The Tale of Artis

This is just one of the tales in the book of the Great Balsamo.

It was a long age ago, and in a place very far from here; the great city of Everwork.

Now, you must learn that Everwork was a very different city from the ones known to you and I.

Its streets were long and straight, and all fanned out from a great central hub. Its factories, foundries, homes and arcades each laid along one spoke each. Yes, from above, Everwork had the look of a big brass wheel, all wrapped In fog and steam. It’s name, of course, came from the business of its citizens, who were always rushing about some task or other, and it seemed that every few years the city would add a new marvel; a sky-high waterway, an enormous, fire-belching statue or perhaps a fantastic walking castle keep. It was a city of inventors, and it seemed there was nothing they could not, would not build, did not build.

Everwork could be a scary place. The streets were always filled with rushing workers and their automatic carriages, or else there were convoys of lorries hauling about enormous lengths of pipe or massive girders, and every day it grew a little taller, a little wider, a little busier.

The people of this city, aside from being busy, were many other things besides, but chief amongst all the things a person might be in Everwork, their trade defined who they were.

Amongst the noisy bustle of shouting engines and complaining steel, it seemed every kind of trade was useful, from the hammerer and builder to the worker of the tiniest filigree, to the architect, designer and artists of ornamentation, no, not even the rare greenery went neglected by the gardeners and botanists.

But of course, all good children know that a trade doesn’t come from nothing, and all tradespeople being as apprentices. That’s where our story really begins.

Remember that the great wheel of Everwork was itself a tapestry of spires, chimneys and roofs, then gutters, windows, bricks and streets. It was in a humble orphanage, just one of those many roofs, that Artis the apprentice first received his tools.

Artis was a very young boy. He was short even for his age with sandy hair and freckle-dusted bronze skin and he was eager to leave the orphanage and enter into the exciting world of adults, but Artis had a problem, and it had dogged him for as long as he could remember: Artis could never, ever, tell the truth.   

From the first day that the nuns had invited the artisans into the orphanage, Artis listened with rapt attention as each one told the stories of their lives; the cobblers, the glass-blowers, the blacksmiths, carpenters, painters, all of them seemed so wonderful to the young boy, and he told excited stories to all his friends about the incredible things he would make and all the fame and riches that would come with them.

When the day came, he practically jumped into the arms of their first tradesman who would have him, and before he knew it, Artis was an apprentice bricklayer and all moved in to the humble workhouse beside the construction yard.

It was as he lay awake in his bunk with the other children that the trouble began.

Artis didn’t want to tell lies, but neither did he give the truth a second thought; “whatever happened, happened,” he thought, “and if words can make things happen the way I want them, that’s all the better.”

First, Artis was tasked with checking the moulds. Every day he would wake to the sound of the  screaming whistle and make sure the bricks that would be poured that day would have no flaws. After his first week, a brick cracked in half, a wall fell and a workman was hurt. Artis was lined up with all the other apprentices and their work was checked. “It wasn’t my fault,” said Artis, “I checked them all.”

Did he tell a lie? What do you think? The truth is, Artis couldn’t remember.

The day after, Artis lost his apprenticeship. “It’s not that you caused it,” his master said, “but you lied to us. We can’t trust the integrity of the homes we build to you. Learn to be an honest boy and try again.”

The next week, Artis was apprenticed to laborers, laying railway track all the way out to the edge of the city. He sweated and heaved, hammering in the bolts in the hot sun at the edge of the dusty desert. It was much harder work than checking the moulds. Did Artis learn his lesson? What do you think?

After a few weeks under the hot sun, a train was de-railed on its way through the desert. There was a terrible accident, and the foremen said that some track had been laid wrong.

Again, his master asked him and his working crew if he had hammered hard enough, and again, Artis lied “I don’t remember, and how could my little stretch of track de-rail such a huge train?”

He and the other apprentices stole away some rations and ate a hearty meal in the shadow of the overturned cars, but the day after, all those apprentices were dismissed.

By now, Artis had a hard time finding work; when the trade-masters came to his orphanage they knew him by name, or else they could tell he had a chip on his shoulder.

Over the next few weeks, he was apprentice to a glass-blower, a gutter-layer and roof-tiler, but Artis broke glass, lost his tools and even fell through a roof. “Rats!” Artis cursed, “all these trades-people have it out for me!”   

It was after some time, but Artis found a job that suited him well, and he was apprenticed to a canal driver and learned to use a long pole to guide the boats. It was many lazy weeks out in the hot sun finding his sea legs, but Artis quickly lost the job too.

One morning, Artis’ master, who was quiet but very fair, asked Artis if he had seen a particular steamboat. What do you think he did? Just like always, Artis lied. “Yes, master, I saw it thunder by just now, and it splashed me terribly with water!”

His master could tell it wasn’t true; Artis’ clothes and the deck were dry: he had lied.

His master was a very forgiving man, but dismissed him the next day, and when Artis cried with anger, his master explained.

“It wasn’t because you lied, boy, but because you did it for no reason. You need to learn discipline before you can take on any real work!”

Artis sat in his bunk at the orphanage all by himself; all the other children his age had left for the workhouse. If he didn’t find a master soon he’d be out on the street.

He sat there, not even trying to sleep, with his jaw clenched, arms folded and tears in his eyes.

“I don’t want discipline!” He thought to himself, “I want to do whatever I please whenever I wish it!”

Artis was quite lonely by now, all his friends having moved on to trades of their own. Night after night he sat in bed, fists balled up and head full of frustrated grumbling. One night, when the moon was especially high and bright, Artis rose to pull closed his curtains.

His floor of the orphanage was quite empty, and although he didn’t know it, he was the only boy of his age still left. His days were filled with whispers and sideways glances; “what could he have done to lose so many chances?”

That night, though, was different. Artis returned to his bed, and his thoughts returned to his grievances against the adults who had shunned him.

“Would you like to prove them all wrong?” A voice asked him, and the little candle on his bedside table flickered out.

Artis dared not reply, and pulled the blanket tight over his head. He rose and scanned the room, but it was empty. “Don’t be afraid.” The voice came again, and this time Artis yelped with fear, because he was sure that that the sound had come not form outside his door or window, but from under his bed.

“W-who’s there?” Artis stammered, not just from child-like fear, but also from the realization that the voice had replied not to his words, no, he had not spoken out loud, but to his private thoughts.

“I am a tradesman.” The voice came a third time. Artis, for all his flaws, was a brave boy, and understood that this was no haunting, or if it was, it was a benevolent one, here to gift him an opportunity.

“Are you…looking for apprentices?”

The next day, the nuns showed some concern over Artis. Yes, he had been a heavy burden, but they nevertheless wished the best for him.

Still, when he claimed that there had been a metal man under his bed, they could only shake their heads; poor Artis was feeling neglected. Not one among them, even the ones who had know him since he was a baby, entertained the idea there might be truth to his story.

Without their advice, Artis left the orphanage to begin his new apprenticeship without a word.

When his apprenticeship began, Artis wondered if the thin voice of the shadow beneath his bed had been the product of a nightmare. No, how could it have been? He found a small pouch of coins and a folded pile of new clothes behind the false bricks, right on the street where the voice told him. Still, Artis hesitated, now that he had come to the empty warehouse. He laid down his sleeping bag in the furthest corner and did his best to coax fire from the furnace, and then he waited until nightfall.

It was a difficult night for Artis, and he laid awake worrying that he had imagined the whole thing. In his mind, the nuns wouldn’t take him back and he’d be right out on the street. So, when the voice came again, this time from the darkest corner of the empty warehouse, it was almost a relief.

“Your first task is a simple matter.”

Artis had heard the same thing from many masters before.

It was a familiar scene to Artis, and he arrived along with all the other boys at the doors of a mighty workshop. May stories high, with the highest given over to great platforms, from which Artis watched gyrocopters and balloons take off at all hours. As he trod the busy halls in wonder, he counted himself lucky; maybe the voice under his bed wasn’t so bad?

After some confusion and a lot of hesitation, Artis was lead through a maze of shiny corridors and high ceilings and referred to a precession of busy artisans and engineers. Each one peered over their clipboard or their complex lenses at him, but all confirmed his name and nodded with some deference: he was important. Famous, even. Somehow, all of Artis’ dreams and come true.

He was ushered into an opulent dormitory and ate a hearty breakfast; only the best for the master’s apprentices, the servant told him.

By the time he was escorted into one of the great work halls, Artis was beaming with pride, and it bothered him not one bit that the machines hung from the ceiling or components on the workbenches around him were totally unknown to him.

“A new apprentice, eh?” One of the workers raised an eyebrow, “you must be quite something.” Artis could only nod. “Take this. Shine up my tools, polish them too, then get to work sanding down this motivator casing, then I’ll quiz you on the best engraving techniques.”

No, Artis had no idea how best to care for the master’s tools or sand down a motivator casing, nor did he know anything about engraving, of course, there had been days he ought to have learned these things, but he paid his teachers no mind.

Artis spent the next week or so making up excuses, telling lies, or simply hiding, making sure to bring his plate of sausage and eggs with him, of course. There were whispers among the other apprentices, who after a few days began to avoid him entirely, and even the staff eyed him with suspicion. Still he was handed some simple tasks out of charity: a child of privilege, they assumed.

Soon after, there was a terrible accident; the armature of a fuel injector fell from its hanging place and burst into flames, and many of masters were killed by the fire.

Artis was in his room, napping, when it happened.

Do you think it was his fault? Was securing the frame of the fuel injector one of his duties? Artis couldn’t remember, but he was dismissed again; “every little thing is my fault,” he though, “and no-one can be persuaded otherwise. I’m sure to fail this mysterious apprenticeship, too.”

Indeed, many of the apprentices were dismissed as well, although blame was never assigned. They returned to their families, but Artis, having none, was allowed to stay one more night.

“You did very well,” the voice under the bed told him. “What a superb apprentice!”

Artis was confused, but still too frightened to move a muscle now that he knew the whole thing was far from a dream.

“But I was dismissed,” Artis said. “How can you say that?”

“That is for me to know,” the void said, “not to worry, my apprentice. I have more work for you.”

The day after, Artis found more gold and a fresh change of clothes hidden behind some bricks. The key was the mark, a circle scored through. After that he was set, and spent the afternoon as he’d always hoped, riding in carriages and licking at ice-cream.

That night, he slipped inside an abandoned townhouse and slept in a four-poster bed. To Artis, it was bliss, and he found the pantry fully stocked. It was a few more days before the voice under the bed found him, and he knew it by the flickering of the gas-lamp on his bedside table.

“You will go to the great lighthouse that looks over the sea,” the voice said, “I have already made arrangements.”

Once again, All Artis had to do was arrive in the coastal district and announce himself, and soon he was being led through the marble hall of the light-house, peeping into rooms of hallowed machinery and peeking at components as they were wheeled back and forth. Once again, an esteemed master questioned him on his knowledge of welding and optics and exhorted him to polish a selection of lenses, and again, he filled his belly with good food and rested in a comfortable dorm, far, far above most of the city. He dwelled on the view beyond the window, where he could see all of Everwork churning away.

“What is this all about?” Artis wondered. “The food and the beds are nice, but…”

Although he was a carless, selfish child, even Artis couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, what he had done was wrong. “I’ll outfox the man under the bed,” he thought to himself, “and be dismissed from this place before something bad happens. He’ll have no cause to complain, and he’ll have to see to putting me up in more swanky places!”

The following day, Artis made himself a menace. He disobeyed orders, broke lenses and even dropped a heavy telescope, where it crashed its way down three long flights of marble stairs. He was surprised how much he enjoyed it, and his plan, if it could be called that, worked perfectly.

He was disciplined before his first day, brought before a severe, gray-haired woman with sharp eyebrows, but once again, he was stymied by his great flaw.

“Do you want to be sent home, boy?”

His lip quivered, but of course, Artis couldn’t help but lie.

“No, ma’am, please give me another chance!” So great was the prestige of the lighthouse and so forgiving was the character of the artisans there that he remained.

The next week, the glass casing of a massive diode cracked and an electrical fire burned through many studios and libraries. Many artisans were burned on the hands or eyes, and could no longer work. The refinement of the lighthouse ceased, and all apprentices were dismissed.

Artis got his way, and that night the voice told him again where to look, and again he found money, clothes and the key to a humble home int he factorial district. Artis thought himself quite clever when the next week came without a visit from the voice, and he laid about for days eating and making a mess.

Again and again, Artis would follow the voice’s directions. Each time, it would place him somewhere important and Artis would do his best to get out of his duties, but rarely would he be able before some calamity struck. “What fools!” He often thought, “they ought to be more careful.”

What do you think? Was the creature beneath the bed using Artis?

Again and again, Artis tried his best to avoid disaster, but each time there was some collapse, or fire or poisoning, and lives were lost. Artis, though, didn’t give them a second thought each time the voice led him to a new full pantry and comfy bed.

Artis didn’t count the weeks. He only knew that it’d been an unusually long time since he heard from the voice. Would he be abandoned? Forced to spend his hard earned coin on groceries from the market? He couldn’t help but budget and save in his mind. Perhaps he had enough to buy a business? Or else he could find a real position somewhere, only…he knew that if he did, that creature’s curse would follow him, and something terrible would happen.

“Hello?” He called out in his lonely bedchamber, after all, asking couldn’t hurt. “Are you there, Mr. Under-the-bed?”

“I’m always here,” the voice replied, and all the candles in the room were snuffed out.

“I was worried you’d forgotten about me,” Artis tried to joke. “It’s been some time since we spoke.”

“Indeed it has, my apprentice. You’ve done very well,” the voice said. “And so, I’ve been appraising your prospects.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, master, But I still don’t understand,” Artis admitted, “now can that be?”

“You make a poor worker,” the voice explained, “but an excellent saboteur. I am very pleased.”

“I had a feeling you meant for me to do those things, master,” Artis lied.

“Liar,” the voice pronounced it with precise satisfaction, “It’s my favorite thing about you. You struggled to escape my apprenticeship, not knowing you served my purpose. It’s hardly your fault. It’s only your nature,” the voice said, and Artis pulled the blankets over his head as he began to shake. “Tell me, and be honest. Do you wish to be released from your apprenticeship?”

“N-no,” Artis lied before he could even consider his words.

“Good,” the satisfied voice purred, “very good. You’ll be pleased to know your apprenticeship has ended, and I’ve chosen you to become my understudy. It’s a full time position.” Artis didn’t reply, and pulled the bedclothes tighter around himself. “I’ve chosen you to become my understudy. You will need some modification, but the work is fulfilling. For someone of the right character.”

What do you think happened Next? Did Artis accept the offer with grace, or did the demon drag him back under the bed and leave his fingernails to score marks in the floorboards? And what about Artis’ conduct? Do you think he really made all those terrible mistakes?

Only one things is for sure; despite all the concern of the nuns, his fellow orphans and his former masters, Artis was never, ever heard from again.