The Escapement Mechanism, Part 4
Notes and Introduction, Part 4
Were the pyramids a water park for the Egyptians? We all stumble in the dark, reaching for the shore.
Wemly couldn't sleep. She rolled the stone around in her hands. Technology, she reminded herself, but couldn't stop thinking about it like a polished rock when she held it. Maybe that was the problem. She held it to the back of her neck like her grandma had instructed, and she felt her skin envelop it.
It grew warm, synchronizing with her breathing. Not just tied to it, but Wemly had the distinct sense that it too was drawing breath, siphoning some of hers for its own purposes, and that her life had been braided together with the device.
She tipped back over the armrest of her couch, a diver collapsing into the cushions, and rolled the problem around her mind like it was a stone in an oyster that needed freeing. Her grandma wanted the technology on her neck, presumable because that was how it worked. How often had ancient technology been disregarded as nothing more than a simplistic artifact? Whatever was stuck to Wemly's neck wasn't simple, but it was intractable.
An open family secret, or rumour depending upon the family member asked, was that an accident at work had entangled Trudy's memory. Even if it wasn't true, Wemly needed to be careful with the device that had integrated with her body enough to adapt to her breathing. But it was like trying to not get bit by a snake without knowing which end had the fangs.
The stone sat so snugly in the nape of her neck that it was clear it had been designed for the purpose. And warm. Despite the faint interlocking scale pattern on its surface, Wemly was beginning to think of it more like a small kitten curled up under her hair. One with small retracted claws that kneaded her neck while she contemplated what to do. Like they were both thinking, brainstorming the correct next action.
Eventually, Wemly rested her hand against the stone, felt for where she imagined the light to be slowly fading in and out in time with her breath, and imagined the light burning through her finger. So intent was her focus, that when there was a small beep, barely audible—Wemly wondered if anyone would have been able to hear it, even if they were in the same room—her body went rigid in surprise as the sound travelled from her spine through her jaw to the bones of her ear. She pulled her hand away with a start, and examined her finger.
It was fine, but a small wave of nausea washed over her. The room distorted, as if she were at the optometrist looking through the vision tester while they checked for astigmatism, and each click of the imagined wheel twisted the room like a spiral until it snapped back into focus with a jarring normality that her stomach had not kept up with.
Wemly sprang to her feet, managed not to vomit or tip over, and stumbled to the mirror, pulling her hair out of the way of the device. It sat as she imagined, still slowly pulsing with each breath, a phenomenon she tested by not breathing for a count of ten, and then slowly exhaling.
Nothing had noticeably changed.