Algebra

Tramway

Issue 2

Horizon View

by Helen Sedgwick

Helen Sedgwick

Twelve women scramble up the hillside overlooking Aegospotami, their wild hair streaming out behind them as they run. There has been a falling star unlike any of the stars that have fallen before; it was predicted, and sometimes predictions can come true. Their dresses are white linen, tied around their waists with finely twisted rope and their jewelry is amethyst and gold, emerald and polished mother of pearl. In Athens, a philosopher is writing about the comet that lights up the sky, but on the hilltop the women let their dresses slip off so that they can dance and sing. They feel mud between their toes and touch skin with their fingertips, they sing to the gods and they sing about the comet of Anaxagoras; they sing to the falling star that is different from all the others, then they dance with spiraling arms and the urgency of freedom and

like many Brittany farmers, he is proud and stubborn; a solitary man. Where his fields lie empty he can remember herds of cattle. His farmhouse is crumbling. He rubs the walls with his fingertips and feels his skin soften where the stone flakes away, but he can remember when it meant safety and permanence and everything that should come with a home. He remembers camping out in the fields to watch Comet West pass by with his cousin – cousin by blood, but more like a sister really, more like a best friend. He remembers asking her if the comet was a falling star and how much he liked her reply: that it was more like a dirty great snowball hurtling through time and space. He looks up to the sky in his empty field and focuses his eyes on comet Hale-Bopp and presses his shotgun into the roof of his mouth and pulls the trigger. As his heart stops beating, an instant before his brain bursts from his skull with shattering violence, he remembers his almost-sister, almost best-friend, and thinks that he will visit; turn up on her doorstep and ring the bell and tell her that she is remembered, that she is

alone on the balcony with the music pounding in her heart, in her stomach, and tequila scraping down her throat. But not for long. Soon there’s a hey, soon there’s a need another one of those? and a fumbling in the dark, an awkward meeting of lips becoming a salivary kiss with a man who tastes like Guinness and looks like Simon Pegg. Below them everyone is dancing, jumping to the beat that turns into an alarm but at first they don’t realize; only when the music stops and the alarm keeps ringing do people start pushing their way to the door. She’s caught in the crowd, pulse racing with panic until, outside on the street she stops still and looks. She looks at the flames licking across the rooftops, and past the flames to the comet that she’d forgotten about, that she had been meaning to look for but hadn’t yet made the time to see. And thanks to the arsonist or the smoker or the electrical fault that sparked the fire she sees the spectacular flame-blue colour of the comet’s coma, she sees its luminous tail streaming out behind and she catches her breath, thinks my God, what if I had missed this – this comet flying through the solar system like

an arrow; the shock of an arrow piercing his skin as it forces through his chain mail hauberk. His shield hangs uselessly to the ground and his arm buckles, surrendering to the pain that paralyses his right side. It feels as though the battle has lasted forever, and he has forgotten why they were fighting, or whom they were fighting, or what they were hoping to win. He lets his knees give way to the weight of his body and slumps forwards, as if in prayer. Whoever it was that shot him has moved on, or perhaps hasn’t noticed that his arrow found its mark, but the man doesn’t mind – he too has fired many an arrow with no knowledge of its destination. His head rolls back and he is about to close his eyes when he sees something extraordinary above him; he sees a bright star with a trail of glowing light behind it. He doesn’t imagine for a second that others have seen it, that it might be remembered for centuries and recorded in thread and gold. Instead, he thinks it is a personal star, promising a life after the one he knows he’s losing, and he smiles at the glorious sight and he forgives

the smell of rotting food and urine. It seeps up from the street, and the women lift their skirts a few inches from the ground. They don’t want to be here in this odious place but they have no choice; the sky is going to fall, and they are afraid. They tiptoe over dirt and stagnant fluid, follow winding alleyways to the marketplace where they know they’ll find him. On his stall, gas masks are spread out like gawping faces. Goggle-eyes bulge and mouthpieces grimace. Beside them, pill bottles and coloured liquids in glass decanters are lined up: for protection, for good health, to purify bile and blood. It seems old fashioned – this is 1910, after all – but then he explains about the cyanogen that will impregnate the atmosphere when the comets come. The pills will keep them healthy for now, he says, but the gas masks will keep them breathing no matter what falls from the sky. They start to believe him. It is the twentieth century, after all, and who knows what’s going to happen? One by one they buy, and the more they buy the better they feel, content in the knowledge that they’ll be prepared. They will survive this

portent – that’s what the oracle says. The bright light moving across the sky with a tail of glowing fire is a portent, and at the end of the light’s journey his enemies will have the throne of Rome. Nero thinks of killing the oracle but decides instead to murder every eminent man of state, to take their wives, or kill them if won’t be taken, and to offer their children death by poison or starvation. It’s not enough. He thinks of new ways to dominate. He keeps boys in his bed and naked women chained to his walls like statues. At night, he lights his garden by setting fire to prisoners and, watching from his rooms above, he enjoys the glow. He develops quite a taste for killing – besides, the portents keep coming; year after year he can see them in the sky – and he forgets how many he has killed but he can taste the blood in his soup, in the embers of the burning buildings of Rome, and in the seconds before his death by his own hand he thinks: the portent foretold my death, and now my death is here, where

she positions her telescope to point out of the Velux window. As expected, the clouds spill into her field of view, and she waits for the sky to clear. She hears a fox howl in the street downstairs, feels a chill and thinks that it’s a good sign – clear skies are partnered with the cold. She remembers that visit to the Bayeux tapestry with her cousin when she was young – her cousin by blood but more her brother, really. Almost her best friend. She remembers him asking why he couldn’t see the whole sky at once, and her reply that we can only see the bits of sky above the horizon. From her attic window she sees a sliver of moon revealed between the clouds. They are not daytime-clouds, more like swirls of fog, a silvery mist above her that is clearing. She is awed by the sky; she always has been. She checks the time. There is not long left before sunrise. She feels goose bumps rise up on her arms and she knows that it has to be now, so she holds her breath as the clouds part and through the eye of the telescope she sees the red gold plumes of light emitted by Shoemaker-Levy 9 as it bursts through the atmosphere of Jupiter with shattering violence, and her ribs feel like they might break and when her doorbell rings

they scramble to the top of Blackford Hill, all finger-nail mud and grass-stain knees and at the top they fall together on the bracken for skin-prickling. They peel off their coats, kick off their shoes and throw keys and mobiles carelessly to the ground. He’s got slow kisses, but already she can feel his eyes looking past her and she wants to do that, too – she wants to see something more than this. Then, as if he knows what she’s thinking, they roll apart to lie on their backs and look not at the bracken or the bench or the tracks on the dirt or the sprawling merger of the cities of Scotland, but up to the comet as it disintegrates overhead. It fractures and it splits and bursts, creating more bodies, more parts of itself and it is beautiful – a shower of light, here, in this quiet corner of the spiral arm of the galaxy where all the different components of the comets of ice and dust and rock can be free, at last, to dance.

Helen Sedgwick

Helen Sedgwick is a writer, editor and physicist. She is co-editor of Fractured West and review editor of Gutter, and has been published in Nature, Litro and Cazart. She teaches creative writing for the University of Glasgow and the University of Edinburgh, coincidentally the same two universities where she used to work as a research scientist. You can read more about her at helensedgwick.com