Noise rumbled from within the metal corridors of the turbine.
The droning hum of machinery filled the humid air as the groan of a fathomless structure below lurched in the cold and searching wind, foreign in its bluster, and dwelling angrily for the first time within the turbine.
The apprentice remembered the power of the wind from their time atop the turbine, a force that may shift the land and turn that which is mighty to dust as it pushed across the heaven and spoke as if it were titan. They remembered the small bird sailing on the wind’s grace, the glinting sun that reflected upon its wings and shed light across the earth, the desert a below, a blur of colour unable to be captured within art or in memory.
Man walked within the gardens of a god and found but only wind.
It was night, the apprentice had noticed that the steel frame of the turbine had begun to cool as the sun no longer baked against it. Placing a hand against its side there was a small vibration of resonance that began as a shudder and faded like a still heartbeat. A small whistle of air boiled with rage as it shook frantically at a panel overhead, an anomaly of noise, a broken scrap left loose by the corner of a disused hatchway. Helma spoke of these leaks. Small defects that seem unimportant, a thing that if left unfixed may compound into something that may never be fixed at all.
With care, the apprentice scrambled up the crowded cable tray and moved toward the loose panel. With feet pressed against the wall they worked their way up until the catwalk was a dizzying height below. They would climb onto the roof of their home as a child, they would watch as the sunset hung so lowly beyond the corners of infinity and night would snuff day’s final glow. It was all smaller then, the world felt more tangible as it’s distance would remain unchanging. There was only the land, the circle of sky, they knew of nothing more.
Reaching the panel, the apprentice saw that a bolt had come loose and was nosily complaining against its mounting. Straining to maintain their grip the apprentice guessed the size of its head and withdrew a spanner from their unfamiliar tool belt. It fit; their guess held luck. Adjusting their hold the apprentice pressed downward with an even weight, careful not to over strain and slip from their position.
The bolt spun freely against the clatter.
The thrashing wind had worked upon this bolt for long enough to unseat the lock ring outside and no longer was there any pressure to hold it in place.
Helma had said that the turbine was like an old horse still unbroken by man’s hand. You work with it on daily chores and through time you will begin to trust in its ways. But one day you will see the power of horse’s kick and from then you would best learn to respect it.
A howl of metal and baleful call rushed past the hatch as the apprentice fought to heave it open. With foot planted upon the cable tray and hand grimly against the door, the apprentice pushed against the buffeting gale outside until the door fought itself open. A snap of mechanical movement caught the resisting door and the hatchway was suddenly flung open with an aggressive lurch, the gas struts holding the door fast and in place. Managing to let go by instinct alone, the apprentice caught their arm against the frame and for a perilous moment hung quietly over the precipice that formed as the turbine’s side.
Cool air waved through their hair as the desert and night appeared to be a single void of shifting grey. Clouds, cast lightless black by the hidden moon, were left to appear as though a blanket and now obscured the majesty of distance as they hung impassively above.
The East turbine stood as a sentinel upon the plane. Lights of warmth and of uniform array lined the side of the tower streaking their way along the blades of the prop-head, illuminating the darkness. The new structure looked to rebel against the wind, to conquer it instead of walking with peace within a new domain. The surface of the East turbine gleamed arrogantly within its own pride and through the darkness and appeared to be blind.
Reason returning as the consequence of height became apparent, the apprentice reached for the loose bolt, hugging themselves against the hatchway and desperate to see the task completed.
Why couldn’t they be taller? With fingertips outstretched and grip slowly loosening, the apprentice stretched until their joints began to ache, an eternity was spent in that galling wind before the spanner found the outside bolt and latched around the lock ring with a relieving grip. Turning the head with outstretched fingers the apprentice felt the panel settle and the bolt become taught. With one final tug the job was done and relief washed over the young worker’s arms in a wave of tired exertion. Leaning sideward in falling crawl, they slowly managed to pull themselves into the safety of the hatchway and breathed as if it was the first time in their fragile life.
Below, the catwalk was a welcome stability and familiar noises of a humming turbine continued unabated. There were smaller noises if you listened for them. Water running through knocking pipes, the reliable tick of a clock system that Garen put so much effort into.
This was the western turbine. One-million smaller pieces that existed as a name, an entity not of singular pride but of care for the composition that surrounds it.
Man walked within the gardens of a god and found but only wind.
J. McCray
2022
Sunday Short Stories 