In Darkness

The spider

I awoke this morning with sunlight streaming in the bedroom. I lay there watching the motes dance in the light from our window, too befuddled by the last vestiges of sleep to register the rarity of the moment. In the other room I could hear Sam busying himself with breakfast, I could smell the brewing coffee and something else too, a frying egg perhaps. For once there was no sound of roaring air tugging at the roof of the house, just those small domestic sounds that promise a lively day ahead. 

I have never had children, and seldom have I wanted any, but as I lay there I half imagined, half dreamed of what it would be like to have small people in our home, to see those burgeoning lives grow daily, those minds so subtle and quick and vital. I lay still as can be, clinging to the last strands of sleep, clinging to the dream of a life never lived until Sam clomped his way into the room.

Drink your coffee, he said, though not unkindly, the council will not wait for you. 

And what do you think they will do without me? I replied, my voice muffled against the pillow. 

Most likely they’ll enjoy themselves, he said.

I sent him away again, the sounds of children and sunlight and laughter still echoing through my mind.

It is not simply the light. The air smells different this morning too, there is moisture in it, the smell of honey and an uncharacteristic warmth. I have made the descent from my perch on the hill and I will speak with the council and I will listen whether I really want to listen or not, to the ramblings and concerns of the patricians on whom this latest burden lies. I am early to the meeting and I wait on a stone bench. This foreign air disarms me, it breathes upon me and carries me into the far sea as though lifted on wings of memory and fear and beauty and I close my eyes and let it touch my skin and where it touches I feel young, the wrinkles falling away, the blemishes and broken blood vessels turning into dust which the gentle air brushes from my face. I sit immersed in this river of air, the rare sun at my back, and the oncoming day ahead of me holds no danger now, it rushes on like a blanket to envelop me. Where is it from this sense of peace, from where does it descend to grace me at this hour? It is unexpected, it has unseated me, dragging me gently to the earth.

I am drawn from my reverie by the caw of a crow.

I open my eyes, which I am surprised to find i’d closed in my daydream, and I watch the corvids chatter among themselves in the far reaches of the square looking for all the world as though they hide from the sunlight splashing on the cobbles between buildings. Their bodies are a dark stain against the rough walls that make the heart of our town, their avian voices rising in tone and inflection as though a momentous decision is being made, as though tempers are raised and I wonder what, exactly, they discuss and what exactly it could be that would cause such emotion in a bird, even one as crafty and malicious as they are, but then I wonder at myself because once again I am ascribing human emotions to something that cannot be understood in such a way. I am, I fear, sliding ever faster into my senility, but the corvids chatter on, flapping their wings and stamping around the damp stones in consternation. The peace I am feeling ebbs away, drowned in the unease of their squabbling.

Someone approaches from across the square, scattering the birds in their path. A cloud of black angry feathers rise around the man like a billowing cloak. He is very tall and I notice his unique stride before his features become visible in the morning light. It is Janus. He picks his steps carefully, like a hunting spider, which is hardly a description worthy of his office, nor of the esteem in which he is held by the citizens. I mean nothing evil by the comparison, he is a worthy Primus, and I like him well enough, well, enough for someone as vain as he is, but then again who among us does not have some sort of character flaw or another? I cannot hold it against the man, though I do ever so gently mock him about it from time to time. A little vanity in this dark place is hardly the worst of crimes, in fact it might be something to admire given the poor earth from which we spring. I breathe, listening to the clatter of his approaching boots on the stone. I try to blink away the crowding thoughts, I scrabble around me for the sense of grace I held so firmly only moments ago. 

I have known Janus for a long time, and I suppose it is true that with familiarity comes contempt. I began tutoring him when he was little more than a starving wretch, adopted by our former Primus. God knows where Paul had found the scruffy little shit, but Janus was bright, and for whatever the reason Paul was clearly taken with him and wanted him to be raised as a gentleman, moulded in his own image so that he might one day take over the council. So of course he outsourced the work to me. An orphan becoming Primus! Who had heard of such a thing? I was already on the council in those days and still quite young, though not young enough to be of interest to anyone for a decent marriage, and not in any case  interested in the type of man that might enquire, whether they were a suitable partner or not. I was far too preoccupied with politics and philosophy and my own vaunting ambition. Perhaps Janus and I were never so different after all. Paul was not blind to any of this, and clearly considered me to be a suitable teacher.

I lived high above the town, as I do now, in the house of my parents and the young man would trudge his way up the slope to visit without enthusiasm but also without malice, as if he knew even then that things might be far worse for him if it were not for the unlikely twist of fortune that had brought him to the attention of Paul. To endure history lessons from the odd, lonely woman on the hill was, I suppose, an acceptable payment for his dramatic change in fortunes. When he first came to me he knew little more than the prayers and litanies every peasant recites, the squalid lines of superstition invoked to ward off evil or to promise success, invoked out of desperation, those worn-out prayers of Saint Simeon that echo daily through the mines and fields and yes, I admit, in my own house. I wondered many times how it came to be that this small, starved boy had been put in my charge. What a mystery to me he was. I taught him our history, the industry and wars and treaties and great men who littered the past like so many ghosts. I taught him about the exodus and the lingering. I taught him about who Simeon really was, not a man of god, but a good man all the same and I tried, god knows that I did, to impart some sort of wisdom to the boy. I filled his clever mind with what I hoped was a subtle appreciation of the times we inhabit as well as the trajectory of our world, the direction of which was very different from his own, an upward arc in both a literal and metaphorical sense as the boy grew quickly, nurtured like a young prince by his benefactor, his gaunt, childish face becoming thoughtful and handsome, his limbs richly dressed and his mind quick. It seems so long ago. Now his hair is greying. His age lends him a gravitas he can never quite muster when he opens his mouth. His voice is perhaps the one mis-matched part of him, oddly high-pitched and carrying in it a permanent note of uncertainty. He would never be one to rouse an army to fury, nor a lover to passion. Perhaps to make up for this betrayal of tone, his usual manner is calm and amused, with that appealing spark of intelligence ever present in his eyes. Such a look allows him to stay silent while others babble and so allow him to remain the smartest man in the room.

He has become powerful, my young charge, as it was always intended for him and he is not someone not to be trifled with - even by his old and, I hope, beloved teacher. Heis a man that can mislead when it suits him and I know also that he is more fearful than he would ever admit, fearful of the capital, fearful of being unloved, fearful that we will find that fault which exposes him once and for all, the fault which undoes his fragile nobility and uncovers the miserable orphan beneath.

You are looking well, Iris, he says as he arrives before me and he nods his head to me in deference, whether to my age, wisdom, or rank I cannot quite tell but all the same I respond with the required pleasantries, I nod to him in return and force myself to my feet. 

And you, Primus, I say and then as an afterthought and your wife and children? 

They are doing very well, he says, but they have a tendency to make so much noise that I find it a relief to return to the council chamber. 

Such is the way of girls their age, I reply, 

Do you mean my wife or my daughters? He says, and I laugh, 

Peregrine was always a strong spirit, I reply, and much to be admired for it. 

Quite, he says, though I fear it ages me prematurely, 

Oh, you’re quite mature enough, Janus. He adopts that wry look of his, then leads me by the elbow toward the council building. 

You’ve seen this sort of thing before, he says, you must know what they mean by it. 

I do not know what they mean apart from the obvious, we must increase our contribution Janus, we must, with sweat and sacrifice, raise the tithe, 

but it is impossible, he replies, it will crush our people as surely as drought or famine, it is a foolish request, one that breaks the unspoken truce and lays the burden of the capital squarely on the backs of our people. 

This is true, I respond, but what would we do about it? There is no legal recourse open to us, other than the appeals we’ve already made and they have been rebuffed. We cannot refuse, or face the wrath of the wardens. Any form of physical resistance would only result in greater suffering for our people than simply complying in the first place. Therefore, in my mind, there is nothing for it but to comply, and then, through more subtle means, turn an impossible situation to our advantage. 

But what advantage? Janus asks. 

That, I say, is something worthy of more discussion. Let the council first decide what it is we need most, then explore whether we can parlay with the capital to achieve it. 

I am not optimistic about such a scheme working in our favour, says Janus. 

Neither am I, I respond, but optimism is a luxury we should not indulge. Even tiny concessions may prove important in time. They will provide us some small room in which to manoeuvre. 

Ha, says Janus, more a statement than a laugh. You still are a crafty old bird. 

Isn’t that why you asked me here? Drag the old witch down from the mountain and get her to propose the sneaky thing, let her old, twisted mind come up with the plans you’re all too noble to propose? 

I didn't mean it that way. 

Rubbish. Of course you did. But don’t let it worry you. Offending me is the least of our problems right now.

Janus stops at the steps before the doors of the council chamber. The chamber is the cold heart of a tall concrete building many centuries old, a cement mountain that rises above the town, imposing and solid, its sculptural form visible for miles around. He looks up, past the building, to the shadow of the mountain itself, dark upon dark.

Janus, I say quietly, do we have enough sleep in reserve? 

He takes a deep breath, as though figuring the quantities in his head, yes, I think so, he says at last. He is quiet for a while longer. The crows are beginning to raise their voices again. He waves his hand as if to silence them.

We can draw out our supply, rationing it for the most productive teams. We could even extend the privilege for the support teams and allow them to work in shifts. That would free up a substantial amount. 

For the moment I am too shocked to speak. Janus appears to be thinking, his gaze returning to the mountain. I break the silence. 

Is that wise, I ask, 

I don’t know, he replies, questions of wisdom are usually reserved for the old witch. The silence descends again, like falling snow.

To extend the privilege to some workers while removing it from others is a dangerous prospect. It is not something that is easily reversed. To live without true sleep is not a state that can be sustained indefinitely, and so we use the lever of sleep to reward hard work, to recognise rank, and to repay a service, something that must be managed very carefully lest resentment fester among the population, a bitterness that can turn to psychosis in those who give themselves over to the drugs on which our productivity depends. On the rare occasions where the privilege has been withheld from the population, with cruel intent or not, there have been problems of both dependency on the drug and violence when it is withdrawn. But to grant some workers greater access to the privilege, on a par with the patriciate, is unheard of. It breaks not only with tradition but with civil order.

I am surprised at you for suggesting it Janus, I say, sleep is a dangerous thing with which to play.

But I am not playing, he says, and neither is the capital. If we wish to escape the judgement of the wardens we will have to find some room in which to manoeuvre, as you say. Clinging to our privilege, as though it were ours alone, is not something I believe we can afford.

Janus is quiet again. I notice that people have begun to arrive. 

Do not talk about this with the others, says Janus, and he turns away, picking his way up the steps looking for all the world like he is climbing a web.

The council chamber is a dry place in which we discuss dry matters, it absorbs sounds and flattens emotion, it stacks the patricians like so much cordwood within its beautifully proportioned walls, cast in situ, the polished concrete which should cause our voices to echo and yet does not, a miracle of acoustic design that entombs our words within this place, which acts against the nature of the materials from which it is built, some ancient magic perhaps, or an architectural joke by a long forgotten civil designer who felt as though he’d heard enough from the august nobility and yet here we gather, leaning forward on our benches to catch the words which fall so quickly to the floor.

I take my place at the high table to the right of Janus. There are seven seats at the table for the councillors. Six of them are occupied, two to the right of me, and two on the order side of Janus. I do not see William, the seventh, and this comes as a relief because I dislike William intensely, but as I wonder about his absence I also begin to wonder what that scheming man is up to, my mind racing to the worst of explanations rather than any normal excuse such as ill-health or family concerns or some other plausible and perfectly sensible explanation because such goodwill is something that William used up long ago. He is, quite possibly, the most selfish man I have ever known.

Regardless of his reasons this is not the kind of meeting that anyone on the council should miss, though I suppose it wouldn’t matter a great deal if some of them did, the remaining members being un-noteworthy, in-bred patricians who have earned their place at the table with little more than the accident of their births. They are nice people, in the malicious way that some people are nice, a matter of form and practice rather than generous intent, a way of condemning anyone that might act with passion or conviction, a studied stupidity that has been refined to an artform over countless generations and is most easily identified when they smile, a cold but perfectly-formed expression which captures perfectly the paucity of their souls. 

Stupidity and malice is, I suppose, a dangerous mix with which to govern, but such is the way of things and Janus does a good job of keeping them in-hand, all of which I have spent much of my life bringing into being, grooming him for this role so that he could steer our diminished nobles toward sensible outcomes.

The crowd begins to find its seats, the voices quieten. Janus welcomes them. He outlines the position we now find ourselves in, something we all know of course, but the groundwork must be laid, and in this effort, this demarcation of the problem, there is the real power that Janus wields, the ability to set the tone, the boundaries of our responsibility, to shape the issue we must address in such a way that there can only be a single solution, that solution being the thing Janus wants all along. We are fortunate, I feel, that Janus is not as avaricious as some within the chamber, nor entirely blinded by self interest.

The messenger has provided us with a directive from the capital, says Janus, the words of that directive are as follows: “Matheson will double the harvest. Failure to do so will incur a penalty.” He pauses for a moment. The room has sucked away his words. There is silence. That is the entire message. I have questioned the messenger, I have asked him for more detail or at least some explanation, but none has been forthcoming.

As he talks I look around the room and examine the faces of my fellow patricians. They are plump, pale, and sour. We are a room of curdled people. As Janus talks on, stating the obvious and laying out the many and complex challenges of doubling production without any increase in workforce or resources I muse upon the history that has brought us here and I wonder if we have the capacity to ever leave this place and I realise that perhaps we never will, perhaps anyone who might have left has done so already and it is our fate to remain here, doubling production every few years into the distant future for the distant capital, competing with the similarly wan people of Selkirk for the favour of a distant god, and in all of this striving what has my education been worth? What has my much vaunted cleverness ever achieved that the rest of the patriciate would not have stumbled across anyway, left to their own devices? Who have I saved in my years of manoeuvring and toil? If we were to give up, if we were to refuse the capital and let the wardens come and destroy us, what would it matter? Why do I keep trying to save this town?

Do not ask why, I say out loud, a statement that finds its way out of my mouth without warning, Do not ask why, I repeat, this time more slowly and clearly. Janus turns to me, pausing in his flow of words, then gives a subtle nod. I stand, slowly. 

I apologise Primus, but you do go on. There are some nervous titters of laughter among the crowd. I pause for a moment longer, compiling my thoughts. Do not ask why. We will lose our minds trying to answer that question. We do not have the power to change their minds. We do not have the power to understand their intentions. We can only acquiesce to their demands or be crushed by the wardens. It is a simple choice. They will destroy us - we here in this room - if we do not implement their wishes. They will not destroy the citizens. We have seen it before. I pause for a moment to let that sink in. They have all seen it, they remember the flaying of other small towns, they have embraced the refugees from the capital's wrath in years past. Do not ask why. I say again. Do you understand? We are replaceable. The citizens are not. So, if we wish to remain, then, we must acquiesce, and what else can we do but remain - it is who we are. The question is not why, but how. Justice can wait.

I sit down, feeling every one of my years. There are murmurs throughout the room and plenty of references to the old witch, and worse, made just loud enough so I can hear them, but there are no objections to my words that are worthy of consideration. 

Janus stands and straightens his tunic, perhaps a little too assiduously, as though I am perhaps to take something from this action. He looks at me then turns back to the crowd. 

I thank Iris for her wise words, says Janus, and she is right, of course, we cannot refuse the capital but perhaps we can influence them in certain matters, perhaps we can even find ways to optimise our production that have not previously been considered. There are a myriad of possibilities in this situation and we must focus on them. I am not sure everyone is convinced by these words and given Janus’ inherently uncertain tone, who could blame them, but perhaps it is enough for now. I do not hear any calls for outright rebellion, nor refusal or counter-offers.

Janus, sensing that he has navigated the sharpest end of the conversation, steers the talk towards resources and whether we can request direct assistance from the capital for equipment, pharmaceutical assistance, and improved access to travel for managing such transactions as might be required to increase production. There are murmurs at this last, some sensing an opportunity for greater business and freedom of movement. Of course, by discussing such things it is obvious that they have accepted the situation as it is and this, after all, is the important thing, a necessary step towards avoiding disaster and buying us the time required to respond to the capital productively.

There is some discussion of seeking assurances in return for our acquiescence, as though we were in any position to demand things, and even should we be foolish to make such a demand, what would we be assured of? Safety? Protection? And from what? The only threat to us other than the weather is the capital itself. I cannot fully believe that safety is what my fellow patricians are after because despite their civic pride, worn like a mildewed vestment at every opportunity, this sacred cloak that weighs down both body and soul, despite this theatrical loyalty I know one thing for certain:  if any of them were offered a place in the city they would take it. They want more than anything to leave, to be clutched to the bosom of the capital, to be offered transport to new worlds, worlds of sunlight and promise and growth. They would burn this town to the ground for the chance and I fear our messenger does not understand how vicious these provincial and stupid people can be.

The meeting drags on for too long, and Janus does his best to keep the conversation away from the existentialist hand-wringing so beloved of Matheson’s leaders, a course of action necessary if only to ensure that morale does not entirely collapse, to create the illusion of agency among our nobility but even so, before long my attention is drifting. I notice William, dark-haired and unkempt, sneak into the chamber. He crabs his way to the high table, nods to Janus, and sits down. He leans forward in his chair, as though rapt in the words of the overweight clerk of production who is currently holding forth on the details of the last month’s harvest in exquisite detail. Easy enough to do if you haven’t already been listening to it for an hour and a half.

Eventually, the meeting ends and much as it began. The people will listen to the words of this old witch and they will not ask why. Instead we will get on with the business of figuring out the how, and we will live to fight another day, or if not fight then at least work, and if not live then at least exist, lingering here in the grey fields and valleys below our mountain, digging out the minerals that propel others onward to a new existence while we hope and plot and scheme for the chance to join them.