The Machine - A Fragment
The gears, the teeth of the cogs in the machine bit into one another, locked together tight. Still the perfect fit after a precise length of unfathomable time, the length of a gasp. Turn of handle, full revolution, around and around, another revolution, round the handle goes.
The Engineer, old, young man both, briefly looks them up and down, taking the measure of the one who pays the fee. With impressions quickly formed, he remains, indifferent. His skinny finger touches the faceless watch on the inside of his pocket.
Always the same question he asks and always they give the same reply.
‘Are you telling the truth?’ He asks.
‘Yes,’ they always say, ‘yes-yes, I am.’
‘The machine will know.’ He says. ‘There’s a bin for your clothes …’ He adds. ‘Remember to remove your jewellery, watches that sort of thing … - leave your shoes in the rack at the door.’
For an age he has watched the people surrender their hope to the machine. Over and over, across the length of unfathomable time, the length of a gasp.
‘Are you telling the truth?’ He asks them.
‘Yes,’ they always say, ‘yes-yes, I am.’
‘Sit down.’ He says
Turn of the handle full revolution, round the handle goes. Cogs bite together, grind together, lock together tight. Turn of the handle - turn of handle, round and round it goes. Needles prick Left needles prick Right. Needles inserted all in a row, right in the back, all in a line, the entire length of the spine.
The Truth-Teller reveals, the Truth-Teller remembers, the Truth-Teller writhes …
The truth is never what we think it is. It is heavy earth; light as fallen stars, crushed shell and bone. The dust runs out of palm as quick as do raindrops. It is the fallacy of what is spoken, the fallacy of what is unsaid. The words, no more honest than silence, the silence no more honest than words. Reflection and subject, the same entity entwined. Two Ghosts - not one. No distinction, no certainty. For the strength of a tree, we credit the roots, but the ground is choked and laced with poison.
The Engineer does not raise his eyes, he gives the Truth-Teller not the merest glance. He must wait his wait, that’s all it needs, that’s all it takes. A precise length of unfathomable time, the length of a gasp, added to the length of his sigh.
The spike thrusts through the back of the wooden seat straight into the heart of another Truth-Teller.
The Engineer loads his trolley with all the waste, the useless trappings of a former life.
He wipes the seat clean, mops the floor. Finished. He stands in front of the machine and waits for the scuffle of footsteps in the hall, the creak of the door.
He waits. Something changes. He contemplates, considers.
He takes out his face-blank watch and runs his thumb across it before placing it on top of his folded waistcoat. He removes his shoes, places them in the rack, he looks at the machine, his creation, he sits down. He turns the handle himself, round and round the handle goes, full revolution, round and round another revolution, another …
By Robyn Hunt (C) 2019
Blog Image: Gavin Roberts
