Fiction Issue 2
The Dark
by Heather Clitheroe
It was hard to say how it happened: only that one day, perhaps a hundred days before there was none, the light began to slide away. It was a slow, slipping descent...so gradual, so unnoticeable that it only seemed that there were more overcast days in the last weeks of winter than usual. No need to draw the curtains in the afternoon. But on the hundred and nineteenth day, it seemed that God — or perhaps a multitude of gods — spoke and said, Let there be no more light.
They were afraid.
There were theories. There were always theories at times like these - they flowed like water, across dinner tables and dripping onto the polished bar at the corner pub. They couldn't be escaped. Theories were traded at the market. Theories were swapped in line at the pharmacy, which was doing brisk trade in these twilight days, selling remedies for nervous exhaustion.
These are the end times, said some - although these were the ones who had made pronouncements of apocalypse and judgments the year before, when the rain had fallen for a month, and the year before that, when the summer was hotter than anyone could remember. Those people had already taken to carrying bibles and holy books with them, and now they were rifling through pages at strange moments: waiting for the bus, or at the lunch counter.
No, it's the start of a war, said others. They were quick to see conspiracies, to wonder about cloud seeding and clouds of pollution from the irresponsible nations to the north, to the west, to the far off east. And what about those scoundrels to the south, they said, they'll never stop at the border and what better camouflage for attack than the cover of darkness? How better to take control of our economy, they've wanted control for years. It's oil, it's always about oil. No, it's about water. It's always about water. There were stories heard about the sun still shining in other far-away places, and some thought longingly of sandy beaches and the bright, hot heat, forgetting about the hot summer that had left them limp, languid, and full of complaints. It's the ozone, they said, though they couldn't explain it. Theories. There were theories.
The florist had given up on theories. It seemed best to agree with customers, to nod and murmur while the spoke, while she waited for them to find coins in their pockets. She kept her store open, selling bunches of geraniums, peonies, and saucy pansies. The bright flowers sold faster - the roses stayed in the cooler while customers looked at them, sighing as they turned with visible cheer to the loudest colors. The florist supposed the cheeky plants reminded people of their own gardens, which had started to wilt and wither away in the shadows. When her stock began to run low, she telephoned her supplier.
We have nothing, the greenhouse manager said. No deliveries all week.
For at least hundred and nineteen days, it seemed, the flowers in the greenhouses had slowly ceased to bloom. At first, they had suspected a blight — a fungus, maybe, or an infestation of some flower-eating mite. Petals dropped to the floor and the immigrant workers swept and swept until the waste bins were overflowing with every color imaginable.
Thinking that perhaps the air was thick with pollution blocking the light, special lamps were installed. But nothing; no blooms. The florist listened to this story, holding the telephone very carefully in her hands, afraid that the plastic might crumble and break in her anxious grip.
Then, said the greenhouse manager, the very leaves curled up and went brown. Never have I seen such a thing, we tested for everything, every kind of rot, and every kind of insect, and nothing. I myself have a chemistry degree, and I have not found the right compounds with which to fertilize, nothing, madam, the plants have all died. I would advise you to stock silk flowers for now, but we have none of those. He hung up.
The florist listened for a moment longer, then put the telephone down. She had called all the suppliers she knew, and they had all said the same thing. There were no more flowers.
It occurred to her that she had not seen any flowers in the beds outside her flat. She had assumed that some vandal had stolen them - that sort of thing happened. When she had made her way to the store that morning, walking in the pale pools of light from the lamps that lined the street, she had looked this way and that. It was late spring; there ought to be daffodils and tulips lining the sidewalks. But there were none. The plants weren't stolen, she had thought. She'd bent down to look, peering through the gloom. No, they lay in the cool earth as though they had simply collapsed, falling to the ground. The stalks were limp and wrinkled. She had never seen anything like it. The leaves had begun to yellow and rot, sinking further into the dirt.
She didn't look for flowers as she walked home. She was afraid to. And now, she stood in the empty flat, wondering who she should call, and realizing, with a sick feeling, that there was nobody to call. Her mother was dead. Her father had moved away to live with a woman half her own age. She had no lover, no companion or friend, and the few acquaintances she had weren't likely to be interested in the state of flowers, occupied as they were in their children and incessant discussions of toileting. No, there was nobody who would care to listen to her fretful remarks on the plants, and she didn't care to talk with the bible-clutching women who were wandering the streets during the day.
What to do? The florist looked around, at the squashy couch, the stacks of books on the floor and then at the potted plants on the bookshelf by the window. They, too, had wilted and died. How had she missed this? She cast back in her mind, tried to remember what had preoccupied her thoughts enough to keep from noticing the sudden decline of her sweet pea and anthurium. She could think of nothing. In fact, the days before seemed, to her, to be obscured by a fog, and she was troubled at the thought that she had forgotten whatever it was she might have been doing. Her unease grew, and she went to bed, leaving a lamp turned on. Her dreams were unsettled, and she awoke several times in the night with a start.
The next day, she found several sparrows lying on the sidewalk outside the shop. She swept them into a pail and emptied it into the trash. The florist spent the day quietly, sitting behind the counter and thinking. The last of the flowers had been sold - for some reason, they had survived where the plants had not. Perhaps, she thought, it was because the cut stems were already somewhat dead: not quite alive, at least, or they surely would have gone the way of her own plants.
At four-thirty, when she judged that the gloom was beginning to thicken, and she locked the door and left. The florist made a trip to the grocer, joining a queue to wait her turn. A strange fear lay just under her skin. She had passed several dead squirrels and many motionless pigeons. Her fingers seemed to tap of their own accord, beating out a discordant rhythm against her hips as she walked. She took bread, milk, a brick of old cheese, and as many tins of beans and soup as she thought she could carry home. There seemed to be a number of shoppers stocking up, and the usual hum of conversations was hushed. The florist listened. This hardly seemed the time to worry about the rudeness of eavesdropping, and as much as she wanted to join in the conversations, she found that she couldn't.
This dark, it's so unnatural.
You know, I can't understand, I feel I must be going out of my mind.
If you are then so are the rest of us, look at me, buying cold cereal and pretending like nothing is happening, I simply can't help it, I feel I must do something, anything.
Yes, I know, but what, and what will become of us, I heard the dark is spreading further, the government is keeping it secret. But my nephew, the one in the army, he called and told us.
You mean it's not just us, my God...
I know.
At that, the florist's heart began to beat faster, and she felt that the wait in line might become unbearable, that she might leave her basket on the floor and run out the door. She shifted the basket in her hands, shuffled her feet and looked at her watch. She turned her head to look out the window at the front of the store. It seemed to be growing darker, although it was difficult to judge. The last of the twilight was fading, and the lights from windows was growing fainter. It was as though it was being pushed away by something close and heavy. She tapped her foot and tried to take slow, deep breaths.
Just then, the florist saw a leaf drop. Then another. The tree outside the grocer's store was mature, but not so old to drop its leaves so quickly, she thought. Maybe the dark...it surely interfered with photosynthesis, she thought, and the little light from the storefront wouldn't be enough to sustain the tree. She paid and turned to go. The lights flickered, and the radio was sputtering with static.
It's the power grid, said the grocer's wife. Can't keep up with the demand, you know, a good thing you came by when you did, if it goes out we'll have to close.
The grocer's wife looked pale and her voice shook.
The florist found herself clenching her fists, and tried to calm herself. It was strange, she thought, that the prospect of a power failure should be more alarming than the situation of the dark. There had been some panic when it had first been noticed - sensitive folk who were likely to worry and fret at small things like the weather and the price of beef, prone to carrying about antibacterial lotions in their purses and worrying about politics in far off places. That was to be expected. But now even the florist felt she was giving in to the growing sense of panic. That morning, she had tried to call her father, vowing to even speak politely to the woman he was sleeping with. The line had been engaged and when she called again, and again, and again. And now at the grocer's store, she hesitated, wanting to stay where there were other people. Even if they were strangers.
As she walked home through a shower of falling leaves, hearing the distant sound of sirens, she turned her head this way and that. She found herself looking into the lit windows, trying to catch a glimpse or to meet somebody's eye. People were scurrying to and fro, searching in drawers for candles, dusting off hurricane lamps and calling for their cats to come inside.
She was almost home. It seemed all the trees were beginning to let go their limbs. Branches were raining down all around her. Her steps quickened until she found herself running, and the bags with the tins of soup and the blocks of cheese and the bottle of milk banged painfully against her legs, her breath catching in her chest. She had to strain to see, so that by the time she put her foot on the stoop, she was reaching tentatively for the railing, relying on her instinct to tell her where it might be.
Sharp cracks and crashes all up and down the street punctuated the dark, and the florist hurried inside. As she threw herself inside, slamming the old oak door, she leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath. The weak light from a single lamp was at once blinding, but she tipped her face upwards, trying to drink it in.
Eventually she turned from the light and looked for the door. The familiar tile and brick entrance had never been so welcoming, and she was even glad to see her elderly neighbor peering out of the doorway. She was too winded to say hello.
Have you heard, the old woman said. It's everywhere, all the world has grown dark.
It doesn't seem possible, the florist said, but her heart, just now beginning to slow, leapt to her throat and lodged there, beating wildly.
Yes, said the old woman. Come and see, I think it's grown darker in here, too. And the old woman beckoned to her.
The florist stepped inside the old woman's flat hesitantly, for it often smelled of old cabbage and the woman's cat was known to savage unsuspecting guests when they were asked inside to help open a stubborn jar or a stuck drawer. But today the flat was cold and smelled only of dust, and the cat was crouched on a sofa. Its eyes were wide with fear, perhaps, or just the special sort of loathing it reserved for the world. The florist looked about, aware of the sweat under her arms and trickling down her back, and the weight of the bags in her hands. It does look dim in here, the florist said. But the power is going to go off, I think, and maybe that's the problem, have you candles?
No, none, who can afford such things on a pension like mine. I can't even buy a small cut of beef with what I get, what will I do? The old woman clutched at the florist, and there were tears in her eyes. There's nothing on the television but static, please, can I come and sit with you for just a while, I'm so scared and I asked the couple down the hall but they said no, the louts, I can't stay by myself.
The florist opened her mouth to protest, but she felt a great rush of pity for the old woman and her decrepit cat, and she knew she was too afraid to go back to her own flat alone. She nodded and said, Bring the cat too and we'll have some soup, I've just been to the market. They went down the hallway together, with the cat hissing and growling under the old woman's arm. The florist was reaching to turn on the lights when the power flickered again, and the lights suddenly brightened and then went out.
The old woman shrieked, her hands closing over the florist's arm and clamping down so hard that the florist gasped with pain.
Oh, I can't see!
Just a moment, said the florist, and she pried the old woman's fingers from her arm and left her in the doorway, the cat growling all the while, and felt her way to the kitchen. She rummaged around in the drawer closest to the sink, where she kept the candles and matches. The florist struck a match and lit the first candle, and held it out to illuminate the table and chairs.
Come in, sit down, she said.
The old woman found her way to a chair.
Here, hold this, and she gave the old woman a candle and lit another from it, then more. The she took down a dinner plate from the cupboard, melting the bottoms of the candles and sticking them upright, clustered together. They could hear the crashes from the trees and the panicked cries of the loutish neighbors, and the steady tick of the florist's clock. Maybe, said the florist, the lights will come back soon. And anyways, it's cheerful, don't you think, to have candlelight, it looks like a romantic movie. She tried to say it calmly, as she lit the burner on the stove, but her hands were still shaking. Oh, look, the gas is still on, so hot soup for us. She found the can opener.
The old woman was talking about what she'd seen on the television before the signal had been lost. Everywhere is the same, but nobody knows why, I heard sunspots or something but I don't understand it, I'm too old.
The florist said nothing, but sat and listened to the noise outside. As she sat, she began to feel calmer. I shouldn't have bought the milk, she thought, because I won't have a chance to drink it all. She didn't know why that came to mind, but as soon as she thought it, she felt certain it was true.
Presently, the old woman said, Listen, it's getting quiet out there.
It was very quiet, the florist realized. She couldn't hear the neighbors, or the sound of traffic in the street. She went to the window and tried to look out, thinking that she might at least see something illuminated by the light from the flat. But there was nothing. Only the black, inky and entirely formless and flat, an emptiness that had surpassed all voids. The florist feared to look because she could not tell if her eyes were open or not. The florist stood at the window for a long time.
What do you see? asked the old woman.
Nothing, said the florist. I don't see anything. As she said it, she realized that the dark seemed to be seeping in around the window sash. The sill was disappearing, despite the candlelight. She reached out with her hand, felt a warmth as the darkness swallowed it. Almost, she thought, as though she had dipped it into warm water. She drew her hand back, sharply, her heart in her mouth, and watched it coming closer. There was no noise from the street. It was as if the world below was slipping into the deep, and she stepped backwards, drew the curtains, thinking how silly it was, but feeling better nonetheless, and went back to sit at the table with the old woman and the growling cat.
The dark was advancing more quickly now, almost as though a thick ink was being washed across a canvas. She watched as the curtains disappeared, and then the squashy sofa and the embroidered cushions, and the little side table with a stack of library books sitting neatly on top. The florist grew very still, and then she said, Here it comes.
Yes, said the old woman.
Are you afraid?
Yes, the old woman whispered. I am.
Don't be, said the florist, even though she felt the same. She took the old woman's wrinkled hands in her own, feeling how cold the papery skin had grown. The cat suddenly stopped growling. It sank to the floor with a sigh and laid there, not moving.
It's just like the flowers, said the old woman, and the birds, oh my God, my God.
I don't know what's happening, but it will be over soon I'm sure, we'll wake up from a bad dream in the sunlight and we'll have a laugh, murmured the florist. Look here, you're shaking, just close your eyes if you're afraid.
But the florist kept her gaze on the candles on the table, so that when the darkness pooled around them and began to overtake them, all she saw was the bright flames, flickering unevenly in a draft. There ought to be answers at a time like this, she thought. But there were none.
Note from the editor:
The punctuation is left as the author wished. For example, quotation marks were deliberately omitted, meant to (somewhat) mirror the idea that you don't always know who is talking in the dark, in a crowd, and also to reflect the sense of confusion.
