Authors: Brendan Connell
The Architect (15 page)
Peter watched with a strange lack of emotion as huge chunks of the structure, a hail of brick, plaster and broken glass, spilled over the side of the cliff. Spires descended, walls collapsed, pillars threw themselves to the ground. A large cloud of dust slowly rose into the sky, momentarily blocking out the sun before gradually disappearing, parting, floating away.
And then all was still. Silence. In the distance the sound of goat bells.
The young man was neither surprised nor stunned. Certain disasters leave one cold, without emotion, speechless as if the heart were expelled from the body.
The structure was almost completely gone. Only the south wall still stood, reaching towards the sky out of a mountain of rubble like the hand of a drowning man. The great towers had dived to the earth. Those iron doors were on their faces, chewing on the ground and columns, all in pieces, lay sprawled out beneath piles of rubble.
High up in the sky, a jet airplane passed overhead, scarring the heavens with a streak of white. A breeze came and blew up a little dust.
Then, from that massive pile of ruins, which seemed like that of an entire lost civilization, there was a slight movement, like a rat in a heap of garbage.
A few stones moved, and then a creature emerged, white with plaster and the dust of bones, he appeared like some bizarre phantom—a massive torso balanced on stork-like legs. Forward he moved. He held his head up high and walked with measured steps, like an intoxicated man endeavouring to appear sober.
He approached the young man. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Nachtman wiped his face.
Peter stared at him in amazement.
“Unless funds can be come up with to start afresh,” the former said in a surprisingly firm voice, “I am afraid I am going to have to throw in the towel on this project. As it is, it seems highly questionable whether I will be paid in full for the work I have done.”
The other was silent.
“Anyhow,” the architect continued, “as long as I can get a piece of meat to eat and a bottle to drink, I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”
“But…”
“Oh, don’t bother.”
He looked at Peter, blinked, shrugged his shoulders and then stalked off, made his way to the train, dusting off his body as he went. He climbed into the operating carriage, manipulated the controls, and slowly the transport began to slide away, had soon disappeared into a tunnel on its way down the mountain.
Peter stood frozen. Numb. His eyes wandered over that massive pile of rubble—that tomb that had buried not only his aunt and countless others, but seemingly the entire social structure and all the young man’s vain ambitions as well.
A few clouds floated lazily on the sky.
A gust of breeze brought with it the smell of flowers and goat droppings.
Peter pushed his hair back away from his eyes, adjusted his glasses, turned, and proceeded to walk down the mountainside, towards the green valley below.
THE ARCHITECT
Copyright © 2013 by Brendan Connell
The right of Brendan Connell to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Originally published in printed book form by PS Publishing Ltd in 2012. This electronic version published in October 2013 by PS by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.
FIRST EBOOK EDITION
ISBN 978-1-848632-60-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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