writing_shadows

It's rare that Haywalk knows peace such as this; to walk along the road unmolested, unremarked, and he finds it unnerving. Vast and resilient, he weathers the hatred of humanity well, but this depresses him. It reminds him too much of the island and so of his own failure. There, all was abandoned; here, it is the same, the humans fleeing before the firestorm and the infestation of Pandorans and then, finally, the nuclear fire of Oppenheimer's wrath.

The streets are clear of humans, but cluttered with things left behind. Cars lie abandoned at the curbs; boxes, papers and other little clutters where the wind has blown it. Rain and heat have clogged the gutters with a crude, hardened pulp and filthy, stagnant water pools here and there. Food moulders in the shops, the treacle-sweet stink of decay wafting across the road.

A human might wretch at the odour, but Haywalk knows that he can still eat a thing that smells that way. Many fates might befall him, but starvation will never be among them. Likewise, the foul water holds no fear for him; it would never even occur to him that it would make a human sick to drink it. His malaise is a thing spiritual, a mingling of rage against the world and black sorrow at its injustice; Frankenstein fury and Golem despond mixing in his being.

He reaches the library and scrambles quickly up the wall, hauling his vast form and heavy burden to the roof with barely an effort. He could, of course, have easily broken through the wall or knocked down a door, but he has spent considerable time shoring up and blocking all the cracks and crannies through which the foul water could have seeped. The roof door had been unused for years before the humans had left and Haywalk had found his way in, but it lets him enter and exit while armouring the books against the elements.

He closes the door behind him and descends the dark staircase, crouching to keep his head from the roof. He passes through the stacks to the cellar stairs and descends into the boiler room, where the generator he has made rattles and chugs. He taps the gauge; still fuel enough to run the pumps and the lights and keep the dynamos sparking merrily. He sets down his burden in the cage with the other fuel cans, secure and protected where they can not burn him, and goes to his bedroll. He can feel the bound thunder of the generator cracking in its box and it's prickle pleases him.

Haywalk sits and concentrates, letting the hot fire occupy his thoughts and seeking wisdom within it, like some oracle of old. It is his own fire that responds to his throng and gives him sight of them from afar. He reaches out and touches each for a moment: Rocker, far distant, his fire sparking more brightly than the generator, flaring with his eternal rage; Braeriach, her warm, biscuity smell touched by sadness; Clay, all earth and potato, his hurt still fresh; Punch, poor baby sister, the chemical-sweet Sunny D tang of her being tainted by confusion and her only memory of pain.

Anger, sorrow, hurt and confusion; his throngmates seem an outward mirror of his soul as he remembers what was gained and what was lost. That moment of absolute certainty when Joseph redeemed; the moment of unremitting horror as he died. Perhaps it was inevitable, in one whose body had never lived. Haywalk aches to have made good on his promise, but perhaps that would have been the wrong thing.

He picks through his books for a time, turning over different versions of the same story: Nativity, Mission, Passion and Crucifixion. The details vary surprisingly, but they all say the same thing at heart: That when one comes to the world with such a gift, the death is necessary; it is a sacrifice, and he is beginning to understand what that means.

Who sent this message to the Wretched of the Earth? Was Joseph truly the lamb of some benevolent god, or just a terrible mistake? Or was he both? A mockery of a messiah as all the Wretched were a dark mockery of the human form? Yet he can not believe that he was entirely wrong; not when his message was so... beautiful.

Haywalk's head hurts with the effort of these thoughts. He is ill-equipped to deal with such matters; his skill and strength are in his body, his uncannily clever hands and his mighty limbs. He is a great engine, yet still far from the most that he could be. Will strength alone bring him to his promised reward, however? What might he have to give up?

What will his sacrifice be?

He sets aside his books and stretches out by the generator. Soon, the rattle will lull him into sleep. In his dreams, the firestorm will come, but for a brief time he will rest.

In the morning he will go out again, and look for the path that will lead him to his reward.