Door Handle.
Ned rolls his sleeves up. He beckons to you as he approaches the open door. As you follow him the object in your pouch vibrates with even greater ferocity. It won't be long before somebody notices and it will be difficult to explain how it came into your possession.
You look through the doorway at the dark inside the pub. Perhaps there is something you can do about it inside. "Wait," you say. "I'll go in alone, for now."
The farmer looks at you with an expression that suggests he thinks you are mad.
"I am smaller," you say. "Lighter. It may be safer for me." As if to back up your reasoning, a shower of rubble clatters on something metal inside.
Ned hesitates. "Don't try any heroics, lad. Just tell us what you see."
A man pushes through the crowd and holds out a hand-lantern, its candle flickering behind yellow, horn panes. You take it from him, and with a deep breath you step through the doorway.
It is almost pitch black inside. The mix of smoke and dust in the air stings your eyes as you squint into the murky darkness. Dull embers glow from beneath a layer of rubble in the fireplace. All the lanterns have been put out or smashed; the falling dust has smothered their flames too.
You feel with your hands and feet as you clamber over a pile of timber beams, brick and plaster. Your lamp illuminates little more than the fog around it, and you splutter at the taste of dust in your mouth.
Behind you, Ned's fuzzy silhouette fills the doorway. "Alf! Can you see anything?"
"Not yet." As you haul yourself past a broken table the object in your pouch vibrates against it, making a noise like a woodpecker. You freeze. Did anybody hear that? You place your lamp on the ground and pull the object out of your pocket. It is shaking so much that you have difficulty keeping your hands closed over its egg-shaped surface.
Lowering it to within the halo of the lantern you rub at the object with the sleeve of your shirt.
Its carved surface is covered in tiny figures; slim, long-limbed and clad in flowing robes. You turn it in your palm as you continue cleaning it, half expecting to find a likeness of the strange girl in the red and white shoes.
But there is nothing in this detail that even suggests she and the egg are related, and you wonder whether it was stolen after all. The metallic surface glints in the flickering light of your lantern. How much could this be worth? It doesn't look like gold. But all metal must be worth something, and by the weight of this it could well be more than you earn in a year.
A grid of lines encircle it, defining the edges of tiny compartments. You try picking at them with your nails to see if you can get them to open. But the segments stay stubbornly closed, and you turn your efforts back to polishing.
"Alf!" Ned shouts from the door. "Are you still there?"
"Still looking!" You stand up again, the egg still vibrating in your hands.
"Help me!" The landlady's voice drifts through the darkness from above. From its clarity you guess that a portion of the ceiling has gone.
You look up and shout 'Hullo!' and wait for a reply.
"Who is it?"
"Alf. The fruit seller. Are you hurt?"
"No..."
"Can you move?"
"No..." her voice broke with a sob. "It was too heavy... too heavy for her... it fell through the floor... There is no way down..."
"What was too heavy?"
"ALF!" Ned's voice booms into the darkness.
You look up in the direction of the landlady's voice. "Are you near a window?"
"Yes... over the stable yard!"
"Ned! Find a ladder! We must try to bring her out through the window above the stables!"
There is a shout of acknowledgement from outside. Now that they're distracted for a while you pick up your lantern and stumble on through the darkness. The object's vibrations increase in their intensity and they reverberate through your body as you hold it to your chest. Something brushes over your head and liquid drips onto your face. Unable to wipe it away you hold your lantern higher.
A woman's hand dangles from above, blood running along its palm and dripping from its fingertips. You lose your footing on the rubble and spread your arms to steady yourself, coughing as the dust sticks in your throat.
She hangs up-side-down from the ceiling, her face crushed and caked in a thick layer of congealing blood and dust which has seeped like oil into her long, matted hair. Her body is limp like a rag, her neck and arms suspended at impossible angles, as if held together only by her clothes. Beyond her waist you cannot see; her lower half is still wedged somehow among the splintered beams above your head, trapped by the metal edifice behind her.
Ducking to avoid contact with the smashed body you move towards this monstrosity so that more of it looms within the light of your lantern. Its cigar-like shape stretches from floor to ceiling and beyond, protruding through the ceiling to the upper floor. It begins to make sense to you, what might have happened. This poor soul had been upstairs when she was crushed by its weight, and her body taken with it as it crashed through the floor. The landlady had been luckier, but remained stranded upstairs.
But a thing of such size how could it have been brought into the building in the first place? No window or door could have taken its bulk.
You put your lantern down once more and move closer and begin brushing away the dust and smears of blood from its smooth surface. Without warning the vibrating object wrenches itself from your hand and slams hard into the metal with a loud clang. It is stuck fast as if held by some magical force. Try as you might, you cannot pull it away.
You hear the whirr of tiny cogs inside it. Something is happening. You step back as one by one its segments open up, releasing a dozen hinged tentacles. Their tips settle in a circle on the metal surface and melt into it, increasing the object's grip upon the giant cylinder. The ticking of moving metal parts signals the second phase of the metamorphosis, and a lever unfolds from the object's centre. Its elegant drooping design looks just like a door handle.
You grasp the lever and pull on it, but the whole handle comes away in your hand. You replace it on the cylinder and its dozen tentacles embed themselves into the metal once more. This time you push, and a section of the cylinder swings inward, as if it were a door. There was no join or hinges here before! You pull it shut again and the door melds back into the smooth metal cylindrical surface. The handle detaches itself again and lies in your hand. Why did the girl in the red and white shoes want me to have this so badly that she'd risk her life for me to keep it? You wonder.
The crack of splintering wood above reminds you that this building is not stable. You can hear the men outside helping the landlady out through the upstairs window. You cannot stay here.
What do you do?
You look through the doorway at the dark inside the pub. Perhaps there is something you can do about it inside. "Wait," you say. "I'll go in alone, for now."
The farmer looks at you with an expression that suggests he thinks you are mad.
"I am smaller," you say. "Lighter. It may be safer for me." As if to back up your reasoning, a shower of rubble clatters on something metal inside.
Ned hesitates. "Don't try any heroics, lad. Just tell us what you see."
A man pushes through the crowd and holds out a hand-lantern, its candle flickering behind yellow, horn panes. You take it from him, and with a deep breath you step through the doorway.
It is almost pitch black inside. The mix of smoke and dust in the air stings your eyes as you squint into the murky darkness. Dull embers glow from beneath a layer of rubble in the fireplace. All the lanterns have been put out or smashed; the falling dust has smothered their flames too.
You feel with your hands and feet as you clamber over a pile of timber beams, brick and plaster. Your lamp illuminates little more than the fog around it, and you splutter at the taste of dust in your mouth.
Behind you, Ned's fuzzy silhouette fills the doorway. "Alf! Can you see anything?"
"Not yet." As you haul yourself past a broken table the object in your pouch vibrates against it, making a noise like a woodpecker. You freeze. Did anybody hear that? You place your lamp on the ground and pull the object out of your pocket. It is shaking so much that you have difficulty keeping your hands closed over its egg-shaped surface.
Lowering it to within the halo of the lantern you rub at the object with the sleeve of your shirt.
Its carved surface is covered in tiny figures; slim, long-limbed and clad in flowing robes. You turn it in your palm as you continue cleaning it, half expecting to find a likeness of the strange girl in the red and white shoes.
But there is nothing in this detail that even suggests she and the egg are related, and you wonder whether it was stolen after all. The metallic surface glints in the flickering light of your lantern. How much could this be worth? It doesn't look like gold. But all metal must be worth something, and by the weight of this it could well be more than you earn in a year.
A grid of lines encircle it, defining the edges of tiny compartments. You try picking at them with your nails to see if you can get them to open. But the segments stay stubbornly closed, and you turn your efforts back to polishing.
"Alf!" Ned shouts from the door. "Are you still there?"
"Still looking!" You stand up again, the egg still vibrating in your hands.
"Help me!" The landlady's voice drifts through the darkness from above. From its clarity you guess that a portion of the ceiling has gone.
You look up and shout 'Hullo!' and wait for a reply.
"Who is it?"
"Alf. The fruit seller. Are you hurt?"
"No..."
"Can you move?"
"No..." her voice broke with a sob. "It was too heavy... too heavy for her... it fell through the floor... There is no way down..."
"What was too heavy?"
"ALF!" Ned's voice booms into the darkness.
You look up in the direction of the landlady's voice. "Are you near a window?"
"Yes... over the stable yard!"
"Ned! Find a ladder! We must try to bring her out through the window above the stables!"
There is a shout of acknowledgement from outside. Now that they're distracted for a while you pick up your lantern and stumble on through the darkness. The object's vibrations increase in their intensity and they reverberate through your body as you hold it to your chest. Something brushes over your head and liquid drips onto your face. Unable to wipe it away you hold your lantern higher.
A woman's hand dangles from above, blood running along its palm and dripping from its fingertips. You lose your footing on the rubble and spread your arms to steady yourself, coughing as the dust sticks in your throat.
She hangs up-side-down from the ceiling, her face crushed and caked in a thick layer of congealing blood and dust which has seeped like oil into her long, matted hair. Her body is limp like a rag, her neck and arms suspended at impossible angles, as if held together only by her clothes. Beyond her waist you cannot see; her lower half is still wedged somehow among the splintered beams above your head, trapped by the metal edifice behind her.
Ducking to avoid contact with the smashed body you move towards this monstrosity so that more of it looms within the light of your lantern. Its cigar-like shape stretches from floor to ceiling and beyond, protruding through the ceiling to the upper floor. It begins to make sense to you, what might have happened. This poor soul had been upstairs when she was crushed by its weight, and her body taken with it as it crashed through the floor. The landlady had been luckier, but remained stranded upstairs.
But a thing of such size how could it have been brought into the building in the first place? No window or door could have taken its bulk.
You put your lantern down once more and move closer and begin brushing away the dust and smears of blood from its smooth surface. Without warning the vibrating object wrenches itself from your hand and slams hard into the metal with a loud clang. It is stuck fast as if held by some magical force. Try as you might, you cannot pull it away.
You hear the whirr of tiny cogs inside it. Something is happening. You step back as one by one its segments open up, releasing a dozen hinged tentacles. Their tips settle in a circle on the metal surface and melt into it, increasing the object's grip upon the giant cylinder. The ticking of moving metal parts signals the second phase of the metamorphosis, and a lever unfolds from the object's centre. Its elegant drooping design looks just like a door handle.
You grasp the lever and pull on it, but the whole handle comes away in your hand. You replace it on the cylinder and its dozen tentacles embed themselves into the metal once more. This time you push, and a section of the cylinder swings inward, as if it were a door. There was no join or hinges here before! You pull it shut again and the door melds back into the smooth metal cylindrical surface. The handle detaches itself again and lies in your hand. Why did the girl in the red and white shoes want me to have this so badly that she'd risk her life for me to keep it? You wonder.
The crack of splintering wood above reminds you that this building is not stable. You can hear the men outside helping the landlady out through the upstairs window. You cannot stay here.
What do you do?