Though the Al-Temple hadn’t opened its doors for years now, the tower’s chimes still marked every service. Bell-Tender Heath made sure of it.

His feet tromped the worn filigree stairs in perfect time with the tick tick tick of the clockwork pillar, the heart of the tower, from which all the bells took their cue. Springs and gears and turn-screws spiralling in delicate choreography. Each deity represented.

His eyes followed the familiar, regular movements. Everything was exactly as it should be.

He didn’t look out the windows.

The todo list was comfortably engraved in his head after decades of service. Today, between 14:01 and 16:00, clean the gearing for The Devourer and The Jackal. Then between 21:01 and 21:45 clean the gearing for the Al-Mother.

Before, such frequent cleanings were an act of reverence. But now, even with the windows shut tight and the cotes boarded up and all cracks packed with rags, the ashes found their way in. Clinging to the grease. Working their way into the mechanisms. Trying to silence the bells and choke the heart.

Heath wouldn’t let them.

“THE GODS ARE DEAD!!!”

Abbot John’s voice echoed, cracked and frantic. Making sure that anyone who’d missed the tragedy was caught up. Day and night he wandered the empty halls performing this duty.

It was good he’d found a new calling. Not everyone was as lucky as Heath.

“THE GODS ARE DEAD!!!”

Gearing for the Dream-Weaver clicked and whirred, its bells singing a precise call to midday worship. A call heard only by Heath, for Abbot John was beyond mortal sounds and with the tower sealed chimes were muffled. Swallowed.

Heath would consider this a failure of his duties if only there was anyone out there listening. Better for the heart to keep ticking and the bells to chime for no-one than for the tower to grind into silence.

This was the last place where everything was as it should be.

Heath checked his watch, which every morning he synchronised with the clock at the base of the heart. 13:59. His climb had taken the expected six minutes. As it should be.

The seconds ticked down as he laid out his tools. Ready. Waiting.

At precisely 14:00 the bells for The Devourer - and further up the spire, the Jackal - chimed to life, calling third sermons. The Jackal’s series was longer, marking today a feast day.

Heath slotted his key, the symbol of his duty, into the gearbox and turned it three-quarters to the right. With a crisp click the gearing froze. Now parts could be removed and inspected and cleaned.

He moved with swift precision, the motions well-worn as the clockwork itself. It took the expected seventeen minutes for the entire mechanism to be serviced. As it should be.

Key. Gearbox. Three-quarters to the left.

Gearing whirred back to life.

Heath examined the mechanism. Watching. Listening. Making sure that everything was as it should be.

Good.

Onwards he climbed, his feet tromping the worn filigree stairs in perfect time with the tick tick tick of the heart.

“Heath? Heath!”

Heath faltered and peered down, to the foot of the tower, where a once-familiar figure stood. “Verger Carol?”

“Yes. We need to talk.”

“I’ll be down as soon-”

“Now, Heath.”

“But-”

“This is important.”

More important than the schedule?

Heath hesitated, the swirls of the railing embossing themselves into his clutching hand. Then he slowly turned and pattered downwards, the cadence of his footsteps rapid and erratic, entirely out of time.

*This is not as it should be.*

Behind him the gearing for the Jackal ticked on. It wouldn’t halt after one missed cleaning. But… this was not as it should be.

Verger Carol was old and worn and wavering. Her eyes didn’t line up anymore, one seemingly forgetting how to turn. “I realised Dor probably hadn’t told you. Assuming they understood. I’m not sure how much mind they have left. We’re pretty much out of supplies. It’s now or never. I’m leaving.”

What?

“…Do you understand?” Verger Carol scrutinised his bewildered, puckered face, then sighed. “Of course you don’t. You’re like Dor. Picked for half-wittery. But that shouldn’t be a death sentence.”

She pointed at Heath’s cubby. “Pack your things. We’re going outside.”

“Outside? But…”

“Heath.” Carol Verger took a deep breath. “We’re running out of food. Oil. Cloth. Everything. You can’t do your job anymore.”

“There’s…” Heath pointed a shaking finger at the oil barrel.

“Uh-huh. How long does that last?”

“A week.”

“There you are. That’s all that’s left.”

Heath’s brow furrowed, his face contorting. Trying to make sense of it all.

*This isn’t how it should be!*

“The sooner we leave, the better our odds. And they’re poor enough as is. So let’s go.”

Heath shook his head. Unable to articulate the screaming NO throbbing in his chest.

Verger Carol sighed. “If more people had been like you, perhaps we wouldn’t be in this mess. But we are. And I’m not dying here.”

She vanished out the door. Leaving Heath lost.

A plink drew his gaze to the clock. 14:26.

There was still time to clean The Jackal’s gearing. He could still follow the schedule.

So Heath turned and started up the stairs. His feet tromping in time with the tick tick tick of the heart.

The gods were dead. But the heart lived.

Tick tick tick

Heath’s eyes wandered to the windows. To the ashy plains surrounding the temple.

Tick tick tick

*Not. As. It. Should. Be.*

Filigree twined and unfurled, reaching into the wall. Finding the gaps the ash created. Seeking the outside.

Heath’s pulse throbbed in time with the Heart.

*As it should be.*

Gearing whispered, springs purred, bells sang, all in time with the Heart.

*As it should be!*

The clock - face of the Heart - breathed.

A god lived.

*We will remake everything, as it should be!*

The oil would not run out. The bells would not be silenced.

*Everything. As. It. Should. Be.*