t matter. Alexander gagged him, tying a dirty rag tight against his mouth.
“There are two things that materials in masonry share,” Alexander said while stirring slowly with a crooked grin. “Two things, Father. Bricks are heavy and rigid. They do not bend and often break, so the ground has to be firm and steady.” He filled the trench with mortar and began laying the bricks. “Water is insidious. It slips into the cracks and expands when it freezes. Stones are reduced to rubble, so we must build below the frost depth. But don’t you worry, Father. Down here, water will not touch you, will not break you.”
Alabaster struggled against his bindings, chewing on the gag, as his son laid brick after brick, the light of a distant torch flickering above the wine.
“I need solid ground, Father, but crushed stone will work. Anything to help distribute the weight. Yes, my footings must be strong and wider than the walls, but every great structure has an architect willing to bend the rules.”
Alexander’s stonework was methodical, brick by brick, and layer by layer it became a wall behind which Alabaster spit and growled. He tried to scream, choking on the rag as the flickering torch and wine vanished beneath wet mortar, bricks, and stone.
“Be proud, Father.” Alexander fit the last brick like the final puzzle piece. “I choose you to be my first footing. While you are indeed weak, made of flesh and not stone, my god will give you strength, and you, like Atlas, will carry the weight of the world upon your back.”
His father moaned, beating his head against the stone and mortar, flailing in the darkness, never to be heard again.
“Yes, Father,” said Alexander Oswald, the lord of the manor. “Like Atlas, the weight of the world is now yours to bear.”