Gainfully unemployed

As I am between positions right now, I'm working hard on my fiction. I plan to post the daily fruits of that labor here. All of this is unedited and off-the-cuff, but I'd love feedback as to where it is going.

Day one:

The Curator

By Ed Huyck

The Curator unlocked the door to his office, disturbing the stale air that had collected over the long holiday weekend. He sniffed at the air twice and then headed to the window. Now open, the window let in air that was not much fresher than the outside, but at least provided some comfort in the early morning. By afternoon, window shut or open, the office would be stifling.

The Curator thought little of this. He removed his black overcoat and equally black suit coat. He sat at his dilapidated chair, feeling it list to the right. He caught the foot on the carpet edge, evening it out enough so his back would not ache by day’s end.

His comfort – as much as it was – dealt with, the curator – 55, gray and running to fat despite his best efforts – pulled over the box on his desk and gathering another, heavily laden ring of keys, he began anew on the task that had consumed him for so many days.

The box had arrived at his office more than a month before in a package unasked for and with no return address. Just his name – he thought his name was included on it – and the museum’s address. Inside, sat the box, which glistened as if oiled, but was dry to the touch. It measured 7.23 inches on the long sides, and 4.33 inches on the short. It was 5.28 inches in height. The Curator had a Mathematics professor if those numbers had any significance, but none were found. Though black of surface, careful study showed that there were patterns within it, swirling in patterns that – again – no one had identified.

And there were keyholes.

They dotted every part of the surface of the box; 106 tiny keyholes. The ring of keys had come with the box – there were 106 keys as well. Those keys were a myriad of styles. Research showed designs that went as far back as the invention of the lock. Some were steel or other hard metal. Many were copper. A few were stone.

Another friend, or perhaps acquaintance, who worked as a locksmith looked at the keyholes and keys. They did match, he had said, adding after further examination “there was no way on this Earth to open the box without the proper keys.” The locks could not be picked (another favor, a friend of a friend this time). That was due, in part, to the fact that all 106 keys needed to be inserted at the same time, and then turned, one by one.

That had taken the Curator – days, weeks? He was not sure anymore – to determine, as he first tried a single key in sequence in each of the locks. That failure did give him a pair of intuitive leaps. One, if the former owner wanted the Curator to open the box, and had provided these tools, then it followed that these tools needed to be used. And two, if a single key was not to work; it would follow that in such a fiendishly designed device that all of the keys would need to be used. (A third thought – that someone was playing a fiendishly complex practical joke on the old Curator – did pass through his mind, but the man ignored it and then forgot it immediately.)

Since then, he had spent his days painstakingly first identifying each of the key holes – with small pins that he was able to insert in the somewhat pliable surface of the box, that he then tagged with the number 1 through 106. He affixed similar tags to each of the keys. A journal by his side kept track of which permutation he was on. It was nearly filled. His mathematician friend – in their final conversation – said that the task was folly and that it would take longer than the Curator’s remaining lifespan to complete. Better, he said, to continue randomly inserting the keys. It would have about the same chance of success.

The Curator remembered hanging up the phone. They had not spoken since.

As was his morning routine. The Curator opened the key ring and began to lie out the keys, one by one, in front of him on his desk. Once, there had other papers, projects and even a computer there. Now, it was bare, except for the box and the rows and rows of keys.

He opened his notebook to check the last sequence he had begun. Key 47 was the first one, followed by a predetermined order that would put all 106 in the proper spot in the current order. The Curator peered through his thick glasses, adjusted in his seat a bit to find more comfort, and began to insert the keys.

Nothing disturbed him that morning – or any morning in recent memory. The fetid air from outside grew hotter, but he did not notice. The outer office of his department was empty, as it always was on Monday morning. His phone did not ring. The last time the Curator had attempted to call out during the day, he had discovered that the phone had been disconnected.

He worked steadily through the morning. His fingers were fat and clumsy and the keys were small, so the Curator needed to take great care to not drop any of the keys and to place them properly in each keyhole. It would take him most of the morning to do one full task – insert the keys, see if any of them would turn, and then carefully remove them back into their proper spaces on the desk. Then a checkmark would be put by the combination and he would begin on the next. The Curator never took lunch, so on a good day of nine or ten continuous hours of work, he may complete four turns (he would never leave until the day’s task was complete and the keys were back on the ring).

The morning went slow. The growing heat from outside made his fingers sweat and the keys slippery. Combined with the box’s natural slickness, this meant the Curator took far longer for the first sequence that Monday morning. In fact, it was far past noon by the time he had completed his latest futile task and replaced the keys on the desk.

He paused for a moment, stretching his aching back. He thought of closing the window, but the air conditioner also did not work and the heavy sun outside would do nothing but beat down and make the room even hotter, and his own fingers even slicker.

Instead, he carefully picked up key 48 and began anew. As the afternoon grew older and older, the task seemed to go slower. Finally, the last key – numbered 27 – was inserted. The Curator went to keyhole 35, which seemed to have some give, so it was where he always started.

He tried the key.

A turn.

A click.

The box unfolded itself before the Curator. He sat back and pushed his glasses back on his nose. He felt, suddenly and inexplicably, empty. He peered inside and saw:

a garden unlike any upon the Earth. It was thick and lush, verdant and full of a sweet aroma. The trees were thick of trunk and reached high into the sky. Instead of the dull roar of traffic, the Curator heard only bird song and the nearby rhythm of running water. He wanted to take off his sweat-stained suit and jump inside, but knew he could not.

He saw:

An infinity of lights running off into the distance black sky. Around him was dull steel and plastic. He looked down at his hand, and it was covered in a heavy glove. He could hear nothing but his own breath, in and out, amid the silence of space.

He saw:

The deepest fire of the world, lost far below ground in the molten core of the earth. He could feel the heat in all of his pours, but he was not burned, or even singed. The Curator could sense shapes and creatures far below him, dancing within the magma like cats with a ball of string.

He saw:

A grasping hand. Now it was many grasping hands, trying to take deep into the darkness. He thought of resisting, but saw no point in that. The hands grabbed and grabbed and dragged him, but the Curator felt no fear. Just peace.

He saw:

Nothing.

The Curator turned the key back and the box closed with barely a whisper. It was growing pale outside. Though he wore no watch, the Curator knew the day was nearly done. He slowly removed each of the keys and placed them back on the desk. Once the task was done, he carefully placed them back on the key ring and then snapped it shut. In his journal, the Curator erased the marks by the last two entries and then closed the book. He stood up for the first time in hours and stretched. After a visit to the adjacent bathroom, he came back to his office and closed the window, noting that the sky had become overcast. He grabbed his suit coat and coat and headed for the door, shutting off the light behind him. At last, the Curator locked the door behind him with a satisfying click.

As he walked out into the empty and dark office, he wished he had brought an umbrella, for it looked like rain.