Filaria - Brent Hayward [16]
Portions of the wall behind him flickered with pale light as phosphorescent microfauna fought or loved one another there. During these glimmers, Mereziah saw clearer glimpses of the inert form hanging next to him, like a reflection of himself: his stigmata, his brother Merezath.
Contrary to what most people assumed when meeting the siblings — those few that had encountered them here in the lift shaft, or at home in the grotto — the pair were not twins; Merezath was younger than Mereziah by over fourteen months. He would not turn one hundred for some time yet.
The light also caught highlights of the myriad cables and tubes lining the circumference of the shaft. Some, carrying liquids and pneumatics up, to stations far above, and down, to stations below, were as big around as Mereziah’s torso.
Tilting his head back, all he saw were fuligin depths. But he had never been interested in areas beneath him. He would be at the bottom of the shaft soon enough. Arching forward — pulling with one hand in the mesh, as if beginning to right himself — he looked up. There, he detected what were, he believed, signs from the topmost stations: a faint sound; a tremor in the fibers; the hazy, shimmering glow of active pod lights.
Merezath, of course, claimed that no indication of life from the upper levels would be possible to detect this far down — their station was too distant from activity for any trace to be seen or felt. Mereziah knew better. Yes. Looking up, he could distinguish evidence of that remote, more fortunate humanity, kindling for years of imagination, impetus for all his youthful yearnings.
But now, at this late point in life, he could no longer afford time for these idle thoughts. He’d already wasted a good chunk of his existence imagining the fabled population of the upper levels. So he had stopped practicing witty repartee, meant to prepare him for encounters that, he knew now, would never happen. He had stopped forming fantasies of glorious balls and social gatherings, of walking through bustling marketplaces and squares, teeming with people. He had ceased imagining sophisticated machinations and glittering cities, all built on the horizontal, and lit up by brilliant suns. The quiet serenity of healthy forests and glens, and maybe even one or two people to stroll and talk with, perhaps touch — these dreams he also relinquished. His upside-down guts no longer churned, as they once had, with feelings that events had passed him by, as he lived and worked down here, in the lower regions of the dark lift shaft, ignorant brother at his side. The abandoned station, inherited from his dead parents, was his lot. This was his place.
So what if his destiny was not as exciting as that of others? He was an integral cog in the functioning of the world. He was staff.
Could life have been worse? Sure it could: he had existed for a long, long time and had seldom gone hungry. He slept well, and ate well, and had regular bowel movements. So what if the dark days ran together, and the nights, too. In this last stretch of life, Mereziah was content —
But today was his damned birthday! Shouldn’t today be different?
No matter how hard he tried to convince himself he was at peace, he did feel disconcerted. He could not deny it. Dissatisfactions of his youth had gained ground again inside him, and traces bubbled downwards through his blood like a recurring illness.
Another sudden crackle of light, and Mereziah was surprised from his brooding to see a giant sloth, frozen in the glare, huge eyes staring at him. One furry knuckle, a foot or so from his face, shifted in the strands as a curved claw, big as an arm, retreated slowly. Vivid in that instant, little green symbiotes, living oblivious in the animal’s rough hair.
How, Mereziah wondered, shocked, had the huge beast approached so close without his knowing? Clearly, he had missed the vibrations. Was his hearing also going?