The Cello

At his approach, the door of E7’s unit slid open with the hiss of hydraulics. The cool night air on his walk home had done little to pull him from his exhausted state. As his ducked into the small living space, he felt the light buzz of the invisible laser field against his skin and the screen protruding from the ceiling lit up with his name code. The boy unslung his empty pouch and dropped it on the floor by the head of his cot. There were six males that shared the same quarters, which made for three cot structures with two beds each, one hanging above the other. His was the lower one in the left corner. He knew without looking that two of his unit hadn’t returned from the fields yet.

With a sigh, E7 dropped limply onto his cot. Sure, they had been worked harder than usual because of the storm the day before last, but that wasn’t the real reason he felt so entirely drained. This was the suffering of the sleep deprived.

The memory of the storm; of the upheaval of the elements he’d been caught in, seemed so small and distant and inconsequential when compared to the storm that had raged in his mind ever since. Already, even if he wanted so terribly for it not to be so, he could feel that his thoughts would again refuse to rest tonight.

He could not silence the memory of the wooden creature’s voice. It played again and again between his ears, long and slow, deep and majestic. The boy thought again of the book with the red and yellow cover; of the pages he’d found inside it. Lines like railcar tracks had run across the page in stripes, and on each hung an assortment of black beady marks; clinging to either line or space. Sometimes it had looked to be a pattern; ascending and descending, but other times the black beads were arranged in such variety he could see so repetition. He knew they must be connected; the singing wooden thing, and the red and yellow book, but he couldn’t conceive how. What did the little black markings mean? Certainly it wasn’t words; at least not the kind that he spoke, but could it be the language of the wooden instrument?

The thought would not be put to rest. If only he could learn to read the little black beads, perhaps he could understand what wonderful things the old wizened relic was saying. Perhaps it could explain why one moment spent with it had shaken his heaven and earth in a way no real storm could.

Eventually the two men who were still out returned and climbed wordlessly into their cots. At 9:50pm exactly, the loud click of the lock on their unit door sounded, and Seven began her nightly reports. That night E7 actually attempted to listen, in some hopes that it would distract him from the constant turning wheel of his mind.

“It being the 27th of January in two weeks,” She was saying, “There will be the annual reboot of the mother link. This will take place the hour following 12:00 am of the before stated date. Please prepare to experience some cognitive difficulties upon disconnect. We recommend remaining in your cot and lying still until the system comes back online.”

This had been her speech for a couple nights already, and though it had sparked some interest at first, it had since lost it’s novelty. Technically he had experienced the reboot eleven times since he himself had come online in his eighth year. It was made out to be more than it was. It was uncomfortable, yes, but their individual systems always remained active.

He breathed another sigh to himself, and rolled over to lie on his side.

Despite his hopes, Seven’s continued droll faded into the background, and his mind fell right back to where it had been; those black marks on the page, and the feel of the bow in his hand as he’d drawn it across the strings.

There was an undeniable upset in his balance. It seemed that whatever he tried, the unknown he was now facing was unraveling all he’d thought was reality. Why did such a seemingly unimportant and accidental happening in the woods leave him sleepless and wracked with unrelenting curiosity? None of it made sense.

All he knew was that he needed to learn the language of the wooden relic.

Hours passed before Seven warned of sleep deprivation and activated the melatonin release, washing him in drowsiness.

His last thought was a decision.

He would go back to the underground room of mysteries. He had to know.