Lavie Tidhar - The Apex Book of World SF 2

“You know, when I was assigned here, I tried to communicate with them, learning to match the hallucinations in the brain with the reality, but I failed, and I almost broke down from the failure.” Chen began to hyperventilate, huffing like the bellows of a broken organ, his breaths imbued both with nervousness and excitement. “Man is too self-centred, too attracted by the present, the past, the undamaged world, even if it is just an illusion. But I couldn’t. I needed release. Finally, the forbidden Society of Compound Eyes opened up to me. You must have heard about it, yes, the so-called “evil cult”. That, that is all true…”

Chen’s breath came even faster, breaking up his sentences.

Oh, the Society of Compound Eyes, the loneliest child of the dark Church of Satan, but also the one with the mightiest dark power. We, the three million “dark burrow” filter owners, were called to serve the sole truth: only with compound eyes will we see again. Each compound eye needs many ommatidia, each ommatidium needs…

Another blue-white electric arc flashed through; the collections in the dome-shaped containers glittered: the twists and turns of the gyrus, the creamy sleek texture, and the deep fissure running through the centre.

All human brains, like plump, translucent fruits.

The damaged brains with their individual symptoms are the ommatidia. The dark science of the Society of Compound Eyes enabled those with the ‘dark burrow’ filter to wear these ommatidia, even though they were still seeing only a distorted world. But just as one can piece together a complete dollar bill from many bills damaged in different ways, when the number of ommatidia reached the threshold for a full compound eye, the “dark-burrow” sufferers would see the light again. So, in all the rumours, they were called…

“Ho-ho! I am the so-called Filter Collector.” Chen howled with laughter, grabbed the two tentacles on the machine and stabbed forwards violently. Brilliant sparks burst at the end of the tentacles, lighting up Chen’s face. On his face, where the eyes should have been, there were two deep, dark holes, all the more ferocious on his twisted face.

The air smelt of ozone. Chen grabbed in front of himself with his hands. Nothing but air.

“Stop!” He rushed out, running in the deep tunnels, stumbling. The scenes in front of him started to flutter and blink as though he were wearing the filters of his tenants again. The escaping human form suddenly became himself, then a stranger, and then swiftly faded away like a ghost. The cave walls started to flow, forming a shimmering picture.ran with all his strength in front of the picture but could not advance a step. His shivering legs finally dragged him to the ground, where his body, devoid of all strength, collapsed, just like the dying Mrs Shi, Wei, Mr Wang… those tenants who had gone missing one after another, with just their naked brains remaining in this world. Only the useless Wei died intact.

He kept on chasing.

On the bluish ground, the waving shadows and the hurried steps chased each other, fighting, intertwining, and finally tangling into a shapeless mess.

Chen fell down with a thump, two bottomless eye sockets staring at the counter and beyond.

“I just wanted to try your filter! I just wanted—” he sobbed. “—to see, see the real world. I can see nothing but this…”

His sobbing bounced back and forth in the cave, pounding on the doors of the empty rooms. It seemed as if no-one had ever come, and no-one had ever left. A tomb of his own.

The voice died out far away. That’s the entrance, but not the exit.

[1] Tathagata: see The Diamond Sutra, Section V, understanding the ultimate principle of reality .

[2] Cult of Satan: Satanism first emerged in the 12th century. The main ceremony is called the Black Mass.

[3] Blink reflex: an involuntary defensive neural reflex to protect the eyes.

[4]The Burrow: from Franz Kafka, Der Bau ( The Burrow ).

[5] Anton’s Blindness: Also known as Anton’s syndrome or Anton-Babinski syndrome, discovered by Gabriel Anton in 1899. Patients who suffer from it are completely blind but deny that fact, and often experience hallucinations.

[6] Anton Szandor Lavey: founded the Church of Satan in San Francisco on April 30, 1966, one of the most important branches of Satanism.

Well, this is it.

I see. It looks old. Sure it’s the right place?

I double-checked. Unit 1-10.

Wonder if he’s in or not.

Nobody’s answering the door.

Is he seriously crazy? A bit siao. I mean, all the junk outside. Some of it is positively ancient. A fire hazard, definitely. All the newspapers are yellow!

He’s just a little eccentric, that’s all. I mean, he’s harmless.

The neighbours say that they keep hearing the sound of breaking glass at night. That’s why they called us, right? They don’t want people to get hurt. He’s obviously a hoarder. Not sure if he’s violent—

The neighbours also say that he likes hanging wind chimes made of glass bits on the black wattle trees outside the apartment block. Colourful glass bits, mind you, made of broken glass bottles and fishing string.

Okay, the door is slightly open. Want to go in? We are volunteers, right?

Ladies first.

It’s so dark and musty. And what’s that? Wait. Glass bottles. Look, Cedric, just look at all these glass bottles. Different colours. Green, blue, red, transparent. He must have collected them from the coffee shops and the dumpsters. So many bottles.

Ouch! There are glass shards all over the floor! Oh, wow. He really polishes them, doesn’t he? All the sharp edges gone. So smooth, like pebbles.

He must have been a glass smith or something when he was a young man. Just look at these wind chimes. They glow in the light. Peridot-green, sea-blue, ruby-red. And the music they make. Magical.

One of the neighbours told me he hangs them out to entertain the fairies. Or spirits. Either way. Really weird stuff.

They are just wind chimes, Cedric. Very charming. I mean, he’s obviously talented. Why doesn’t he sell them or something? Why does he want to remain a karang guni man?

Maybe he just wants to remain a rag-and-bone man to collect weird things and entertain fairies as a hobby?

Cedric, you are so— Wait, I see something. Oh, God, Cedric, come over here. You have to see this.

Shit. I think he must have been dead for at least a day. I’m going to call the police.

I think he tripped, Cedric, and couldn’t get up. There is dried blood on the floor. Head injury. Oh, God, this is so—

Calm down, Ling. I called the police. They should be here in about five minutes. They’re bringing the ambulance, too.

It’s already too late, Cedric. Too late.

Outside the unit, the wind chimes stir in the breeze, twinkling in the twilight, inviting the fairies and other spirits to sing with them.

The music the chimes make is not the sound of breaking glass, but a gentle tinkle, almost like laughter born of a light heart freed from sorrow and bleeding hands.

He found the fairy entangled up in wire netting designed to trap birds.

It was a quiet afternoon, warm because it was the hot dry season, and quiet because he lived in an apartment block filled mostly with men and women of the same old age as him. The sunlight was an uncomfortably-bright orange, coating the brick walls with a golden glaze. The trees rustled—fruit trees: starfruit, belimbing and jambu. He knew it was warm, because even the mynahs that feasted on both ripe and unripe bounty were conspicuously absent.