Down the Manhole...

The street is roughly cobbled, slicked with a film of rainwater and oil. Rainbow patterns reflect in the oily pools from the moon’s light – curiously beautiful; in all this ugliness.

A film of greased covers my skin. In spite of the constant rain, it is hot – the thick steamy are feels like pushing through jelly.

Strange plants like creeping fungus crawl along the edges of the street, up the blackened walls of the buildings with their bare gaping windows, sightless eyes looking down on desolation.

The world used to be such a lovely place. If this nightmare vision of the future a dream? It feels to real to be either a dream or a vision. I can feel rivulets of sweat wriggling through my hair like bugs, smell the diesel stench of the foul air, taste it on my tongue.

In the middle of the road, something glints in the moonlight. It is a manhole cover, a strange thing to find in this bleak place, because it is beautifully wrought with a pattern of vine leaves, fruits and strange animals.

I kneel down to get a closer look at it. How perfectly circular it is in this landscape where everything is broken and rough – even the buildings look like rotted teeth.

My fingers trace the strange moldings in the metal. I know where manholes lead – sewers, subterranean tunnels where rats roam – unpleasant places. But can what is below be so much worse than what is on the surface?

My hand slips into a recess in the metal and I give the manhole cover a good tug. After some resistance, it rises.

There is utter blackness below, but I can see the faint glint of metal rungs where the moon’s light reaches.

One last look around the silent, deserted street and my mind is made up. I slide into the hole and my feet fumble for purchase on the metal rungs.

I lose track of time while I’m climbing down. The hole through which I entered has long disappeared.

I am suspended in darkness, slowly creeping from one rung to the next, my hands tired and slipping on the metal, my toes gripping through the soles of my shoes.

But it is noticeably cooler. In fact, I’m starting to feel chilly. Wherever This tunnel is taking me, the air already feels cleaner.

Now I can see a soft glow of light below, and driven by the impulse to reach the bottom, I descend faster. The light has a rosy glow, like sunrise. Far below I can see the faint pattern of fields and streams and swelling hills, thickly wooded patches of dark forest.

I continue to climb and the light grows stronger. It is the sun, rising in the east from behind the hills.

At last I reach the bottom, and my feet step onto to soft springy turf. The morning air is cool and fresh – I breathe it in deeply, feeling the soil and grime of the world above evaporate from my body.

But like the world above, this one is silent and empty. I look in vain for signs of animal or bird life. This is a new world, an unborn embryo of a world, hushed and expectant, pregnant with possibility.

Ahead I see another circle in the grass. If it is another manhole cover, shall I climb down, seeking what more lies below? But it is not, it’s a sundial set into the earth. The shadow of the triangular arm creeps slowly up the face of the sundial. What will happen when the sun is risen and the morning is born? I sit down in the grass and wait.

Slowly the shadow creeps up – now the sun is above the hills. In the distant I hear a sound like music, like a lonely flute playing to itself. But it is not a sad sound – it fills the air and suddenly erupts into birdsong, a blazing morning chorus of birds filling the trees with their bright feathers and throbbing throats.

Amazed, I watch as their song wakens the earth and creatures struggle slowly up through the grass, beautiful, strange creatures that I have never seen before. Their roars, clamours and bellows join the morning chorus and wake the trees. Their bodies shrink into human form, their leaves become locks of waving hair and they join hands and dance and sing and their song becomes a painting, colouring the grass with flowers, and filling the air with the sweet smell of lush ripe fruit.

And I look back at the sundial and it has become a manhole cover, strangely patterned with vines, fruits and animals. And I know that no matter how hard I try it will not open – not yet.