THE CARILLON
Sean McNally
The carillon is broken, or otherwise a madman has programmed the gizmo that runs it these days. This is not the concordant harmony of toned bells, but rather an insane clanging, rising from a muddy mess.
This is a conservative postcard of a town, infrequently visited; it’s dubiously possible the pastor would take an avant-garde track in today’s selection, if not outrageously unlikely.
No, he’s as confused as the rest of us.
We’d taken the music for granted, blending it into the routine of our days. Not ignored, but it had become part of our internal rhythm, as with the blood circulating throughout our bodies, only occasionally would we notice it was our pulse.
The keening wail of babies and the barking of dogs. A dinner plate is dropped. The butcher slices his finger. A traffic accident. The butt of a cigar rolls behind a couch cushion and smolders.
True, Hansel Hamm, towards the end of his reign as the last human carillonneur, made some eccentric choices, but these were more along the lines of playing the compositions of Carl Bangs over Werner van Cleemput, which is to say we didn’t lose any sleep over it.
Arguments in homes erupting into fistfights. Vandals kicking over tombstones and urinating across the graves. Bludgeonings, slashings. Windows smashed and rising fire. The constable installs a bullet into his brain.
Shoulders at the church tower door, splinters into skin and a crack at the hinges. Panic and rage cloud the winding stairs. All across our town are screams. The mad ringing bursts forth impossibly loud as the wood gives way. Our fear
An angry monkey is in the bell chamber, at the pedals, at the levers, wild limbs working treble and bass without sense or order; it shrieks at each struck note, rabid. The creature escaped from somewhere. Locked away and unknown in what basement?
From where could this hairy muscle possibly spring in a place like this? A place where the citizens are so calm.