Revenge in a Clockwork Universe Read online

in a Clockwork Universe"

  By Mr Spraints

  Copyright 2013 Mr Spraints

  My aunt Mary is a deeply clever woman. However, there are members of my family who prefer to describe her as being something of a calculating woman. The fiery politics of family has always prevented anyone from saying such things without the accompaniment of a nod, wink or humourous anecdote, as if to suggest that if she is indeed a calculating or manipulative woman, she can only be so in the nicest, most harmless possible way.

  Aunt Mary knew very well that it wasn’t her I had come to visit. She’d heard, probably from my uncle, Ternby, a man with a mouth that is more wide than it is long, that it had been my intention for some time to publish my book of philosophical poetry. A book that I needn’t be proud of, but that sits closely to and plays ever so nicely with the way that I want the world to view me. I am no fool, you understand.

  My wish has always been to keep a copy of my book, Revenge in a Clockwork Universe, spine out, to the right of Newton’s Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica and gently resting on the back cover of Berkeley’s Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous, on the third shelf from the top of my exquisite mahogany bookcase, an early 19th century Austrian piece. I would ensure that there is just the right amount of dust perched temptingly on top of the book, so that once I have invited a suitably and understandably intrigued guest to read from it, they can lightly blow the dust away and have the genuine sense that they have discovered and are about to unveil an invaluable intellectual treasure. I know that I would have to place the dust with controlled precision and that with regard to the overall presentation, several factors would be of particular importance.

  Firstly, I know that the type of dust used would be especially important as first impressions influence every thought thereafter. As a result, I would have to be careful to settle upon a type of dust neither too thick, nor too thin. I consider the accurate placement of the dust to be vital as I would not want the book to seem old, uninteresting and ineffectual enough that it could be allowed to sit and gather dust all over. If the reader were to have the impression that the owner didn’t care to protect the book by investing in a second dust jacket or by occasionally brushing through its pages, then the whole effect would be ruined.

  Finally, the amount of dust on top of the book would be crucial to the maintenance of a sense of mystique without causing the reader to sneeze or suffer any irritation to the nose whatsoever. The light would of course be just right so as to create the appropriate ambience. Seduced by the dust quietly drifting and gently glistening in the room’s moody glow and overcome by the weight of the moment, the reader should hardly help but recite from its pages;

  “Revenge in a Clockwork Universe,

  Tick, tock and then,

  Nothing…”

  It is a sort of satirical take on mechanical philosophy; not a bad idea really. Quite unintentionally, over the relatively short period that is a lifetime, I have established an intimate relationship with what are, to most people, entirely incomprehensible ideas. Not only have I attained substantial knowledge of a wide variety of subjects, but more importantly, I fully comprehend how such grand ideas might sit comfortably with the short-sighted immediacy of the simple man. I am a rare breed indeed.

  At this stage, the reader may be wondering what on earth it is that has hindered the inevitable publication of a work of such intellectual power, yet honest fragility and touching beauty, whose ideas and style are malleable enough to ensure accessibility on a broad scale. The answer is refreshingly simple. The only obstruction to the publication of my work is me.

  During the course of my life I have attended some of the most elite soirees on this side of 1789, while wrestling with the most unremittingly punishing topics, sat with persons of such lofty rank, on such seats that have been around long enough and are experienced enough not only to lovingly cushion one’s rear-end, but also to further comfort it by retelling the vast number of stories that it has picked up over the years. (It might interest the reader to know that I do indeed have many stories of my own. It might also interest the reader to know that one does not arrive at my position by telling stories.)

  Having ambled through, around and about such circles, I have repeatedly been forced to turn down offers of sponsorship from numerous members of the contemporary intelligentsia. So much so that I have retreated into being something of a recluse. The trouble is, I desire more than for my future benefactor to be a moneylender. The individual, be it a man, woman or beast, who gives my book its wings, must too be prepared to fly.

  Unwilling to sink to the levels of unrefined vanity that befit the modern-day self-publisher and dissatisfied with the listless shade of the money that I had so far been offered, I was left with no choice.

  That is to say that there was no choice. A man born free; and everywhere I am in chains! I knew of only one individual with sufficient funds, friends and fervour - the “Three Fs” if the reader prefers - to sponsor the publication of my book and complement it enough to ensure both its place in literary history, and its rightful position on the third shelf from the top of my exquisite mahogany bookcase, an early 19th century Austrian piece. I decided to visit the peacock who lived at my aunt’s house. I arrived at two o’clock.

  “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day,” my aunt groaned as she took me by the hand and led me into the hallway.

  The house was warm, almost uncomfortably so, probably because the Peacock demanded that the central heating was always on full throttle. Aunt Mary was clearly very pleased to see me and glanced back from time to time, smiling as she led me into the lounge. It had been at least a year since my last visit.

  “The phone hasn’t stopped all day,” she continued. “They all want to see how I am, you know…if I’m dead yet.”

  I always enjoyed talking to Aunt Mary and would have visited her more often if it wasn’t for that peacock in the lounge. A strange fact, considering that on this occasion it was actually the Peacock that I’d come to see. I must admit that the sight of a peacock in the lounge was somewhat strange to me at first, but I soon learnt to accept his presence and before long I would greet him on my arrival. Children seem able to adapt to sudden change, learning to accept the more absurd aspects of daily life relatively painlessly and far more fluently than the rest of us.

  It is interesting to note that the Peacock didn’t always talk to me. When I was a child, he would simply strut up and down, occasionally looking at me from the corner of his beady eyes as we exchanged inquisitive glances. Over the years, what I had considered to be mutual curiosity seemed to have transformed into agitated hostility in his looks, and a twitching nervousness in mine. His looks were soon accompanied by a sharp forward thrust of the neck, as if to suggest his readiness to peck at me and his willingness to attack. Whatever the precise meaning of this sporadic jerking movement and despite my best efforts to consider his snappy behaviour as harmless gesticulation, I felt increasingly threatened.

  I will never forget the first time that I witnessed the Peacock crack open his immense tail and reveal the horrific splendour of his infinite eyes. Moreover, it was an experience that would replay in my mind and torture me for many years to come. Alone in the lounge, I watched him casually stroll back and forth, turning his head and glaring at me as he passed. Mesmerised by his icy blue body and seemingly overpowered by his piercing gaze, I sat completely still, anxiously waiting for my aunt or another family member to return and put me at ease by again telling me how much I’d grown, or how they were thankful to have seen me once more before they died.

  Having seen pictures of Indian Blue peacocks in magazines and on television, I
was familiar with his appearance and did not feel as threatened as I might have done, had I never before observed a bird of that nature. Although, I could not help but feel that there was something sinister waiting behind his shimmering, black eyes. Looking deep into his eyes was like peering into a gloomy well, unsure of how far down the bottom may be, or what might be waiting inside.

  In this instance, the Peacock came closer to me than ever before. I watched him strut from right to left and felt the end of his tail brush my left knee as he passed. He turned back around sharply. As he did so, I felt a cold breeze move from left to right across my body and an icy chill slowly scrape across my neck.

  In one movement he leaped in front of me, swayed back and forth as we faced one another and ripped his vast tail open to reveal his eyes; his many piercing eyes.