Nick – Page 2 – Nickolaus King

Milt Sinew and Cold Station

Temperatures outside the isolated station were cold enough that even inside the heat-generating metal walls, people’s breath still puffed in clouds as they moved through the halls, bumping each other continually because every corridor was only wide enough for one and a half average people, and the gravity’s pull on everyone, coupled with the indulgent diet designed to stave off depression, made everyone a little rounder than average.

Milt Sinew observed this again as he stood in the surface elevator waiting for the doors to close. He fished in his deep pockets and mentally grabbed hold of one of those last thoughts. A diet designed to stave off depression. It hadn’t worked too well. Everyone he knew was in a shade of the blues. Even he, the laughing, joker of the crew was only standing in this elevator because the trip up to the surface was long enough for him to let out a sigh.

The doors finally closed. There was a pause before the elevator began to progress upward. Milt drew in a breath, and sighed it out. His fingers finally found the box in his pocket, and he pinched inside it to draw one long white cigarette into view. He perched it between his lips and fumbled for the lighter in his other pocket. The smoke bobbed in and out of his vision as he raised the little flame to its end. The next moment he was breathing warmth and heat, the only warmth and heat that could be found around here.

The elevator dinged to a halt, faster than anticipated. Milt sucked smoke into the back of his throat as the doors opened and the ever-present janitor stared into the chamber.

“You coming out?” he asked through fat jowls that looked like extra marshmallows were stuffed in them.

Milt smiled thinly and shook his head once, holding his breath and mentally urging the doors to hurry up and close. Once they slid back shut over the blank face of the janitor, he exhaled, sending simultaneous bursts of smoke and breath vapor billowing into the chamber. Milt coughed. He was used to taking risks like that, and having them turn out fine. Usually the janitor wasn’t there.

The janitor. Milt pinched out his cigarette and shoved it back in his pocket. The burned patches on his thumb and forefinger were numb enough by now that he could do it without pain.

That janitor was an enigma. He’d been here as far as Milt could remember, yet no one knew his name. They only knew the blue coveralls and stubbly jowls, and the mop he was sometimes seen toting.

Milt absently fished a palm-sized can of air freshener from his pocket and sprayed it for a good fifteen seconds, till his nostrils reeled. Not enough to cover the smoke smell–nothing ever was–but this time it was brownie-scented, so before anyone noticed the smoke smell they’d be thinking about something else.

Whenever anyone saw the janitor, he was at the elevator door. Never down the hall, or near the sealed airlock to the surface, or even a little further down the hall. You never saw his back either. The man could have a hole in his pants large enough to display any number of ludicrous underwear choices, and no one would be the wiser.

At that thought, Milt smirked and the elevator doors opened back on the original level. He stepped out into the halls and was confronted with everyone’s attention. He thought he could sense their drooped heads pick up a little bit. Almost as if they expected a speech.

“Hello,” he said. They smiled.

They expected something funny. They always did. He scrambled around in his head for something.

“Forgot my keys,” he said. They chuckled and turned back to their work. Milt melted in along with them, looking for something else to do. As the joker around here, he was something like a captain. The only one who could keep his spirits high enough to make a decision.

He felt around in his pocket for the box of cigarettes, and counted them up by the feel. Three. There wouldn’t be another supply shipment for another four months. Let’s hope there aren’t more than three big decisions to make before then.

Luna

Have you ever looked up
And seen the Moon
Looking down from her velvet throne
Holding the scepter of the night,
And wondered what in grace
Could be so great that
It would replace her grandeur?

And then remembered that it’s
The Son in glory,
Sitting down beside the ivory throne
Holding the book of life,
The brilliance of the moonlight
Now a twinkle in his eye
As he engulfs her splendor?

Have you ever looked up again
And watched her start to sing
And gotten the sense that even she
Can’t wait for this to be?

Akalar’s Lullaby

Filed under “Murder” in the Londreg Constables’ evidence archive.

Dear Mother,

Business in Nasendra hardly ever seems like business, with the beauty of the country all around. I wish you could see it. It would do you well.

I’ve spoken with a man here who knows a bit about safe asylums for the maniacal. He assures me that there is one near us in Londreg, where Akalar would be perfectly well and cared for. If you speak to Father about this, I’m sure he’ll agree. This is the best way for him to fulfill the obligation he feels toward the boy. Though I admit, I still don’t understand why he would feel such obligation, unless there is more to Akalar’s origin than meets the eye.

I have more good news as well. There’s a woman here I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, and I would like you to come meet her. Her father is a clockmaker as well, and he has a large estate in Nasendra. I hope we can plan a way for our families to meet soon. It could be good business as well as a pleasant diversion.

I hope to see you soon. Your loving son,

–Theonimus

Theonimus,

Thank you for your letter. It warmed my heart to hear from you. I am intrigued to hear about this woman. I’d be glad to meet her, but I doubt I can leave for any extended period of time. Your brother has been suffering even more from his mania than usual. Every night this last week I’ve had to comfort him.

But I’m sure we can arrange a meeting, if you wish. I know I can keep Akalar under control for a pleasant evening. It’s easy enough to sing for him, while I cut his hair and trim his nails. You should see the way his nails have grown.

If you have something you wish to say about your father, it would be best that you said it outright, so I could reject it plainly. I know, though you seem determined to doubt, that he has not been unfaithful to me or to you. Akalar’s presence with us is a testament to his goodwill, not his vice. Don’t let bitterness convince you otherwise.

As for sending Akalar away, neither of us will allow it. We haven’t lost hope with the doctors. You shouldn’t either. Glorious miracles have been done in our past–don’t forget it.

I would write more, but I’m growing too weary to hold the pen! Do your best to avoid age, son. Please return as soon as possible. I love you.

–Mother

Dear Mother,

I’m just about to board the steamcar back to Londreg, but I think this letter will travel faster. I’ve heard talk of repairs on the road.

I know you and father both have good intentions and the highest hopes, but I can’t believe you’re being reasonable. If Akalar can’t be cured, then he can’t be cured. You only damage yourselves by keeping him with you. Your weariness isn’t due to age; it’s due to him.

I’ve come to consider our lives like clocks. When tended properly and cared for, according to instructions, they run well. But Akalar’s life is not like a usual clock. It’s a broken one. He does not tick as he should. You may try to raise him up according to plain human standards, but he will never know how to live or love as we do. I’m sure you can sense this yourself. You can convince Father. Please try.

I still think it best if we met with Sylivria at her father’s estate. The beauty of the country ought to complement her own loveliness.

Perhaps I’ll arrive before the letter, but I don’t have much hope for these new roadway workers. Until my return, your loving son,

–Theonimus

Dear Mr. Hardick,

I appreciate sincerely your letting me look into the case of your younger son. His is a fascinating, if not an enigmatic one. All my studies of the mind have acquainted me with its unusual ins and outs, its curious strayings by the wayside. Yet in this case, my knowledge fails me. I’m assured that there is an explanation, and if someone can find it out, that will be a momentous feat, worthy of great honor. Would that I could pursue it!

Forgive me if this sounds too bleak. I wish I could deliver some better news to you. But at this point, the only cure that I can conceive of is that which you have discovered already–Carisse’s singing, and his own occasional breaks from the darkness. On the positive side, it is well recorded that many men suffering from a major damage to their minds have grown far more capable in other aspects, whether it be in understanding mathematics, or linguistics, or even in strength. I understand the boy is illiterate. You might attempt to remedy that. Teach him to write or read, if you can. Then perhaps you might at least communicate with him.

Again, I’m sorry. After so many years, I can only imagine what it must feel like to reach the last of us doctors. I’m sorry to say we’re a waning group, too focused on the esoteric workings of the human body. Alas, at times I wish to strike the clockwork advances in their ticking faces!

Forgive me, my friend. I know of nothing else to do. But a man with the money and resources you own may yet uncover a solution. Keep up hope. Sincerely Yours,

–C. Bundish, Medical Doctor and Surgeon,

Private Practice, Londreg

Mr. Hardick,

I’ve noticed that you have some outstanding debts that have gone unaddressed for a while now. I don’t understand it. I keep hearing that your business is succeeding quite well. Perhaps you’ve forgotten. In that case, consider this a simple reminder. I’ve attached the outstanding amounts.

But if you haven’t forgotten, let me be clear. No one can forgive debts forever. There must come a time of payment. I don’t need it all at once, only a good sign of your intention to pay it in full. Surely you’ll agree that’s best.

I plan to be in your region of the city soon. Maybe I’ll stop by so we can speak face to face. Until then, best regards.

–S. Beckston, Banker, Londreg

Dear Mr. Hardick,

I’m terribly sorry, but at this very moment Dr. Bundish is making his way to Nasendra for the state’s holidays. He won’t be available for two weeks at least. I will refer you to another doctor, and send him a note immediately.

I’m sorry for any trouble this causes.

–Elle D., secretary of

C. Bundish, Medical Doctor and Surgeon,

Private Practice, Londreg

Father,

I just received your letter. I wish I could bring myself to believe that you’re joking, but I’ve feared this day for many years.

Could the doctors truly do nothing? Surely they should have told her to sleep more. Surely you should have told her that. Couldn’t you have controlled her? Made her lie back down when Akalar wailed? Did you try?

No, that’s too far. I know, it’s not mine to accuse. But my heart is broken now, in many pieces, and it will cut whoever tries to handle it. Forgive me if I’ve cut you. Perhaps we’d best speak face to face.

I planned to return home before business began in the new year, but now I’m coming as soon as I can. I hope we can make all the proper arrangements quickly. I will see you soon. Your loving son,

–Theonimus

Malkus,

Thank you for sending the parts I requested. It’s a comfort to receive them so quickly, and I’ll take whatever comfort I can. You know with Carisse’s death, I’ve been grieving, while Akalar has been uncontrollable at times. He’s ripped apart much of the house, attacking many of the paintings I had of her. I’ve salvaged what I can and hidden it away, but it seems he’s on a constant search. Sometimes he reminds me more of an animal–

No, I don’t mean that. He’s my son. And so I’ve done what I could. These parts will help. I’ve drawn up a new blueprint for something that will keep Akalar’s mania under control. Theonimus told me of a mechanism he encountered in the New Mythrides, which the people there use to reproduce sounds. He gave me one of the devices to study. Ever since then, I’ve been attempting to work out a way to do the same.

My hope is to make a box that will play the sound of Carisse’s song. I was fortunate enough to record several snatches of it through the original device Theonimus gave me. If the device works, Akalar can keep it near him, and when the mania comes on, he can play the song and calm himself. It’s a poor substitute for the real thing, and the motherly arms around him, but I can’t think of anything more to do. Whenever I get close, he claws at my arms and cries out.

As another favor, might I impose upon your kindness to ask that Theonimus might stay with you? He can’t remain at the business anymore, and he refuses to stay in the house with Akalar. At times I can’t blame him. Sometimes I wonder myself, whether it’s wise to keep him here. But then I think of the conditions of the madhouses and asylums, the flies, the ticks. the lice, the endless weeping and teeth grinding and darkness

(Don’t send. Write another draft.)

Pages: 123

Inclinations

I have lived in two houses so far in my life. Both of them were on steep inclinations. The hill outside my current house slants away from us, before curving and climbing up another hill to get to the entrance of the neighborhood. If you’re coming toward the house, you’re climbing. If you’re leaving, then you’re descending.

It was the same way with the hill that we lived on in an older, more run-down neighborhood. Starting from our house, you could ride a bike down the long street that went straight down the hill to the end of the block. You could also go too fast and panic, jerking the handlebars to send you skidding scraping into the asphalt, skinning flesh off hands and knees. I remember the tingling sting in my hands after hitting the pavement hard, and a sharp pang in my wrist continuing afterward for a few days. One time my brother Zack seriously bit the dust, coming up with bright red bleeding cuts on one knee, elbow, and hands, and needed us to gently usher him back up the hill to our house.

Everyone’s on inclinations, at some point on our way up or down. Some are on their bikes speeding down that old hill, falling off and getting back on and continuing, down past the mailbox sitting on the street corner, encircled by thin dry weeds, down further than we were allowed to go, down and down, past the house with the blue roof, and the guy who was always working on cars in his driveway, to where the road climbed up and curved away into unknown territory. Far away from home.

Others, like me, are climbing upward, legs burning, lungs gasping, marveling at how out of shape we are, making slow, painful progress. Our home is at the top. Sometimes, as we climb up to it, we slip and fall and scrape our knees. Sometimes nothing. We spend most of the climb on hands and knees, crying, wondering why we keep falling down. Why can’t we keep our balance for once? Why does our skin keep breaking open, gushing all this messy redness out everywhere? Can’t it just stop? How long does this have to be? Will we ever reach the top?

But when you slip and skin your knees on the way up, it’s different from falling off your bike while rocketing downhill as fast as your hedonism will carry you. Injuries or no, they’re headed away from home. But we, well, we’re on our way home, even if we have to go through so many scrapes and bruises, and the protests of our weary bodies, lungs, and hearts. We’ll get there. We’ll arrive at where the Father waits, watching down the road, for the crying little boys to trudge on up to where he stands, eager to run out to them and scoop them up, like my neighbor did when his son crashed his bike, and carry them, still crying, into the house. And then he’ll sit you down, on the couch, maybe, and gently kiss your wounds, and then look you in the eyes, and wipe away your tears. And then perhaps you will think to yourself that it was indeed worth the climb, and all the pain and struggle it took, when you see this full display of the abundance of your Father’s grace.

Carlsbad

(Composed after visiting Carlsbad Caverns for my birthday a few years ago.)

The mouth of the cave stands at the crest of a hill overlooking the wide, flat desert land colored dusty-brown and sunset rose with splotches of dark viridian green. The mouth yawns open, as sparrows circle above it, chirping and sending their small voices down into the dark chasm. A path snakes down and down further into the mouth and down the throat, where the ground levels, for a moment. Descending down the path, all remains lit by the light of the sun. Birds live here in ease, at the doorway of their neighbors, the bats. Their cheerful song and the flitting of their wings is your companion as you carry on further down.

Further down.

It is the theme of this park. Most of the experience of Carlsbad Caverns can be explained in those two words. Further down. It’s a cave system that pierces deep into the surface of the earth, penetrating layers and layers of soil gathered together and built up, forged and tightened into rock and stone. Except in those places where you now tread.

The light of the sun is diminished, but still there. Soon enough that will change. Down through a close arch, and then out into the first glimpse of the enormity of the caverns. A wall opposite the path stretches up to the roof, where the entrance still permits some light to enter. Regardless, man-made lights line the way, pointing out the greatness of the rock formations all around. Forward a bit, then, once again, further down.

It’s not long before the formations start to appear. Speleothems, the signs call them. Stalactites hanging like daggers from the ceiling, pointing downward to wonder below. Stalagmites shooting upward at the vaulted cathedral ceiling. Drapery, where rock flows like water over the walls, and what has been dubbed “popcorn,” which looks as if splashing water turned to stone mid-splash. And here and there, the stalactite fingers reaching down, and the stalagmite fingers reaching up meet each other in a column.

For the next hour you move down, weaving back and forth down the zigzagging path, surrounded at all points by unending complexity. The wall opposite the path stretches up and down, arching overhead and curving down into dim obscurity below. The cave formations flow and drip and rise up all around, like the stained glass of a massive natural cathedral, one fashioned long ago by God Himself. To think how this was made, with little more than calcite and water, and ages of human time. What sort of mind could have thought of this? What boundless, infinite eternality could regard it a small thing to use millions of years to stack up a stalagmite nine feet tall? This is a worshipful place, and as you look around, trying to surround yourself with reverent silence, you can feel your spirit soar in wonder.

Calcite and water. Seeping rainwater and acid solutions. The hammers and chisels of the Architect of Universes. It is just like Him to use such small things to create such awesome wonder. And it goes deeper still! Further down and further down and further down! How long did it take? How many eons were used with this one cave? Were the dinosaurs roaming during its infancy? How many feet down did it go when Adam was formed? And now, how many hundred or thousand years later, 750 feet down, construction is still underway.

All around you see the greatness and mighty power of the caves, as you still descend deeper and deeper, further down. This is good. You can feel it. Smallness. You are small, a small being inching down along the path into the deep, as the massive, silent rock sits and watches, indifferent in its size. Men should visit caves more often. All the usual metaphors for greatness, beauty, and majesty have been worn down. Mountains have been climbed. Valleys have been settled. Even the seas have been charted on the surface. But in caves, one is at peace and small. Surrounded by such majesty, you can see the greatness of God, and feel his handiwork all around, quietly chanting in deep tones, “God is here, God is here,” with every drip of calcite-rich water on infant stalagmites, “God is here, God is here.” All around, nature worships.

And yet. Nature can only reveal so much. The wonder and glory of the world will only go so far. Descend as deep into the caves as you wish, but you will never reach a personal knowledge of their Craftsman, just as you will never know an architect from the house you live in. You may see wonder and majesty, glory and might, but even these are not sufficient to draw the cry “God, be gracious to me, a sinner.”

The caves are God’s revelation, yes. But He has given another revelation, even more powerful, and far, far deeper than Carlsbad. He has made known parts of His mind in Scripture, in that Holy Bible at your home, on your shelf. There the powerful Maker of all this enormity has shown man what is good and right and true. There He speaks, through human words, and utters greater mysteries than those hidden in the depths of the Earth.

It is not enough just to see the expansive grandeur around you. You must keep going through it, losing sight of other concerns and cares as you move down to the bottom of the cave system. But there is more to see. Here in this aptly titled Big Room, the speleothems shine like stars and nebulae in space. Stalagmites tower, and here and there they have smaller children, running here and there throughout the room, almost laughing and pointing at the strangers who pass, not fixed to the ground but moving on two lower appendages. Further on there are soda straws, ultra-thin stalactites that drip downward in clusters like straws, or bales of thick, rocky hay. More popcorn speckling the walls. A lake that shimmers like the polished glass of a mirror. A pit which yawns downward, even further down, and further down. Man can never know what’s down there, and why should he seek to know? The mystery of it is what draws them back again and again, wondering, just how far does it go?

You have been lost in the awe of this world, this subterranean Eden, and wandered about drinking in its secrets, its treasures, its praises. It has given you a greater sense of smallness, a wondering humility before its majesty. But now the time has come to leave. This is as far as man has tread, and you must not go any further, for your own sake, and the sake of the caves, and the sake of those who will come wondering after you. You have come to love this place, and now you must leave it unmolested. Man’s inventions will carry you out. But part of you will remain here, still looking around, still climbing downward, and gaping, staring, and laughing, as the beauty of God’s design washes over you again.

You have seen Carlsbad, and now you must be on your way, as the next part of the journey beckons.