05-02-2018, 06:13 PM
From Pioneer Square, Harmony unlocked the side door of a quaint, ivy-choked house, and then it was just a quick trip down a narrow staircase into the Seattle Underground. A private entrance for tour guides, Harmony explained. For some time now, she had been meaning to give Dexter a tour of the subterranean city.
Dexter was still too perturbed to speak, so he just nodded. Harmony seemed not to notice his discomfort.
At the base of the stairs, lights hanging from crossbeams highlighted a vast, low-ceilinged, brick-walled room. The room’s walls were lined with discarded ladders, filing cabinets, drawers, and rubble. The floor had recently been swept, but as Harmony led Dexter out of the first room and down an ethereal stone passageway, they traveled into dustier and dustier terrain. Soon there were no more lights above them and Harmony produced a flashlight to guide them between the remains of ancient buildings.
“This used to be downtown Seattle,” Harmony explained.
Dexter could see the resemblance only vaguely. The fact that the tops of buildings merged into wooden slats, forming the underground’s ceiling, threw him off and made him feel like he was traveling through one huge labyrinth of brick-walled rooms.
“It burned down years ago as the result of a bunch of people not thinking properly: a cabinetmaker spilling a pot of glue; people trying to extinguish the grease fire with water; the fire department using too many hoses; a subsequent drop in water pressure, and poof! Thirty-three blocks gone, just like that, with no way to stop it. Tell me how that fits into your unified formula.”
Dexter looked at her when she finished, but all he could see was her trembling hand in the cast-off flow of the flashlight. “There’s logic in that,” he said haltingly. “The people… they acted based on reflexes and routines, which are patterns.”
“And rebuilding Seattle twelve feet above where it used to be?”
“There must have been a reason.” Under normal circumstances he would have told her why, but a lump formed in his throat and seemed unwilling to let through any extraneous words.
“I guess so,” Harmony said as she stopped by a small door. “Want to go deeper?”
All Dexter wanted to do was run away, but something he didn’t understand compelled him to stay. “Is it safe down here?” he asked. He finally had time to notice how the holes in the wall caught Harmony’s beam, and how all the supports looked centuries old.
“Sure,” Harmony said, turning the light on Dexter.
He blinked and shielded his eyes. “Go on, then.”
Slowly, his thought patterns settled. Their talks took tangents into underground opium dealing and prostitution, then segued into hypotheses of what kinds of psychopaths and serial killers might have used the Seattle Underground as a hideout. It was a fitting conversation for when the flashlight burned out.
For a second, Dexter knew he was alone. The darkness around him was overwhelming, suffocating; something Dexter couldn’t comprehend pushed and pulled from all sides, urging him to some unknown destination. Distantly, Dexter thought he heard laughter. But then Harmony’s fingers found his, a small reassurance, and they were standing together, linked in the darkness. There was no sound, no light. Only the musty smell, Harmony’s hand, and the ground beneath his feet let Dexter know he had not become untethered—left to drift in the inky black limbo of space.
When they resurfaced the sun was out. Harmony said they were underground for almost three hours. Dexter realized during that whole time he had hardly had a single scientific or mathematical thought. Those three words, spoken so casually by Harmony, reverberated in his head and lit a dull ache behind his eyes.
That night, Dexter dreamed about darkness. He remembered a time when his parents were out, and he was lying on his bed, and somehow the quiet of the night was worse than any sound, and the shadows of the furniture weren’t where they were supposed to be. Somewhere in the annals of his mind he thought he heard a voice, beckoning him to a world beyond the one he had always known.
Dexter was still too perturbed to speak, so he just nodded. Harmony seemed not to notice his discomfort.
At the base of the stairs, lights hanging from crossbeams highlighted a vast, low-ceilinged, brick-walled room. The room’s walls were lined with discarded ladders, filing cabinets, drawers, and rubble. The floor had recently been swept, but as Harmony led Dexter out of the first room and down an ethereal stone passageway, they traveled into dustier and dustier terrain. Soon there were no more lights above them and Harmony produced a flashlight to guide them between the remains of ancient buildings.
“This used to be downtown Seattle,” Harmony explained.
Dexter could see the resemblance only vaguely. The fact that the tops of buildings merged into wooden slats, forming the underground’s ceiling, threw him off and made him feel like he was traveling through one huge labyrinth of brick-walled rooms.
“It burned down years ago as the result of a bunch of people not thinking properly: a cabinetmaker spilling a pot of glue; people trying to extinguish the grease fire with water; the fire department using too many hoses; a subsequent drop in water pressure, and poof! Thirty-three blocks gone, just like that, with no way to stop it. Tell me how that fits into your unified formula.”
Dexter looked at her when she finished, but all he could see was her trembling hand in the cast-off flow of the flashlight. “There’s logic in that,” he said haltingly. “The people… they acted based on reflexes and routines, which are patterns.”
“And rebuilding Seattle twelve feet above where it used to be?”
“There must have been a reason.” Under normal circumstances he would have told her why, but a lump formed in his throat and seemed unwilling to let through any extraneous words.
“I guess so,” Harmony said as she stopped by a small door. “Want to go deeper?”
All Dexter wanted to do was run away, but something he didn’t understand compelled him to stay. “Is it safe down here?” he asked. He finally had time to notice how the holes in the wall caught Harmony’s beam, and how all the supports looked centuries old.
“Sure,” Harmony said, turning the light on Dexter.
He blinked and shielded his eyes. “Go on, then.”
Slowly, his thought patterns settled. Their talks took tangents into underground opium dealing and prostitution, then segued into hypotheses of what kinds of psychopaths and serial killers might have used the Seattle Underground as a hideout. It was a fitting conversation for when the flashlight burned out.
For a second, Dexter knew he was alone. The darkness around him was overwhelming, suffocating; something Dexter couldn’t comprehend pushed and pulled from all sides, urging him to some unknown destination. Distantly, Dexter thought he heard laughter. But then Harmony’s fingers found his, a small reassurance, and they were standing together, linked in the darkness. There was no sound, no light. Only the musty smell, Harmony’s hand, and the ground beneath his feet let Dexter know he had not become untethered—left to drift in the inky black limbo of space.
When they resurfaced the sun was out. Harmony said they were underground for almost three hours. Dexter realized during that whole time he had hardly had a single scientific or mathematical thought. Those three words, spoken so casually by Harmony, reverberated in his head and lit a dull ache behind his eyes.
That night, Dexter dreamed about darkness. He remembered a time when his parents were out, and he was lying on his bed, and somehow the quiet of the night was worse than any sound, and the shadows of the furniture weren’t where they were supposed to be. Somewhere in the annals of his mind he thought he heard a voice, beckoning him to a world beyond the one he had always known.