VIII.

Diesel is already in position, the apparatus shimmering beside him in the heat. He is dressed in full executioner regalia, his tunic pressed, his boots spotless. The gas mask covers the entirety of his face, its dark lenses reflecting the sands like dull embers. He is a sight to make any father proud.

He remains perfectly motionless as I walk towards him. Beads of sweat pool on my forehead and run down my face in cold streams. Closer now, I can see through the fabric at his chest the quick, shallow breaths.

He is nervous. Of course he is nervous.

I smile. I do not know if he smiles back. “You’re going to do great,” I say, low enough for only him to hear. Then I turn my attention to the apparatus.

In the past, a sealed box placed over the head was sufficient. A tank, a valve, a practiced hand to turn it. There was little to misunderstand. This machine is different. I walk its length, tracing the lines of chrome and glass with my eyes, noting the joins, the pipes, the panel set into its side. There are more controls than I would expect. More possibilities for error.

I look toward the stands. Erwan sits upright beside my wife, his face inscrutable. If he was informed of this change, he gives no sign of it. A few rows behind him, I spot the Lamplighter. I consider approaching and striking up a conversation; he is a wise man, if not a little jaded. But my legs are weak and unreliable. Instead I nod. He does not return it. Perhaps he is too taken with the Conductor—tall, lean, hair pulled back—whose hand pauses mid-motion, then resumes.

I quickly finish Prayer and come to a stop before my son.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I say. “You know the procedure.”

The lenses of the mask reveal nothing.

“It will be quick,” I add. “You’ll still make first period.”

Without responding, he slowly lifts one hand. The fingers hover between us. I feel, briefly, the urge to take them. To kiss them. Then the hand shifts, extends past me, and points toward the bed within the chamber.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

He returns the hand to his side. The music hastens behind us, the Conductor’s rhythm growing more assured all the time. My heart follows.

I step past Diesel and approach the apparatus. The glass door opens soundlessly, of its own accord. The interior is immaculate. I run a hand along the silken surface of the bed; it is without seam or wrinkle. There is nothing I would like more than to lie in it.

And so I do.

The door closes.

It is tighter than I expected. My shoulders press against the sides. The crown of my head and my feet are held in place, as though the bed has measured me and found me excessive. My breath fogs the glass where my nose pushes up against it. I do not like confined spaces. But today is not about me.

I think of the Rainwater Room. Of the slow gathering of drops. I will count them and in counting them my mind will be eased.

From the corner of my eye, I see Diesel move to the panel. His hands are steady now.

A button is pressed, and a gentle hissing rises from the perimeter of the bed. Outside, the music tightens.

Diesel takes it slow, maintains control. At first there was nothing; now a taste makes itself known on the back of my tongue. Bitter, metallic. It spreads, coating my mouth like sour medicine.

I draw a careful breath, then another. The Conductor’s tempo holds. I try to match it: Rise—in; fall—out. My chest resists, but that is unimportant. It always resists at the beginning. I must continue to focus on the rhythm. There is a way to do this cleanly. I have done it cleanly before, and many times before that.

My fingers twitch; I still them. The sun, magnified by the glass chamber, bears down upon my skin.

Another breath—too shallow; I correct it.

The music swells, encouraging me. I no longer know whether I follow or I lead. All things are connected, synthesized, and today Diesel is the Silent Conductor of All Things.

Good, I think. Yes. That’s right—my boy, my own firstborn son.

My heart beats faster. I do not mistake it for fear. It is simply the body adjusting to an incorrect expectation. A warmth spreads through my chest, not unpleasant. I swallow. Swallowing is difficult.

I turn my head. Through the fogged glass, I see Diesel at the panel. One hand hovers above the controls, the other stiff at his side. He is waiting. For what, I am not sure. I hear a strange sound that I assume is coming from the vents, a soft crackling.

The Conductor’s motions grow larger, more emphatic, as though drawing a reluctant breath from the air.

Breath—breathe. I take another breath. It does not go where it should.

My chest tightens further. A choking sound escapes my throat. I swallow back the next one. No need for that. We are doing well. We are doing this properly. The crackling sound grows louder and I realize it has a smell, a familiar smell—yes, a smell from my days spent on the stake. Flesh, burning. I am burning under the sun. Even the skin beneath my tunic has been seared and begins to smolder. I choke again, this time on the smoke of my charred skin.

Vision swims. I crane my neck towards the bleachers; they bend and waver, then return like loyal servants.

Fix my gaze on Diesel. There is only one of him. Good. One is good; one is correct.

Another breath. It catches. Foam gathers in my throat. My body attempts to correct it—short, quick pulls that do not satisfy. I try to slow it, but the music insists otherwise.

Foam. Foam. I am foam, drowning in foam.

Fingers and toes curl without permission; tendons snap in unison, keeping time—perfect time.

Do not panic. We are inside the experience now. Peace waits on the other side.

Eyelashes singed down to the lids; now the lids themselves burn. Soon eyes open—open—seeing. Witness.

No swallow. Vomit. Again. No—more than once. Nowhere to go. It returns, slides into the nostrils, acid burning—gas? no—duty. I am doing my duty.

Outside—see. Conductor’s arms cut the air, precise, impatient, colony of mirrors slicing light.

Not aligned. Not in sync. Taking longer, too long.

Eyes fixed open, fixed. All things seeing all things. Diesel. Hand trembles over panel…

Ah, I understand.

Careful boy. Good boy. Yes—take your time. No rush. School day.

Breath—failure of breath. Body jerks, slams, shivers. Demands space. Choking—mine? Contain; control; cannot. We do not want—we do not want to disturb the others. We do not. Duty. Duty. Music up, climbs, up. Burning—go on, go on—

Bird crosses sky. Vermilion. Bird skitters vermilion. Vermilion skitters tracking skitters cuts sky blue blue sky. Edge of my—gone.

Diesel stands where he should.

Yes. Good.

All in place. Going well. Duty.

Body seizes. No hiding now. Back arches. Head snaps—pressed hard into the glass. Eyes burning where they meet it. Choking.

Steady now. Steady.

Yes.

This is it.

This is—

then—

Movement at the edge. Ripple through the front rows—people rising, turning, leaving. Back rows follow. Noise—shouting now, pushing.

Music does not stop, does not—

White crosses the sand.

A bird—no.

Fast, too fast. Too large. 

White strikes platform—hard—

Bare feet. All fours.

Bodies close around it—security, hands, too many hands—

Conductor on the ground. White on the Conductor.

Music continues, unmanned.

Lift my head. I cannot.

Fragments through glass—

red coat—

hands—

the Conductor lifted—now lifted—pulled clear, dust brushed—

white again, moving, twisting, lunging—

her shoulder—bone, sharp—

did she eat?

hands on her now—many—

down—forced down—

a boot—ribs—

again—

no—

please, no—

circle closing—

and then—

another body.

Smaller body—

hair—dark, matted, tousled hair in old hands—

…is that—

He dives straight into the white—onto it—arms around, holding, pulling tight—

…is that—

No—

Yes—

Security surges. Circle widens, then crushes inward. Kicking. Striking. Dust. Someone shouting “order, order.” The music—still—still—

Stillness.

Circle loosens. Diesel at the panel—staring, waiting—no command for this.

Something on the ground. Curled around the white.

Moving, no.

Red. All red. Leaking. Tousled hair.

Try to understand, try to—

I cannot.

Not my concern—

—but it’s…?

No.

This is part of it—

—convulsing, arching.

All of us do our part in it.

—who is—

Unimportant.

Pressure loosens. Sound recedes.

Breath—no. Not breath. Gasping—

blackness falling, falling—

Completion.

—blackness shrinking, closing.

Yes.

Good.

And, at last—

I rest.