The Circle of Life

The grey clouds overhead part momentarily allowing a shaft of golden sunlight to trickle down through the overcast sky. Down between the crooked chimney pots waving their dancing grey streamers, glancing from the proudly polished flank of a passing omnibus before stumbling through the rushing hoop of a flat capped child, until, finally striking a tiny grime smeared window.

The window is small and low. The only source of natural light for the basement room that it strains to illuminate. The dribble of light that has struggled through the grime tries to dispel the shadows cast by the old tallow candle being used to light the long, wooden workbench. A bench which runs nearly the entire width of the small, stone walled room.

            A huge eye. Unblinking, it watches as metal pincers perform a delicate dance before it. Gripping, lifting, dropping, twisting. Each movement a carefully choreographed part of a greater work.

A scratching. The great eye darts to the right, directing its unblinking stare to the source of the abrasive noise. Its stops. The great eye focuses back on the brazen dancers before it.

Again the scratching.

The great eye pierces the culprit with its lance like stare. The eye retreats and diminishes.

            “Must you insist on incessantly scratching your trivial thoughts into that grubby little notebook?” protests the owner of the eye quietly in his silken voice. 

            He sits at the bench, now bolt upright, a smart shirt and waistcoat clothing his torso. On his lower half he wears a pair of smart, straight trousers above a pair of polished, if slightly dusty shoes. On the desk glimmers a myriad collection of brass cogs and sprockets, screws, spacers, springs and levers. There is a small red stained, leather bound notebook, nearly new, filled with complicated looking plans. A magnifying stand catches the candle light, a spectrum playing across the curved glass lens. The being currently fixed in his steely gaze is a dishevelled creature. He is dressed in a torn and ripped suit, his hair is unkempt and a grubby bandage is looped around his arm. In his hands are the objects of his masters irritation. A small black notebook, a shabby parody of his masters unspoiled volume, and old lead pencil.

            “Apologies…” he rasps.

            “No matter… “ he says, releasing him from his penetrating gaze.

            Once more he bends his back, picks up his tweezers and returns to his work…

Time passes…

            The object of the figures industry begins to take form. The mass of brass components is slowly coalescing into a recognisable shape. The desk, once covered in a million different elements, begins to be home to a few larger conglomerations. Some clicking, some whirring; all utterly complicated.

            The light from the candle now illuminates a figure whose suit is well worn, whose shoes are now scuffed and whose hair, once slicked back and ordered, now hangs down around his brow.

            He speaks.

“It’s near constant! A constant scratching, gnawing away at my mind” he mutters. “How am I supposed to focus on my work?”

            “I’m sorry. I try to be unobtrusive…” he says, tucking the little black book into his threadbare pocket.

            “Well try harder! I begin to feel that your constant niggling at my consciousness is a ploy to unhinge!”

            “No sir! I would never…”

            “Well stop! I must work!” he asserts with passion.

And he does.

Picking up one of his assemblies he begins to join it to another. With regular reference to his now slightly dog eared red notebook, the product of his labour begins to take shape…

Time passes…

            A shadowy mass lies crumpled on the floor before him. He stands over him, his eyes wide, uncomprehending.

 Seething. He was seething. Skin stretched tight across bunched fists. Jaw clenched. Before he knew what was happening he had had his hands around the throat of the source of his resentment. He had felt panicked hands clawing at his arms as he held him. He hadn’t meant to break him. He had been surprised when he heard the sharp crack of something in his neck give way. He was so shocked he didn’t even drop him as he shuddered in his clutch, only releasing him to slump to the ground when he finally became still.

“W-what…” he stammers, staring at the half seen mass on the floor before him. “I didn’t mean…”

He falls silent as he notices half a pencil on the floor, splintered in two in the struggle. A black notebook lies nearby. He stoops and picks it up. With a shaking hand he opens the book and gazes in astonishment at the contents. The notebook contains neatly ordered rows of the owner’s tiny, neat handwriting. It seems to be descriptions of his deeds, things he has said, his mood, his mannerisms; a complete observational record of his actions and state of mind.

Puzzled he flicks backwards to the beginning of the book and is stunned to see diagrams. Beautiful, delicately drawn diagrams of complex mechanisms, systems of levers and pulleys, ingenious mechanical computation devices, so similar to the contents of his own notebook! All designed to fit perfectly the outline of a human form…

He turns his head. Behind him, on the bench lies the unmistakable form of a man. A man made of brass. The focus of his labours. Cogs and levers for his innards, delicate systems of springs and pulleys his muscles, cunningly wrought glass orbs for its eyes, skillfully fashioned metal irises… The candles glow glimmers from the polished surfaces.

He casts his gaze back down, across his tattered suit, to the book in his hand, amazed at the similarity. Until…

He sees the ripped sleeve of his shirt, torn by the clawing hands of his victim.

He sees the ruptured skin beneath his worn shirtsleeve...

He sees the faintest... Glimmer... Of brass…

He leans on the bench, his mind spinning, as the full force of revelation hits him.

All he can do is stand there.

For a full thirty minutes he stands there. As still as an unwound clock...

Finally. He stirs.

He knows what he must do. He stands up straight once more and wraps an old piece of cloth around his damaged arm.

“I must finish what he started,” he says…

Time passes…

            The grey clouds overhead part momentarily allowing a shaft of golden sunlight to trickle down through the overcast sky. Down between the proud television aerials, standing sentinel above the rooftops, glancing from the dust stained red trim of a passing double-decker before being pushed aside by a chain of day-glo clad schoolchildren, until finally it strikes a tiny grime smeared window.

The window is small and low. The only source of natural light for the basement room that it strains to illuminate. The dribble of light that has struggled through the grime tries to dispel the shadows cast by the old tallow candle being used to light the long, wooden workbench. A bench which runs nearly the entire width of the small, stone walled room.

A figure sits at the bench. He is dressed in a smart shirt, waistcoat, straight trousers and highly polished shoes. Opposite him, on the other side of the room sits a dishevelled looking figure in a torn and ripped suit. He has unkempt hair and a grubby bandage looped around his arm. In his hands are a pencil and a small, red stained leather bound notebook.

He merely sits there. Watching. A pencil poised in his hand.

            A huge eye. 
            Unblinking.

B.