By Conrad Gardner

My first memories had no visual trigger. They came from touch. The drafts of father’s laboratory cooled my body. If I were conscious then, I would have shivered, to copy other people. It was only a sensation before, not an experience. Akin to eating food without tastebuds. I have none of those either.

Father woke me up perhaps a week after these first sensations: touch was my dominant sense when I slept. He said those words, ‘Te Vitae animus’: They channelled down my open mouth. With that, I started to move. My eyes blinked and I experienced emotion for the first time: the emotion of life, of being aware. Leant against that slab, I stuttered, did not understand what stood in front of me. Father’s mouth was open. My green reflected in his eyes, the shape of my skull being made out. A tear rolled down his cheek. Something wet came down mine. He brought his arms around me and said two words. ‘My son.’

He named me Primeus. Taught me speech and basic literacy, gave me various physical tasks. Many of these were rudimentary enough, picking up stones in the gymnasium, speaking proper English, reading Shakespeare, and so on. He built the gymnasium for me. I thought of it as a gift. Once I could speak and read with a degree of fluency, he assigned books on numeracy, magic and tutored me in alchemy. He even showed me the metal that crafted my body, lifaneum.

After I could self-guide my learning, Father left the house every so often. I explored the house when finished with the day’s studies. In his room, a picture frame of two people lay by his bed. One of them looked nothing like Father, with longer hair and mounds emerging from their chest. The other person had longer hair too but would resemble Father if he were younger. Upon his return he said that I ‘was not to enter his private quarters again.’

Light flooded the entrance hall when he entered the house one morning, and I asked him about outside. ‘Beyond those doors are people who would not understand you. You are different from them.’

‘But Father, why would they not understand me? Perhaps if I came with-‘

‘-No,’ he said. That day, the idea of leaving the house had planted in my mind. I received his face’s meaning, knew not to push further. His fists were so firm around his briefcase handle and cane that his knuckles went white. ‘Son, I love you very much, but you must never leave this house.’ With that, he stepped down the corridor, and I retired to my room. My shoulders sagged and my feet clunked along the tiles. 

The evening passed on my bed, with nothing to read, and an inability to sleep. My reflection in the looking glass and the voltlamp gave a dim light to my room. My cheek made a tinking sound when my finger tapped against it. I drummed the rest of my right hand’s digits along my ribs. The xylophone noises made a simple tune. Then a knock at my door. I ceased the playing. ‘I am sorry for my actions earlier,’ Father said. ‘Tomorrow morning, come to my laboratory.’ I nodded and wished him a good night. ‘I liked your music by the way.’

Next morning, I waited in his laboratory. Food or drink was forbidden inside it, so I left a cup of chai and some eggs on toast by the door. Though having no sense of smell, I imagined that the peppercorns added a pleasant aroma to the corridor. Noises came from outside, behind the wall, steps, and laughter. They sounded younger than Father, higher-pitched. Pressing my ear against it, I tried to picture what might have been so amusing. Father came in licking the ends of his fingers and smiling, beckoned me closer. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I never added a word that made you good at cooking, did I?’ He laid one of his books on the table, opened it to a picture of a dog. Out of his pocket he took a schematic, said, ‘Today I am going to give you the opportunity to make something. If you can follow this,’ he tapped the paper, ‘you may name him, or her, whatever you want them to be.’ The instructions dictated various lengths of lifaneum, which were to be manipulated into a frame, and a gold-lifaneum alloy for a core.

Handling the materials that formed my body was a strange experience, holding the fibre of my being. The lifaneum bars, once shaped the desired way, would remain a short distance from one another similar to my ribs, if the right chant was said. The quadrupedal frame stood on the table when finished, and Father nodded for me to put the words to practice. ‘Te Vitae animus.’ The green came from my lips, a smoke passing through the skeleton’s chambers, and it moved. More than that, it barked.

The dog leant into its hind legs, sprang into my arms, yapping, nuzzled its head into my torso and tried weaving between my ribs, which tickled. We laughed. I called him Tippet. We played together once I finished my studies, each day. ‘You can spend time with Tippet, so long as you keep him inside, and stay away from the laboratory,’ his said. I understood his reasoning behind the laboratory, his not wanting to break anything, but the word ‘inside’ made me ache to be beyond these walls.

Months passed and Father came to my study room one day, sat down. ‘It will be your birthday soon. Is there anything you would like?’ I had not considered that a being such as myself would have such a thing, despite my being Father’s son. Tippet ran along my body, settled into my lap. The laughter came from outside again, and I wondered, if I could not be outside, perhaps I could see it instead.

‘Could you give me something to see what is out there?’ Father stroked his beard, considered my request.

‘I have an idea,’ he said and stood to take his leave. ‘I shall return later.’ He entered his laboratory, locked the door.  Tippet passed the time for me with a game of fetch.

Father emerged a day later, a square of glass surrounded by a brass in his hands. He passed it to me. We entered my room, and he said, ‘Momentae.’ Several bricks in my wall slid out, piled atop one another on the floor. He levitated the glass from my hands, settled it into the gap he had made. Through the glass, what Father informed me was ‘The Sun’ beamed over the world and people walked below. Some wore suits like Father. Patches of something called ‘grass’ spread along the city and small figures ran along the pavement like miniature versions of Father, albeit with different garb and hair. None of them had a beard. ‘What are those?’

‘They’re called children,’ Father said. His face sunk. ‘They can be cruel to things they do not comprehend. Then again, people my age can be as well.’ On the pavement, I spotted several children with much longer hair than Father, reminding me of the picture in his room.

‘Those are girls,’ Father said, pointing to a child with long auburn hair. He drew a lifeline of breath. ‘I used to have one. She had a… difference, was treated unkindly. After… My wife and I felt that being separated was for the better, and I moved to Kelcham.’ Father’s eyes fell from the children outside. He returned to his laboratory, return with something else, a heavy cloth which parted in the middle. He demonstrated how to draw it over the glass. ‘You must not stare for too long,’ Father said. ‘You are more mature now, and may look outside, but you cannot be seen.’ The firmness of his demeanour was not to be questioned.

I spent the night gazing out the window. Fewer people walked among the voltlamps which had turned on in the dark, but I was more intrigued by what shone above: a white sphere, giving a natural light to everything. I believed that white ball to be a reminder that there was so much more to explore out there, things yet to be conceived.

The following day, Father had left the house again to deliver a concoction. I studied as usual, but finished my work within the hour, played with Tippet in my room. The noise from outside was louder now, the window being thinner than brick. I could not help myself. Parted the curtain, peeked outside.  It was the children again. Tippet wriggled in front of me, pressed his head against the glass.

A lady walked a real dog attached to some piece of leather she held in her hand. Tippet barked at it, clawed the window with his paw. The glass squeaked and chipped. A couple of the people below gazed up at us. Something appeared in their eyes, not quite fear but similar enough, confusion perhaps. Tippet’s head butted the glass, made a crack in it. With my weight against it too, there was no time to move back. The glass crashed and Tippet fell out, yapping at the other dog. My body followed, landing on the ground. Tippet had left: I  had no choice but to retrieve him.

Outside. A heat warmed to my skeleton. The sun’s light, unlike the artificiality of the voltlamps. I called for Tippet, realised that everyone around me had halted. Stared at me. The lady with the other dog hurried away, frightened by Tippet. I called him again, and he trotted to my side. ‘H-hello,’ I said. I did not address anybody in particular but did not know what else to do. That girl with auburn hair stepped forward, looked from Tippet to me. Tippet shifted back to guard my legs.

‘Is he friendly?’ she said. I nodded.

‘Yes, yes he is,’ I said. She stroked Tippet, who shut his eyes in contentment and wagged his tail.

‘Son!’ Father’s voice came from behind. He stormed in my direction. ‘What are you doing?’ His face twisted with anger.

‘Father, Tippet, he-‘

‘-Enough.’ He looked at the people. ‘I am very sorry, everybody. This is my-’ He took my hand, tried to pull me away. But I did not want to go. The outside, it spread beyond my eyes, so much to explore. I planted my feet in the ground. The pavement cracked beneath my rooted stance. ‘Son, come with me.’

‘No,’ I said. He kept straining, but I pleaded, refused to move. Tippet yapped at Father, but the little girl did not leave his side, seemed enamoured by him. Father grunted and his face went red, sweat dripping on his brow. ‘Father, I want to be here, for a little while at least.’ His grip softened. He stepped closer, blanketed his arms around me.

‘They will never understand you,’ he said. A tear left his eye. Wetness returned to my cheek once more.

‘Does it matter if they don’t?’

‘Professor, is this your son?’ the little girl said. 

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Primeus is my son.’ The people around us lost their rigidity. The girl made eye contact with me again.

‘Hello, Primeus,’ she said, ‘I’m Eve.’ She held her hand out. Father’s brows unfurrowed. The others watched, no longer stiff but remaining cautious as I reciprocated her gesture. Her hand did not hesitate to join mine. We shook. ‘Does Primeus like to play, Professor?’

‘He does,’ Father said, ‘Tippet does too,’ he pointed to the dog. ‘But you needn’t ask me, Primeus knows himself best.’ I did not understand why Father smiled but cried as well, thought it to be a human contradiction beyond my comprehension. He brushed my elbow. ‘I will call you in later, so we can… make arrangements. I should also take you around the city, but for now, play.’ I nodded and did so as Father went inside. The children showed me many fabulous games, and the sun’s warmth breathed on my skeleton.

END