Factory
Once when walking through the countryside we found a factory. It was only small then, a few pieces of stunted machinery, growing from a rusted manhole cover in the grass. My friend and I remarked upon the find, I wanted to kick it over like an ant’s nest to see how it worked, see if it was clockwork or steam powered or diesal.
It sat in the sun, miniature machines clicking as it extracted minerals from the earth, tiny spires growing out to catch the most of the bright sunlight. Humming slightly and a noise on the edge of hearing like bat sound or telegraphy signals.
No, my friend said, we must watch it grow, these things are rare, possibly even protected. We were fascinated by its rusted surface, pieces flaking off like bark, dry and crumbling to the touch.
That’s how it grows, said my friend, my father has a book on Industry and Planning. It’s tapping into the earth, he said, its probably found oil or some kind of fuel.
I scoffed at this, it must have deep roots, I said, there is no oil around here.
We returned a few days later, hoping nobody had discovered our find and destroyed it. People still found these things disgusting. They would destroy them quickly lest they grow out of hand like weeds and choke the life from the whole area. People often held a prejudice against them as dirty and choking, little more than a hazard and a product of old, long buried rubbish heaps.
It had grown two towers since we had last seen it and was undamaged. The towers rose into the air about a metre, intricately scarred and burned with abstract growth patterns, rings of varying lengths looking a little like tide marks. They were rainbow coloured, like metal welds and hot to the touch, streaks of green copper fluid running down the sides.
Cooling towers, I suggested.
Parts of the base had compacted into stone like hardness. It’s building a shell, said my friend. He had been talking his father about these things. We gently prodded it with sticks and it oozed black liquid from several places. We could not tell if this was fuel or effluvia, it only stained our hands and stank abominably.
It throbbed slightly as we leaned closer, we could feel the heat from inside and the sound of the mechanical pieces working away, to maintain itself and to grow at a feverish pace. We hoped it would last the summer, fearing that the later cold of winter would shatter its fragile metallic stems, they would snap so easily if frozen. But summer has its dangers too, many fungi and rusts that could attack and corrode the thing, not just the ever present orange and green fuzz.
There were animals too that would have liked to smash it open and devour the sweet pulp that flowed in its innards, all the by products of its industry and the highly powered sugars it would later use in pollinating. It was no wonder that these things were protected, judging by these frailties.
However we only saw it grow that summer. My friend and I tended to it as best we could, learning from his fathers books how best to look after it, pruning away dead shells, feeding it various fuels to keep it growing, using fertilisers and antifreezes to protect and nourish it.
In September we had to leave it, education had called from far away and separated my friend and I, though we vowed solemnly that we would return to it the first week of Christmas. I spent my term in the University of a northern city, cold and near to the Atlantic coast, learning the geometry of literacy and the irrationality of numbers, thinking little of the Summer’s distractions. I would take long walks along the cliff paths, the wind roughing my face. My only friends then were the tough gorses, strong enough to live through any winter.
Come Christmas I feared the worst, as my train travelled through the endless snow covered fields to my old home. Could the factory have survived this? I could only hope.
As we approached the fields our hearts were gripped with fear, seemingly confirmed when we turned the corner into the field and saw what was left of the factory. It was bigger than we had left it, covering most of the field, yet it looked entirely lifeless, it seemed to be just a great pile of junk, twisted sheets of rusted metal, the towers bent and corroded, some toppled. It was a mass of old broken parts, great chains that should have joined pistons were snapped and lay corroding in the snow. Its feeding wires lay fallen, some ripped open and their fine copper wire sprayed out, only a few remained coiled around the trees. I felt like weeping.
Hold on, said my friend, nine tenths will be beneath the surface. The top has merely died away so the underneath can survive the winter. It will be conserving its energy for spring.
We dug amongst the soil and rust flakes at its base until we found one of its many roots. We dug are a little further and found to our delight a piece of metal, shining and warm when I pressed a gloved finger to it.
We covered the thing over and left for home, satisfied and singing the old Firemen songs we had learned as children.
By the time summer came around again I had almost forgotten the factory. My friend telephoned me on the first day of July. It is ready to hatch, he said. I did not comprehend so he made me come with him to the field. It was now a mass of ironwork, fused together from many strands of pylons and girdles, with cables running along the sides and roofs forming over the bulk. I even spied embryonic windows forming in its sides and the suggestion of brickwork.
For the first time I felt reservations about having nurtured this thing as it coughed smoke out over the field. It looked like it was about to explode or collapse into a great toxic heap. I feared its immensity and un-cleanliness, the smell catching in the back of my throat; I understood now why people had disliked them so fiercely.
Look, cried my friend excitedly, pointing to a high tower. The ironwork began to crack as something forced its way through into the light. A tower of stone began to emerge, still wet and slightly molten, into the summer heat. It immediately started to harden, stiffening into the dimensions of a round tower with long windows, tiles growing out like petals as we watched.
All over the factory ironwork was buckling and being pushed apart by these sudden growths, wrenched aside as the fresh stonework burst through as if yearning for the sunlight.
Within hours where the factory had stood there lay a miniature stone city, light reflecting from the birth fresh granite and marble tiers.
Wondrous, exclaimed my friend. Of course it will take many more years before it is big enough for you and I. It will also need regular pruning; we just don’t have the wars anymore to keep a city to its natural size. They do so overgrow. He turned to me, I can’t wait for it to flower.
Wondrous, I echoed.
Summer 2002
It sat in the sun, miniature machines clicking as it extracted minerals from the earth, tiny spires growing out to catch the most of the bright sunlight. Humming slightly and a noise on the edge of hearing like bat sound or telegraphy signals.
No, my friend said, we must watch it grow, these things are rare, possibly even protected. We were fascinated by its rusted surface, pieces flaking off like bark, dry and crumbling to the touch.
That’s how it grows, said my friend, my father has a book on Industry and Planning. It’s tapping into the earth, he said, its probably found oil or some kind of fuel.
I scoffed at this, it must have deep roots, I said, there is no oil around here.
We returned a few days later, hoping nobody had discovered our find and destroyed it. People still found these things disgusting. They would destroy them quickly lest they grow out of hand like weeds and choke the life from the whole area. People often held a prejudice against them as dirty and choking, little more than a hazard and a product of old, long buried rubbish heaps.
It had grown two towers since we had last seen it and was undamaged. The towers rose into the air about a metre, intricately scarred and burned with abstract growth patterns, rings of varying lengths looking a little like tide marks. They were rainbow coloured, like metal welds and hot to the touch, streaks of green copper fluid running down the sides.
Cooling towers, I suggested.
Parts of the base had compacted into stone like hardness. It’s building a shell, said my friend. He had been talking his father about these things. We gently prodded it with sticks and it oozed black liquid from several places. We could not tell if this was fuel or effluvia, it only stained our hands and stank abominably.
It throbbed slightly as we leaned closer, we could feel the heat from inside and the sound of the mechanical pieces working away, to maintain itself and to grow at a feverish pace. We hoped it would last the summer, fearing that the later cold of winter would shatter its fragile metallic stems, they would snap so easily if frozen. But summer has its dangers too, many fungi and rusts that could attack and corrode the thing, not just the ever present orange and green fuzz.
There were animals too that would have liked to smash it open and devour the sweet pulp that flowed in its innards, all the by products of its industry and the highly powered sugars it would later use in pollinating. It was no wonder that these things were protected, judging by these frailties.
However we only saw it grow that summer. My friend and I tended to it as best we could, learning from his fathers books how best to look after it, pruning away dead shells, feeding it various fuels to keep it growing, using fertilisers and antifreezes to protect and nourish it.
In September we had to leave it, education had called from far away and separated my friend and I, though we vowed solemnly that we would return to it the first week of Christmas. I spent my term in the University of a northern city, cold and near to the Atlantic coast, learning the geometry of literacy and the irrationality of numbers, thinking little of the Summer’s distractions. I would take long walks along the cliff paths, the wind roughing my face. My only friends then were the tough gorses, strong enough to live through any winter.
Come Christmas I feared the worst, as my train travelled through the endless snow covered fields to my old home. Could the factory have survived this? I could only hope.
As we approached the fields our hearts were gripped with fear, seemingly confirmed when we turned the corner into the field and saw what was left of the factory. It was bigger than we had left it, covering most of the field, yet it looked entirely lifeless, it seemed to be just a great pile of junk, twisted sheets of rusted metal, the towers bent and corroded, some toppled. It was a mass of old broken parts, great chains that should have joined pistons were snapped and lay corroding in the snow. Its feeding wires lay fallen, some ripped open and their fine copper wire sprayed out, only a few remained coiled around the trees. I felt like weeping.
Hold on, said my friend, nine tenths will be beneath the surface. The top has merely died away so the underneath can survive the winter. It will be conserving its energy for spring.
We dug amongst the soil and rust flakes at its base until we found one of its many roots. We dug are a little further and found to our delight a piece of metal, shining and warm when I pressed a gloved finger to it.
We covered the thing over and left for home, satisfied and singing the old Firemen songs we had learned as children.
By the time summer came around again I had almost forgotten the factory. My friend telephoned me on the first day of July. It is ready to hatch, he said. I did not comprehend so he made me come with him to the field. It was now a mass of ironwork, fused together from many strands of pylons and girdles, with cables running along the sides and roofs forming over the bulk. I even spied embryonic windows forming in its sides and the suggestion of brickwork.
For the first time I felt reservations about having nurtured this thing as it coughed smoke out over the field. It looked like it was about to explode or collapse into a great toxic heap. I feared its immensity and un-cleanliness, the smell catching in the back of my throat; I understood now why people had disliked them so fiercely.
Look, cried my friend excitedly, pointing to a high tower. The ironwork began to crack as something forced its way through into the light. A tower of stone began to emerge, still wet and slightly molten, into the summer heat. It immediately started to harden, stiffening into the dimensions of a round tower with long windows, tiles growing out like petals as we watched.
All over the factory ironwork was buckling and being pushed apart by these sudden growths, wrenched aside as the fresh stonework burst through as if yearning for the sunlight.
Within hours where the factory had stood there lay a miniature stone city, light reflecting from the birth fresh granite and marble tiers.
Wondrous, exclaimed my friend. Of course it will take many more years before it is big enough for you and I. It will also need regular pruning; we just don’t have the wars anymore to keep a city to its natural size. They do so overgrow. He turned to me, I can’t wait for it to flower.
Wondrous, I echoed.
Summer 2002
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