by Atlas Schultz

Content Warning: Body Horror

Can you hear the singing?

Does the melody skitter beneath your skin, prickling like insects’ tread, an itch you cannot scratch?

Do you stare at the ceiling, fighting off the quiet hum of gray slumber…?

We set off at dawn, before the streets became overcrowded with the chirp of voices, the metallic clatter of gears, and the heavy rumble of automatons rolling along the cobblestones.

The glow of the nascent sunlight was stifled by a looming shadow—the everpresent veil of ominous black smog that blanketed the city.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The rhythmic echo of the Sentinel Clock, towering above the sleeping streets like a watchful mother, kept time with our steps as we hurried along.

“Where are we going?” I heard one of the pilgrims behind me whisper to his companion.

“Shh, don’t speak,” she hushed him. “There must be silence for the Prophet to listen properly.”

I paused at a corner, head cocked, as the little group halted behind me.

I listened.

The rustle of their cloaks. The anxious shifting of their feet upon the cobblestones. The distant melody…

The Sentinel Clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I started off again, and like eager schoolchildren, my followers rushed to catch up with my quick stride.

We made swift progress, halting periodically as we went so I could check our course. I felt their gazes fixed on my back each time. Always, they watched with apprehension in the arch of their brows. Always, they glanced about, or at each other, as if seeking some external confirmation that they were doing what they should. Always, I know, they wondered why. Each and every time I have led this journey, some young soul has plucked up the courage to ask me why.

“Why, Prophet?” I heard a small voice whisper, a gentle tug at my sleeve. I crouched down, my cloak gathering about my feet. The child met my gaze with more clarity than any adult ever can. Dark ringlets fell into her face from the hastily wound bun I’d seen her father try to tie mere minutes ago. “Why me?”

As always, I took no joy in answering. I could feel the other pilgrims leaning in, waiting with baited breath to hear the glorious reason for it all…

“Because you are tainted. I am sorry, little one.”

She bit her lip, eyes welling. I carefully took her small hand, speaking with a softness that felt rusty in my throat.

“It is no fault of yours, child, no fault of yours. And it shall be remedied. Your note will join the song soon enough. Come now.” I straightened and set off again, trying to ignore the shift in mood of the group following behind me.

Tainted, they whispered. We are tainted.

What does that mean? they whispered. How does it happen?

I pretended not to hear, leading ever onwards through the quiet streets.

Tick. Tick. Tick…

We started across the Transterra Bridge, every few steps darkened by the shadows of its arches high above us, the rasp of rushing water replacing the now distant metronome of the clock. The song pulsed through my skull with each heartbeat as we neared the other side, the melody tingling behind my eyes. Some of the more receptive pilgrims ceased their whispering, their faces showing recognition as the resonances now swelled in their ears.

Then the stone and metal of the bridge was gone, replaced by rough earth beneath our feet. We climbed the gentle slope, the group now moving in silence apart from our footfalls upon the soil and the ripple of our cloaks in the breeze. And

the song.

✿

Every hair upon my skin

raised

every drop of blood in my veins

swirling

every breath in my throat

buzzing

like a dragonfly on the wing.

No sound I heard but the singing.

These are the moments when I feel like laughing and crying and falling and flying and living and dying and getting back up only to

dance

myself right back into the grave again.

These are the moments I know why I am here.

We reached the crest of the hill. I felt the miniscule shift in the air as my followers gaped soundlessly at the sight I have seen far too many times (yet never seem to tire of).

The valley lay open below us, a bowl of green

ringing

with the voices of an unseen chorus.

The ground shivered. The air hummed.

I breathed

and

out.

Filling my lungs with the perfect harmony. Yes.

I felt a shudder pass through the pilgrims as the sound washed over us like a wave. It was the music, yes, that made them tremble, but too the

green.

I always forget—and they had never known—how much green there is. I like to think it is due to my hard work, but of course, not all the credit is mine to take.

And, I have seen time and time again the shock and confusion that comes with the realization that it has been here, so close, all along.

It is strange and beautiful, I suppose, that so near to the dull soot and oppressive noise of the city lies such a lush paradise as this.

I began to sing along, the familiar wordless melody flowing like water from my lips, my steps growing lighter as I set off down into the green. In a trancelike state, the pilgrims followed, eyes glassy with awe. As golden rays of sun punctured the fading clouds, we tread, gilded like kings, into the valley’s welcoming embrace.

The maples bore their small red blooms, the clovers gleamed pale, and the aptly named lily-of-the-valley swayed delicately in the dappled light.

I reached the first tree and turned, the song still pouring from my mouth. Carefully, I settled myself at the roots, arching ferns brushing my legs, petals floating down upon me from above.

I turned my eyes towards the pilgrims coming down the slope. They were nearly at the forest’s edge, then, one by one, they

fell

stones.

Their knees struck the grassy hillside. Their faces turned skyward, fearful eyes reflecting the sunlight.

In times past, I had offered words of comfort and encouragement at this juncture. I have learned that such niceties are a waste of precious breath. These are people of crowded shops and clamoring streets. Their lungs are lined with coal dust, hearts made of corroding tin, minds of rigid clockwork.

Nothing can ready them for what must ensue.

But it will cleanse them of the ink-dark stains on their souls.

It will send shimmering nectar through their veins.

I closed my eyes and sang louder. It’s for their own good, I know.

Crack!

One.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Two, three, four.

I counted the snapping crunches that used to sicken me, used to feel like icy water in my ears. Now, they merely add percussion to the deafening, pulsing melody all around me.

One by one, I felt them appear.

Their voices echoed, fresh and ethereal, through the valley. The little girl with ringlets, now a sweet trill in the chorus. The red maple blooms hummed. The clovers glowed. The lilies rippled like a wave, then stilled once again.

I opened my eyes. The familiar sight of bodies strewn upon the grass, mere empty shells, met my gaze. I let the song trail from my tongue as the harmonies faded in my ears, until all that remained was the usual constant thrum in the back of my mind.

Well done, as always, my little songbird, she said, voice like sweet chimes in my ear. I rose, turning towards the trees, away from the broken and empty tainted husks. I said nothing. As the shadows of the trees closed over me, I glanced back at the forest’s edge.

Already, the shoots were sprouting—curving towards the sun from vacant, upturned skulls—like strands of glistening emeralds in the light.

The forest looks wonderful. Thriving, thanks to you.

I shook my head and turned my back on the new sprouts. “You humble yourself. I am nothing without you, and you know this.”

Too kind, songbird. She chuckled, like the tinkling of bells. Now rest. I know these journeys drain you so…

I withheld a cough, thinking bitterly of the sooty city air I’d been inhaling. “I have a year to rest. I wish to see the birds, I have missed their cheerful plumage.”

Of course, songbird.

The rustling of feathers sounded nearby. I slipped between the trees like a phantom, feeling my insides start to settle again.

But I know, come springtime again, she will send me out once more to seek those who hear her call: the chorus of her garden, a garden of souls.

So tell me this.

Can you hear the singing?

❀✿❀

Atlas Schultz (any/all) is a high schooler and avid enjoyer of fantastical, whimsical, and strange fiction. They have been writing for most of their life, but this is their first published piece (other than the occasional article for their school newspaper). Their other hobbies include daydreaming, listening to music, drawing, and spending time in nature.