Ruins of War by John A. Connell Read Free Book Online Page B

more than a few nights and laid his hat—even this charred ruin of a city.

FIVE
    December 10, 1945
    It is 765 days since the end of our being, since the descent, since the beginning of the black days, whereupon we sold our soul to the demons that haunt us now.
    We have so many sins to atone for, and that cry out to be released. We must act or the heavy burden of our sins will drag us down into the deepest pit where exists nothing but eternal pain and horror. We must act or we will be strapped upon a table and cut upon in eternal agony.
    It is so hard to carry on.
    T he man set his pen down. His prayers and the entry in the diary had calmed him. Now he could concentrate once again.
    In the weak light of a gas lantern, he turned his chair, picked up a small metal file, and began to make the finishing adjustments on a delicate brass ring. The edge of the ring had an irregular pattern and was spanned by thin spokes. He held the ring up at eye level and examined his work. A smile signaled his satisfaction. He then turned to a two-foot-tall mechanical rabbit. It stood on its hind legs and held aviolin to its chin, bow at the ready. The glassy eyes stared at a sheet of music poised on a music stand. A music box of polished mahogany served as the podium.
    He inserted the brass ring onto a brass shaft that held a series of similar rings. With a jeweler’s screwdriver, he fixed the shaft to a complex mechanism exposed in the rabbit’s back. It required an exacting hand, but he possessed both a craftsman’s touch and the deft fingers of a surgeon.
    What a great joy it had been to find this marvel in the burned ruins of a town house. It was no children’s toy, but a valuable automaton made by a French watchmaker in 1850, with the watchmaker’s stamp still visible on the brass plate. Most of the surviving contents of the house had already been “salvaged” by neighbors, the elderly owners having made the unfortunate decision to remain during a particularly devastating bombing raid. And when he had entered the house he could still detect a faint odor of burned flesh.
    He always enjoyed exploring the ruins. Where most people regarded them as symbols of tragedy, he saw them as symbols of rebirth. The fate of the occupants meant nothing to him. They were all wretched vessels of sin and depravity—as his mother had always reminded him.
    He closed the backing of rabbit fur, which had been damaged by fire but he’d repaired, then turned the key clockwise three times. With a flick of the switch, a Strauss waltz resonated in the room. The rabbit bowed the strings and fingered the fingerboard in time with the music. It swayed and swiveled its head and blinked as if concentrating on the music.
    He noticed the bowing arm still made erratic movements, meaning there were still adjustments to be made. Still, the repairs were almost complete, and for a moment he relaxed and enjoyed the performance. It reminded him of his childhood, and the music box his father had given him, a more humble version with a motionless rabbit playing a trumpet on a base that turned with the music. The memory broughtup images of his boyhood bedroom, but with that there always came another vision—a flash of his mother’s face as she shrieked at him about sin and the impurity of the flesh. And the worst, telling him that men were the origin of all impurity, the penis a vile instrument . . .
    The rabbit grinned at him. The man’s back stiffened. It wasn’t supposed to do that. He blinked. The rabbit had returned to playing.
    The lantern flame fluttered, exaggerating and distorting the shadows. He felt the air shift as if disturbed by a great presence. His pulse pounded in his temples, and his bowels cramped.
    Oh, God, not so soon.
    The music stopped. The rabbit became lifeless, with its head turned in his direction.
    They were coming. The voices would whisper and hiss at first, then rise until the screaming overwhelmed him. He had very little time.
    He took up