tongue-tied
by fwl

Beneath a brooding charcoal sky, heavy with menace, the city of New London spread far and wide, its tentacles searching, probing into each and every dip and crevice of the once-green landscape. From North to South the wide asphalt rivers ran swift and straight, and upon them bewheeled craft sailed mindlessly to and fro. From East to West were scattered vast islands of concrete and steel with watch tower forests and towering, many-eyed mountains standing firm and strong upon the ground.

The staccato silhouette of this omnipotent, surreal landscape pounded the senses night and day and back to night, and grew without ceasing.

Upon one chosen patch of ground, along the northern fringe of the city, there was built a symbol of the advance of Man - an immense one-fingered salute of a building that jutted defiantly against all that stood in the name of progress. The Pride of New London hotel reached one thousand stories into the clear, unmastered realm of sky, and mocked the hundred-storey midgets at its feet. It stood erect and proud, King of all the man-made mountains.

***

One thousand storeys up from the scrambling New London streets, a news conference was being held to celebrate (and advertise) the opening of the Pride of New London hotel. As the fierce, angry wind battered in vain at this strange invader of its terrain, a small group of the world's most famous journalists huddled together on the building's roof to hear and record the words of one Thomas J. McLarney.

McLarney, the owner of the hotel, was one of the oldest men present - and he looked it. His face was twisted into an almost featureless mass of folds, from which peered two tiny eyes - eyes that had seen two hundred and thirty years of struggling, fighting and backstabbing along the dangerous road to wealth and power. Face and body sagged lifelessly, but the eyes of Thomas J. McLarney swept the small crowd vigorously, leaving them in no doubt as to who was Boss.

A battered grey trilby sitting atop his head kept the wind from disturbing his sparse patch of white hair.

In a voice as frail as his shrunken body, McLarney spoke to the eager throng of reporters.

"It's been a long, hard haul," he rasped, "but it's been worth it. This hotel, this......." he faltered, gesturing blindly into the wind until prompted by one of his advisors. "This symbol of the greatness of our civilisation is not only, as the name suggests, the pride of our beautiful city, but the pride of Man. And it's my pride. My pride and joy.

"All my life I've sought perfection in all things........" pressmen and advisors nodded faithfully, watched by the all-consuming gaze of the old man, ".....and this building  is a perfect building.  The perfect building. This is architecture brought to its ultimate peak of evolution. A virtually self-contained city."

As McLarney spoke he seemed to stand taller, straighter. His voice carried above the now-screaming wind as he gestured firmly.

"I have now watched the dream of a lifetime become an awesome reality..." He paused, knowing how each man hung on every word as angels wait for the voice of God. "...and yet I'm not, and never will be, satisfied." A murmur ran through the small crowd, but was hushed as the old man continued, with a trembling voice. "I shall never be satisfied, not until the day I die. Onwards and upwards we must go," he shouted, "until our bricks and girders cover the very face of god."

The battered, wizened old man was suddenly a giant with a fist raised high into the sky as an extension to his creation. The reporters were hypnotised by him, as were the billions who watched him on holo-screens across the face of the planet. Tiny lapel studs whirred quietly, capturing and recording the ferocity of his words.

"Never before in his history has Man reached such heights. Never before have we been closer to the gates of Heaven itself. This is a tribute to the greatness of Man, and a sular tackit on lar from. Et ilinis ora.........tan ind so......"

There was a hush, a wondering silence. A frown. The old man seemed dazed for a moment. The reporters, aides and the public held their breath as one, and waited as McLarney cleared his throat, breathed deeply, then said "Yan todi an warla on pit.............. .....canny rah la on tis........... ...........rit! Sam sinana asip?"

One thousand storeys above the ground a murmur grew among a small crowd of men. A disorganised, confused murmur that burst into a frightened crescendo of meaningless chatter.

"Atai sek aloora amanabin!" screamed one of McLarney's bodyguards, his eyes wide in shock. Another bodyguard was wrenching his jaw and tongue to and fro, a low, fearful groan escaping from his throat. A journalist listened to his own babbling, feeling the change, as if a mist were floating through the crowd, growing, spreading, causing each man to speak in a tongue that appeared nonsensical to all others.

One thousand floors below them a hotel security guard answered an inquisitive prospective customer by saying "Yes ma'am, all the rooms are tonick an shalla, and they ronii tu alla rumar......." and the wind shrieked and howled at his confusion.

Within minutes the whole of the northern sector of New London was a terrified, jabbering cacophony. No man, woman or child understood their neighbour. Within an hour the whole city was at a standstill, and inside a day the whole planet fell into dazed silence.

And the wind grew. It became a thunder to deafen the frightened humans huddled below in their cold, darkened cities.

And the thunder became a voice, booming across continent and ocean. Fearless. Unstoppable. "I am the Lord your God." pronounced the voice from the sky, and the ground trembled. "I am the Lord your God, and I will not be mocked. You will not set up idols to yourselves in my rightful place. Me shall you worship, and Me only.

"How dare you rise up in defiance against your Creator! Know, Man, that I am God." And as the voice roared its mesage the thunder boomed louder, and lightning slashed across the sky. It ripped across cities and pummeled every building in its path. Like a giant, electrical fist the lightning smashed into the Pride of New London hotel, and a thousand elegant storeys teetered and fell.

"I am the Lord your God." the voice repeated, and then thunder, lightning and wind were gone.

***

For a while there was silence; there were frightened, wondering faces and trembling bodies. But then, deep inside those bodies, a trait that is uniquely human awoke. A whisper in the soul that, when challenged grows into a shout, a scream of defiance. And the people stood. They shook no more. They raised their fists to God, and then turned to each other and joined their fists as one.

Three weeks later a highly-sophisticated portable translator was developed and put into mass production. Two weeks after that plans were unveiled for the erection of a new skyscraper to replace the Pride of New London. The Voice of New London hotel would rise above the New London skyline, punching its way upwards for five thousand storeys. Onwards and upwards, until it covered the very face of God.

© J.Gomer 2002