I’m sitting in a room, surrounded by walls of white. Around me, there are piles of boxes—their labels faded, half-peeled. A stale current of air blows through the room, and despite the chillness of it I feel myself grow hot, anxiety rising. Before me is a desk, its surface marked and scored as if having endured ages of use—cycles of carefully meted out frustration; microaggressions against an entity beyond my reach. A computer turns on, flashes a series of words and numbers at my face. There is intent in the lines, meaning in the words, and it’s my job to decipher it; to extrapolate, plot, and graph, and then, later on, report. My fingers rise from my lap and reach for the keys, begin hammering them as my mind interprets the data. The stale air, the effect it causes, is nauseating. I’m not meant to be here. I think to myself.
“But where else would you be? The work must be done.”
I need to get out of this room. I rise from my chair, stumble as my legs, nearly atrophied from disuse, clumsily carry out the motions. I lurch and stumble toward a hall, its interior unlit, gaping; a maw, visually intimidating and yet…welcoming, beckoning. I enter, darkness envelops me, but still I continue on, drawn towards some ultimate end—but what?
I emerge into the open air, the smell of salt water stings my nostrils, wakens my office-deadened senses. I’m standing on a shore, the water up to my knees. The sky above is blue, the water below similarly colored; gleaming and lustrous in the sunlight. The view is mesmerizing, the air almost intoxicating in its freshness, compared to the horrid sterility of before. I am broken out of my reverie by cries. Turning, I see a large thing on the sand several meters away. There are other people here, standing around it. A large crowd is forming, beach-goers, though they’re all distraught. I rush over, surprising myself at how efficiently my legs are working.
I part the crowd, shouting for them to move aside—my voice carries something in its tones—authority, self-assuredness. I am in control of the situation. I reach the thing— it is an animal, a whale; beached and suffering. I order the people to disperse, to give me space. They heed my words, and I begin my work. My job. My hands are working quickly, carefully—I am tending to the animal as if it were my child.
In a matter of moments, I’ve found the source of its pain, a wound in its side—large as my arm. There is something embedded therein. In its weakness, the whale must’ve been unable to combat the surging tide. I issue orders, they are quickly followed by a few volunteers; and soon, using the tools I had requested, I dislodge the foreign object and mend the creature’s wound. Together, assisted by others, we redeliver the whale back to where it belongs. An impossible feat, and yet I accomplished it.
Something, a call, a soul-tugging allure, beckons me to that same destination. I am drawn to the gulf. Without announcing my intentions, I wade into the water. The magnetism is irresistible—there is more to be done. But what? Why?
“There is always work.”
Drowning. Fighting the current. Swept to and fro in the ceaselessly ebbing tide. Sub-surface vortexes absorb me, swirl me amidst their torrential centers. The sunlight, filtering dimly through the uncountable fathoms, begins to diminish. I can see darkness below, depthless, infinite—is this the end to which I’ve been destined?
Light bursts into my eyes, the headlights of a car as it swerves, narrowly missing the front of my own. I’ve veered into oncoming traffic. I seize the wheel and steer clear of the next car, bringing my vehicle back into my own lane. Dawn is bleeding into morning, I have been driving for hours. There is a cut on my hand, it is bleeding. Must’ve squeezed something in my sleep. I use a mostly clean napkin from a fast-food bag to staunch the wound. The cargo I’m hauling is nothing special, I am nothing special; merely a ferryman of common goods. I have a wife, somewhere, miles and miles away, caring for our daughter whilst wondering when I’ll be home—if I’m alright. The road unravels before me; a yawning, undulant stretch of black. I am hungry, and tired—but I cannot stop. My schedule does not permit me to for another hour and change. The work cannot be interrupted. The work—this isn’t what I do. Why am I here?
“You are here to work. If not you, then who else?”
The road has become a belt, a long metal platform with laterally laid rings. I am no longer driving, I am now standing. My truck has disappeared. Things are being conveyed down the long, metallic line, a procession of boxes, varying in shape and size. I am standing to the side of the belt, my station. I am in a warehouse. It is dark, humid, atmospherically oppressive. A box reaches me, it is not one of mine. I push it down the line, toward another, who picks it up and examines the label thereon. They place it on a pallet behind them and turn their gaze back toward me, toward the place from which the boxes are coming. More boxes come—some destined for my pallet, others meant to be sent farther down. The tedium is insufferable. I am simply moving things from one place to another, the only stimulation being the occasional rattle of a loosely secured object within the boxes. How long must I do this?
“As long as it takes for the work to be done.”
What work? When will it end?
“There will always be work.”
From out of the void—it is the trailer of a truck, a shipment of freight—comes an object, long and cumbersome. More follow it, all similarly shaped. Some of the other workers open the containers—they are boxes of some kind, but not sealed—and climb in. Like the rest of the freight, they are then pushed down the line, but no one pulls them off. Everyone seems to know which container is theirs. The convoy of containers reaches me. I let one pass me by, another, they are all the same—visually indistinguishable, and yet I can sense that there is one among them for which I am destined. Finally, mine reaches me. It is just like the others, and yet I know it is mine. I open the lid, inside is darkness, but it does not seem suffocating, despite the circumstances. With a sense of relief, I mount the belt and climb into the coffin. Close the lid on myself. It feels nice in here, comforting. I feel a sense of relief, of impending existential finality. My coffin continues on down the belt, rumbling toward…what? Where am I going?
“Where those who cannot work must go.”
And where is that?
“To the end.”
I wake, drenched in sweat. Fear lingers within me, quickens my heart as I struggle to transition back to the waking world. I push my covers away, clamber out of bed. It’s hot in my room, the sun is smoldering beyond my blinds. I lean against my nightstand, body trembling. It’s quiet, the only sound my ragged breathing. I am tired—I am always tired. For a moment, I think that I am alright, that things will be alright. Something chirps, a digital racket that rises in audibility until it becomes intolerable. I look around, trying to spot from where the awful sound is coming, until I finally realize that it’s coming from right below me, on the nightstand. I shut off my annoying alarm. I hate it.
A form shifts in the corner of the room. I turn to look at it. It’s expanding, blooming outward. A great hulking shadow, appalling in its blackness. Tendrils, riddled with clockfaces and other instruments of time-keeping, whip and flail, monstrous appendages unlike anything I’ve ever seen. They are loathsome, shadowy and yet somehow tangible. It hurts to look at them, at their satanic chronometry. My alarm starts up again. Its tones are all wrong, distorted and evil-sounding. I am petrified by a swelling, suffocating fright.
Speechlessly, I watch as the molten darkness forms itself into a massive analog clock. Its hands are ticking, the metallic click-clicks pounding awfully. I cannot move, cannot think. It speaks, its voice coming to me from some far-flung infinitude beyond my small, dingy apartment. This thing before me is merely a portal, an instrument of Something’s making.
“I am the stygian time-keeper, the ebon arranger of events. I am The Black Horologist, and as I’ve shown you, there is still work to be done.”
It’s gone now, it has vanished. One second, it was here, and now…there are black stains on the walls. Bronze pieces litter the floor—remnants of clocks: dials, hinges, and springs. I again silence my alarm clock.
Clarity washes over me. I sigh, bring my breathing under control. I run a hand through my hair, it comes away wet, reeking of…sea water. White-hot pain flares in my palm. Sea-water has gotten into a cut there. I clench my fist against the agony, and for a moment I imagine that I am holding a steering wheel, drifting off to sleep. I shake away the picture, the memory, and look toward the window, behind which the sun burns out its stellar fury at having been denied whole hours of supervision over the people of Earth. It will make up that lost time as the day goes on. The heat will increase, I’m sure.
The world is waking beyond the blinds. People are stirring from their beds, weak and zombie-like; duty-bound liches, necromantically recalled from restless slumbers for purposes they can only vaguely comprehend, the goals of which having no immediate bearing on their lives. Hands on a clock, enslaved to the perennial march of time.
I am tired. I am always tired. But it is time for work.