Nine
There is something very comforting about small things. Never have I found this to be more true than here, where everything seems huge, heavy, hard and shiny.
There is a bronze plaque – tiny, of course – next to the opening in the wall and if I squint I can just make out two words: “Service” and “elevator”. Before crawling in, I touch the eroded surface of the plaque, briefly, savoring the cold metal under my fingers.
The service elevator is operated by a slender, golden-haired boy not half my size. He salutes me with that tiny, pale hand I saw from afar before turning his attention to the control panel. After pushing a series of buttons, he cranks a wooden handle clockwise, then counter-clockwise and again clockwise. While holding the handle, he pushes a couple of more buttons, then raps his knuckles against the display of a large, round brass instrument. Silence. He sighs, audibly, then tries a different combination of buttons, cranks the handle a few more times, raps his knuckles. This time, a faint ticking can be heard and we start moving upwards, slowly.
Suddenly, the handle turns violently in the boy's hand and the elevator stops with a screeching sound. Several buttons flash in an ominous way and somewhere in the distance, a bell chimes. The boy mutters to himself, muted oaths in a raspy, high pitched voice.
He repeats the sequence several times – buttons, crank, more buttons, brass instrument. I can see his tiny muscles struggle and for a moment consider helping him, but then remember the butler's warning.
After some time the boy manages to enter what seems to be a valid combination, and the elevator ascends unimpeded. Clearly pleased with this achievement, he takes a step back, wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to me. He smiles with tiny, white teeth too sharp and even to be real and produces a sketchbook and a permanent marker. Eagerly, the boy starts drawing what looks like a flowchart. I lean in to try to understand what’s going on and suddenly pick up a sour, wild stench. He looks up at me with eyes that are almost colorless and points to the diagram: lines and circles drawn in an intricate pattern without leading anywhere.
His voice is the sound of a thousand wasps in a burlap bag: “I know where you’re going.”