Doom Jazz

The clocks stopped on November 10th, 1920, at precisely 4:29 PM. Daniel Horatius Triggs first noticed on the heirloom pocket watch he was nearly finished cleaning. The gears inside were still ticking away, steady as a mechanical heartbeat, but the hands remained unmoving. Puzzled, Daniel checked the time against his own wristwatch. If he could figure out how long ago the first timepiece stopped working, he might be able to figure out what had been dislodged to cause the malfunction. Only the wristwatch also read 4:29. The hands of both watches were vexing and identical in placement. Silently, Daniel counted off a minute, then another, waiting for one of them to tick to the next minute. All hands stayed firmly at 4:29. Daniel shook his wristwatch in frustration, then held it to his ear. The gears whirred along happily, with no odd noises to betray why the hands refused to budge.

The wristwatch was a gift to himself when he enlisted to go overseas. It survived a year of fighting Germans in Belgian trenches and worked through mud, blood, and mustard gas. Save for a brief stint where it caught some shrapnel, it hadn’t faltered and returned more intact than Daniel himself. He couldn’t imagine what harm could come to the wristwatch in his own workshop that a war failed to deliver. Curious to see if any of the other clocks suffered a similar affliction, he levered himself up onto his wooden leg and started toward his study.

Even from the doorway, Daniel could see the pendulum swinging on the grandfather clock. That was a good start. Perhaps the frozen hands on the smaller pieces were a strange coincidence.

It was only when Daniel was halfway into the room that he realized there was an unfamiliar man sitting in his chair. Daniel paused. The man glanced up briefly, then returned his attention to the newspaper he was reading, not at all alarmed by Daniel’s appearance. The nonchalance nearly convinced Daniel that he’d walked from his hallway into someone else’s home. The room was filled with Daniel’s books, however, and the fat calico seated on the matching chair was decidedly the ungrateful thing he’d been feeding for the past year.

“I don’t know you,” Daniel said carefully, after a moment of consideration. The man was striking in a way that could make Grecian statues weep from envy. His coal black hair was neatly combed and slicked in place, save the lone, artful curl near the part. His beard was neatly trimmed, highlighting his high cheekbones and rich tawny skin. If Daniel had ever seen him before, he would remember it. In comparison, Daniel felt abruptly monstrous. The war still lingered under his skin, except where it broke through. The absent leg, the scars, the ringing in his ears, all places where he’d been worn thin and never repaired. Smiling, Daniel shifted his weight to his good leg. His remaining leg. The man took his time folding the newspaper, then dropped it on the table and stood with a cordial grin.

“Right on time, Sergeant Triggs,” the man said.

“And just who the hell–” Suddenly reminded of his original reason for entering the room, Daniel glanced at the grandfather clock. Its ornate hands sat immobile at 4:29.

“I’d like to say this is a pleasure, but we’re mixing in business, I’m afraid,” the man continued, offering his hand for Daniel to shake. Daniel didn’t take it. He tamped down on his conditioned politeness and frowned instead. Undeterred, the man lowered his hand. “I’m the Mockerbird.”

“The Mockingbird?”

“Mockerbird,” the man stressed, only grinning wider when Daniel looked at him strangely. It wasn’t a name. Mockingbird wasn’t a name either, but it felt less clumsy. Bemused, Daniel pondered why he was bothering to exchange pleasantries with a home invader. “I realize this is all very frustrating in the beginning, Sergeant.”

“Daniel,” corrected Daniel sharply, sounding as if the word had been punched out of him. Mockerbird raised an eyebrow. Calmer after a deep breath, Daniel continued, “Daniel Triggs. Don’t call me Sergeant, I’m not a soldier.”

“Not anymore,” Mockerbird agreed. He considered Daniel’s pinched expression. “I’d like us to be friends. Would you mind if I called you Ratio instead? Horatius is a bit much to say every time.”

“I supposed not.” Anything was better than sergeant, though how Mockerbird knew that name was another mystery on a growing stack. It was a remnant of the war and no one in Daniel’s hometown used it. With no idea how to prioritize what should alarm him the most left Daniel felt oddly removed from the situation. A simple thief would have been easier to deal with, but even a murderer felt preferable. Both were more direct problems than whatever this situation was spiraling into.

“Wonderful. But to business: what do you remember from when you got–?” Mockerbird gestured vaguely around his own face. It was what people did when they didn’t want to point at Daniel’s scars directly.

“Not much,” Daniel said. There’d been an explosion. Artillery and gunfire rattled all day over there, from sunup to sundown and through the night for good measure. There’d been an explosion, but Daniel hadn’t heard it. He woke up in the mud, his face wet and swollen. “Got a little rattled.”

“And what did you see when you ‘got rattled,’ Ratio?”

“Doctors?” Except that hadn’t been it. There’d been blood, and a lone, drowned corpse slumped on the opposite side of the shellhole. The doctors came much later. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Placing his hands on Daniel’s shoulders, Mockerbird gently steered him toward the reading chair. After waving the cat off it, he gestured for Daniel to sit. It was a suspicious kindness, but Daniel’s leg was beginning to ache where the prosthetic was attached. Grudgingly, Daniel sat down. Mockerbird lingered by the arm of the chair, still standing. “I need you to understand we’re in a delicate situation.”

“We?” Daniel scoffed.

“You ‘got rattled’,” Mockerbird repeated firmly, “and then the dead man beside you got up. Did he speak to you, Ratio?”

“What?” Daniel gasped, suddenly unable to breathe. The cold, slick tangle of emotions that lived perpetually in his chest flared, making his lungs feel too small. He’d never told a soul. No one would have believed him and on his better days, Daniel didn’t believe himself. He’d had a head wound. His face had been swollen and dripping blood. His fingertips were frozen in the icy water as he’d pushed himself up and found the German corpse doing exactly the same thing. “Where did you hear that?”

Ignoring the question, Mockerbird said, “The dead man spoke?”

“He…? It–no. It stood up and I…” Daniel remembered how the corpse shook itself apart. It became ashes and foam before his very eyes, but its shadow remained, anchorless. Then the shadow changed. It twisted, swelled and became something Other. Daniel couldn't describe what he’d been watching. The creature's mouths were made of mouths, its eyes made of eyes - both infinite and contained, endless and yet collapsing in on themselves. There was no telling its size. He couldn't describe its shape as he was looking at it. The only certainties were the ugly vertigo that threatened to upend Daniel's stomach and the pain that grew biting and sharp along his sinuses as he stared. It looked like agony.

“I don’t…I don’t remember what it said,” Daniel admitted, increasingly distressed. Had it said something? The knowledge felt just beyond his reach. “I don’t know that it spoke. It just…”

He could remember the mud. The sour feeling that seemed to settle in his marrow and the itch inside of his bones was a vivid memory. And the despair, even the echo of it knocked the air clean out of Daniel’s lungs. If there was one ounce of mercy in the universe, the beast would have looked away. The universe was not built from compassion. The vast spaces between the stars hid no justice. With mounting dread, Daniel knew this creature was spat forth from the distant, dark cracks of existence to rend it apart. For just that endless, stifling second, he’d had its undivided attention.

“There was a cat,” Daniel said, absolutely certain of that fact though he couldn’t recall why. Absently, Daniel touched his damaged ear. In the silence, he could almost make out the song of a distant band. Steady drums played under the sharp sound of a trumpet. Only faintly, and only when the rest of the world grew too still. He assumed his mind was filling in the blanks, giving some melody to the phantom noises that followed him back from Europe. Now, he wasn’t sure. “And music. I heard music.”

Nothing in Mockerbird’s expression changed, but it suddenly seemed brittle. “A cat?”

“A black cat. It had…” Daniel pressed a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t picture the animal, only the impression it left, the damage in its wake. Frustrated, he removed his hand. “I think it was laughing at me?”

“You didn’t meet the Children,” Mockerbird said softly. His tone was dangerously close to pity. “That was Rasth.”

“It was just a cat. A mean cat, but cats are-” Mockerbird touched his shoulder and Daniel fell silent.

“Rasth is not just anything. Did you hear the music before or after you saw the cat?”

Daniel made a frustrated gesture with his hands, “I don’t know.”

“I need you to think about it, Ratio. Before or after the cat? Think carefully.” To emphasize his point, Mockerbird leaned harder on Daniel’s shoulder. The weight was grounding and irritating in equal turns.

“Before? Or maybe– I think after. There was an explosion, and then my ears–”

“Your ears were damaged? Your ears were ringing from an explosion,” Mockerbird repeated. He sounded giddier by the moment.

“Yes,” Daniel frowned. “And your sympathy is noted.”

“Oh, Ratio, you don’t understand. Your ears were ringing-”

“I understand that very well, actually.”

“-and you couldn’t hear Rasth speak. Whatever they attempted to do to you failed because you couldn’t hear them. Do you realize how absurd your survival is?”

“Vividly aware,” Daniel said without inflection. He shrugged off the hand, but Mockerbird didn’t notice. With the point of contact broken, Mockerbird drifted toward the bookshelves.

“You survived the living abyss. A star god spoke to you and you lived, that’s why you can hear the music. You’re a gem, Ratio. Rasth has the attention span of a wildfire, they probably didn’t think to check if you were still alive.”

“Mostly,” Daniel agreed, tapping his wooden leg.

“Absurd,” Mockerbird laughed. The sound was low and pleasant. It made Daniel want to bare his teeth like an ill-mannered dog. “Perfectly absurd.”

“What does it matter?” Daniel snapped. Anger flared so sharply in his gut that he felt nauseous from it. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, I haven’t explained it yet.” Making a quiet noise of disapproval Mockerbird glanced over Daniel’s collection of books. It wasn’t very large. The titles were disorganized and Daniel felt a brief twinge of embarrassment. “I don’t see any scriptures. You aren’t much of a biblical man, are you, Ratio? Or weren’t, rather. The end of the world changes things.” Before Daniel could protest, Mockerbird spun on his heel to face him. Mockerbird’s eyes, previously a warm brown, were bright red and nearly glowing. It was a color Daniel had only seen in waterfowl and a handful of hawks before. Eyes like that couldn’t belong to a man.

“For lack of a better title, you’re a prophet,” Mockerbird continued when Daniel forgot how to speak, “An oracle to our demise. In the entire world, you’re the only one hearing the death knell of planets, of us. It will get louder. Nothing likes to die quietly, Ratio.”

Irrationally, Daniel reached up to cover his ears. The silence lasted for half a second, and then Daniel was certain he heard a trumpet. A saxophone, maybe. Some faint, shrill sound of jazz and ruin echoed in his ears and he ripped his hands away.

“How do we stop it?” Daniel asked. Running wasn’t something he’d done in a long time, but Daniel’s chest heaved as though he’d finished a marathon. His throat ached. None of the air seemed to settle in his lungs, and he gripped at the arms of the chair until his knuckles were bloodless. “You must know how to stop Rasth, so what do we do? How do we fix it?”

“Oh, Ratio,” Mockerbird started gently. Something around his ugly, bright eyes softened but he didn’t move closer to Daniel. “How would you stop a creature that devours lesser gods? What do you think a prophet does?”

“What?”

“All you can do is listen to the song, and tell everyone.”

“Tell them what? About how a cat only I saw and jazz only I hear mean something? No one’s going to believe it,” Daniel said, near pleading. His voice cracked. Even sitting in the center of the room, he felt cornered.

“Most people won’t. Prophets are rarely believed in anything but retrospect.”

“Is that really all I can do?” Drawing in a shaky breath, Daniel tried to stand. He promptly fell back in the chair, shaking in every limb. The anger was gone now, leaving only the fear that kindled it to begin with. “Tell people things they won’t believe so they can look back and see I’m right? Rant about music they can’t hear? That’s it?”

Slowly, the Mockerbird crossed the room. Every move was clearly telegraphed as he reached out to pet Daniel’s hair like he was a child in need of comfort. Maybe he was. Maybe no one outgrew the urge to hide behind someone strong when monsters snapped their fangs in the dark.

“Nero played along when Rome burned,” Mockerbird said softly, ruffling Daniel’s hair, “but you could always learn to dance.”

In the corner of the room, the grandfather clock chimed 4:30.