The Wall Story

The Wall

The Wall

Albert Aldman glanced up as he heard the sound of the four by four. The engine of a replica Chevrolam x5 revved as the vehicle climbed the camber of the bank and came into view.

Albert returned his attention to the wooden bowl he held. Made from lacquered sable, hieroglyphics adorned its rim and sand rested in the curved base. Albert discerned a faint pattern in the sand and tapped the underside of the bowl with the engraved ivory stick he held in his other hand to make the pattern more defined.

"How's the wall coming on?"

Albert looked up at the voice and saw Patrick Holt stroll towards him. The man had vivid green eyes set in a crag of a face, framed by red locks. Albert wondered if Patrick's decision to go for a mid-thirties avatar led from vanity rather than historical accuracy. The overall impression given by the face was Celtic.

Albert paused from tapping the bowl. "Nice Chevrolam."

"She's a beauty isn't she. High torque, mirrored windows, automatic daylights." Although Patrick Holt talked about his 4x4, his gaze rested on the wall. Albert watched Patrick's eyes follow the curve of the white structure that hugged the land as far as the eye could see. The wall resembled nothing more than a vast albino snake.

Albert returned his attention to the bowl and tapper. "The wall is growing well."

Patrick nodded. "It's a fine thing."

"It takes up a lot of my time."

"I suppose time is something we have a lot of."

Albert licked his lip. Patrick's presence made him nervous, though it shouldn't. The man would never guess the reason for the wall.

Patrick ran his hand along the rough mottled surface of the marble.

"Who'd have thought that at our scale white marble would be more like discoloured pebble-dash?"

"At our scale a silk shirt would be like horse-hair," replied Albert.

Despite the non-organic nature of our bodies, mannerisms are a window to the soul, he thought. You can judge someone in this place as you could in normal life. This man may have committed atrocities in the past; but, I don't think he is capable of such now.

Patrick took his hand from the wall and looked at Albert carefully.

"Were you a stonemason when alive?"

"No, a gardener. Low income, I couldn't hope for anything better than this... you though..."

Patrick stiffened. "Me? Fighting the horde and saving humanity would lead to a military afterlife settlement you think?" His face fell as he stared again at the vast wall. "There's more to my story. Don't make out you don't know."

"Some do say you're a spy for the Hartmanns now."

Patrick's crag face scrunched up in mock horror. "Some say I drink blood. Wouldn't do much good to me here would it?" He kicked the base of the Wall. "Is it safe to build this way? No mortar or binding?"

"Haven't you ever seen a dry stone wall before?"

"On Baltor 4 there were lots. None were made of marble."

Albert looked upon his wall with paternal affection. The white marble contrasted strongly with the replica olive nano-grass. The constituent rocks, un-carved and rugged, gave the wall a natural air as it meandered into the distance.

The construct reached Albert's chest in height, but was wide enough that Patrick's pseud-4X4 could drive along its top. Albert patted the white stone and beamed. "Nobody thought to fence their cattle with marble before, eh? I'm building a wonder for our world."

"Like the pyramids?"

"If you like."

Patrick stared at the capping stones, then inspected the ground at the growing end of the Wall. "Raked pseud-earth?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? You have to get a good foundation."

Patrick placed his hands on his hips, surveyed the structure one more time, sighed and turned to Albert. "Ok Albert, you're building a wall made of marble for your toy cattle. I'll buy it. If that's what you want to do then fine. I didn't come here for the wall though."

Albert flinched. "What did you come here for?"

"To talk about the dispersal."

"That's months away isn't it?"

"Not since yesterday. Timetable's changed. More like weeks now."

Albert felt anger surge through him. This was a typical ploy of the Hartmanns. Change the timetable of the relocations and cause havoc.

"Those evil sods are playing games again."

Patrick's face stiffened. "Let's not get into an argument, Albert. If people plan in advance there won't be any problems. I'm making friendly visits to remind folk of that. Prepare yourself. When it comes it will come hard...." Patrick paused. "You've heard about the Blearmans?"

Albert felt a dark mood descend around him. "The removal vans came and found the entire family dead, all fifty six of them."

"Like I said, prepare yourself."

"Why can't the Hartmanns just stop the dispersals?"

Patrick frowned. His eyes fell on the bowl and ivory stick. He changed the subject of the conversation. "I don't know why you place your faith in those 'tools'. Determining the wall's route with them is superstitious aboriginal nonsense."

Albert shrugged. "Faith ignores logic. I asked 'why can't the Hartmanns stop the dispersals'. You didn't answer me."

Patrick still didn't answer the question. "What is your bowl and tapper telling you now?"

Albert snorted and handed the bowl towards Patrick. "Try it yourself."

Patrick stepped back. "No. I sense something about those things. It's almost as if they're evil."

Albert Aldman sighed. "You have to have consciousness to have evil. An ant has more consciousness than these objects."

"They look ancient. How many experts were needed to craft them?"

"Three experts, one after the other," replied Albert lying easily. "Each used his specific skills."

end of part 1.