The Tuner

I stare at the large door in front of me; it’s a steel rectangle, cut into the side of the cylindrical tower looming high over my head. I fiddle with the key ring on my belt until I find the sole key: a long faux-gold piece of metal with two prongs of varying lengths. I jimmy it into the matching hole and push open the heavy door. I feel the muscles in my back strain from the effort, and I dig my feet into the ground. The combined effort of my lats and quads is enough to force it inward. 

I walk into a broad circular space–broad but not uncrowded. I shimmy my way along the wall to the far side and find the Control Console. I feel around in the dark until I reach the button in the right corner. As soon as my finger leaves the cool surface, several blinking lights reveal the room, reflecting red and gold off the scarce, gleaming patches on pounds of rusted machinery. Turning back to the controls, I nod my head and rub my hands together. Then, I pick up the headphones on the Console and place them over my ears, instantly blocking out the subtle clinking of still machines, the wind that funnels through the opening above, and the squeak of my rubber soles against the floor. I am left with my measured breath and a steady heartbeat.

As I turn the dial in the center of the Console, the machinery slowly wakes. The gears on the floor begin to turn, spinning the vertical poles attached at the very center of them. At the head of the poles are the Rotating Mallets, heavy hammer-like appendages with two identical ends. As they spin, the Mallets hit into the Tuning Poles, emitting a crisp tone that I feel climb through my feet to my skull. The force of the vibration causes me to shake, and I steady myself on the control console. I close my eyes and turn the knob until the Mallets double their speed, hammering the Tuning Poles on either side of the main cable, filling it with high-frequency energy. 

I lean back against the console, watching the Mallets swing away and the Main Cable swaying as it’s electrified by the vibrations. I feel them shooting through my legs and up my spine as I stand, and my head starts to ache. A faint ringing enters the silence, and pain pierces the nerves behind my ears. I rub my temples absently and sigh as the entire Tuning Station begins to shake. I hold onto the corners of the Console behind me as my body sways with the force of the train passing 100 feet above. Once it’s gone, I turn down the frequency and keep an eye on my watch. When it’s time, I turn the knob and start again. 

At the end of my shift, I turn the knob down to zero ‘F.’ The vibrations fizzle out, and I remove my headphones. Suddenly, I hear the clinking of the slowing metal. I run my gloved hand in front of the Tuning Poles and cringe from the heat. I power down the Control Console and watch the blinking lights go dark. Then, I yank open the door and lock up behind me. 

I walk out into a forest of cables, gently swaying. They emerge from countless Tuning Stations in two symmetrical lines that continue into the distance. My eyes naturally follow up the cables to the windscreen above. It’s paved with years of dirt that coats the glass, but I can see the blurry metal strip that is the Traction Runway. Many Traction Posts run along either side of the track, their lights illuminating the dark strip. The cables filter into each one from below to charge the electromagnetic Posts. They’ll run again when the day shift begins in half an hour. Luckily, my shift is done, and I don’t waste time waiting for my daytime counterpart. 

I trudge through the dark underbelly of the Traction Runway, kicking crumpled cans and paper bags as I go until I emerge into the street. As I leave the sanctuary of the windscreen, cold droplets pelt my head and exposed face. I shiver from the shock and pull my hood up. My heavy boots splash through puddles of water that have collected in the holes in the pavement, but my toes stay dry. Raindrops pitter-patter off my coat, filling my ears. 

Tall, black houses line either side of the street, illuminated by faint street lamps. They seem to cave in around me as I walk, pleading with me to stop as they pour gutter tears onto my feet. I slosh through them with my hands in my pockets and chin tucked against my chest. I turn onto Main Street: a long road lined by the same black houses and a few gray shops. I stare down at the wet street as I walk and catch a dark reflection in the limited light, and frown at my grime-caked cheeks. A flash of light darts across my face like a prohibiting sign, and I look up.

My eyes meet a blinking light above the door of one of the shoes, slowly illuminating the sign that reads: ‘Mys…tic… Sho…ppe.’ I rub my eyes. I’ve never seen the place before, so I wonder if it just moved in. It would have had to be during my shift; otherwise, I would have passed it on my way at dusk. I stare blankly at the flickering light as the rain slides down my coat. I take a step forward, keeping my eyes on the mysterious shop. Just as I am about to pass it, I turn and walk up to the door. Underneath the name, there’s a sign that reads: ‘OPEN’ in bright red lettering. I push open the door and hear the sweet sound of windchimes. I pull my hood up and gasp.

The shop is the size of a one-bedroom apartment, yet the walls are covered in shelves from floor to ceiling. Each shelf contains metal bowls of varying sizes and designs. Some of the bowls are as large as a basketball, while others are smaller than a teacup. They are striped or polka-dotted, floral or paisley, even painted with original designs. All are brightly painted in electric blue, sunset violet, springtime green, autumnal orange, and cherry red–inlaid with gold or bronze. Each one has a mallet lying inside. 

My eyes widen as I take it all in. Then, I hear a ringing, metallic sound. It sounds far away, yet close by at the same time–almost as if it is spiraling around me. It comes so close to my ear that I turn in a fright, but there’s nothing and no one there. It sounds distant again, and I follow it to the source: the back room of the tiny Mystic Shope. 

I cross through the open doorway into an even smaller room, which is completely empty other than the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor. She has shaggy, pure-white hair that ends above her shoulders and wings that frame her forehead like curtains. Her eyes are closed, lashes resting softly on her pale cheeks. She’s wearing a crop-top tank top, and I can see her abdominal muscles crunch around her studded belly button as she moves. Her hand circles one of the singing bowls, the spiraling sound pouring out as the mallet rhythmically follows the inner lip of the bowl. 

She raises her head and opens her eyes. I gasp. They are strikingly blue and glowing in the low lighting. 

“What’re you staring at?” the girl asks. 

“It’s just… you’re a-“

“Yeah, so?” 

“I didn’t mean to stare,” I apologize. “I’ve never met someone like you.”

“Uh, huh,” she says, focusing back on her bowl. “What brings you to my shop? You come for a session?”

She nods her white head at the bowl in her lap. 

“Oh, um…” I begin. 

“No charge for your first time,” she says. “Can’t afford anything beyond that.” 

I stand still, and she rolls her eyes. “Sit,” she orders. 

I mirror her, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her. “I’m Luna,” she says. “And you’re a Tuner.”

I nod, and she smiles. “Good, you could use a cleansing. Just close your eyes, and I’ll take care of you.”

I raise an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes and taps the bowl with the mallet. There’s a sun and a moon at the bottom of the bowl. Each makeup half of a face—eyes, a nose, and a mouth. “It’s creepy,” I say.

“Close your eyes,” Luna repeats. 

I do as I’m told, sinking into a place of darkness and hearing nothing but the sound of my heartbeat. Then, I hear the sound of the bowl, slow at first. “Do you know what singing bowls are for?” Luna asks. “Cleansing the spirit. What we hear has a greater impact on us than most people realize. What we hear out in the world—telling or believing in lies, spreading hate or fear— causes spirits to become impure. We lose our connection with what came before and what will remain after.”

The sound begins to grow, spiraling into and out of range. 

“Our soul can be purified through sound and meditation,” Luna says. “If our intentions are aligned with the purest of sounds, we can reach a state of truth within ourselves. Then, we are ready to discover the truth outside.”

The bowl is so loud now that I can barely hear her. The crisp tone is all I can hear, reverberating through my mind as if it’s hollow. It fills the space, becoming like a pulse of unstoppable energy—a tidal wave that rages through the endless void, cyclic and eternal. I feel myself beginning to float off the ground, but I don’t open my eyes. 

I rise from the floor, reaching my hands out so far that my shoulders start to ache. I can’t tell what I’m reaching for, but I can feel something there. It lingers at the edge of my mind, teasing me. It comes close enough to touch and then as far as a memory. Part of me wants to run from it and never forget. Another part wants to grab it and keep it with me. Maybe I could swallow it whole so it could become an indistinguishable part of me—never seen but always there. But I can’t reach it.

I can’t tell if it’s always been there—just out of my reach—or if it’s new. Either way, the singing bowl seems to be calling to it. It’s following the spiral of sound like a fish that’s almost reeled in before it pulls away again. Suddenly, I feel the ripples of its wake. My body slowly sinks to the floor as the strength of the bowl’s tone fades. It floats gradually farther and farther away until it’s an echo—and then it’s gone. 

I open my eyes. Luna’s hand is still. She looks at me with her artificially blue eyes, and a tiny smirk creeps onto one corner of her mouth. “Good work,” she says, placing her hand over the bowl. “Session’s over now, so guess I’ll see you around.”

I open my mouth, but she shakes her head. “Remember what I said. This one’s on me, so don’t push it. And next time, it’s on you. Even someone like me needs to find a way to make ends meet. By the way, don’t tell anyone about me.”

She scowls at me, and I nod nervously. 

“I’ve got a very tight network for a reason,” Luna reveals. 

“I understand,” I say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Good,” she says. “Nice meeting you, Tuner.”

“You too,” I say and stare at her for a second, lips quivering. I want to tell her that I’ll be back. Instead, I wave and push open the door. 

Luna closes the door behind me, lowering a grate over it. The sign on it says, ‘out of business.’ My eyes widen, but Luna has already disappeared. 

I turn around and am struck by the light violet sky, seeping between the gray shops and reflecting soft rays of sunlight off their metal hydes. I walk down the street, side-stepping puddles and hanging onto the ghost of the singing bowl spiraling my ear canals. I can’t help smiling to myself, not completely understanding why. I have never heard or felt anything like it. I can feel its phantom reverberating through my mind–recalibrating, rewiring, fixing what’s there. It doesn’t hurt–doesn’t even tickle. It’s more like fixing something I forgot was broken, like I’m being rebooted. I can’t explain it other than a sudden clearness, as if all the dirt clogging my pathways is being washed away and unhindered–unhindered but still deaf to the truth. 

I frown and enter an alleyway tucked between the black complexes that line the streets. I open the door that’s hidden beneath the shadow of the alley and go inside. I pull off my work boots and leave them on the mat beside the door. I walk across the creaking wooden floorboards into the closet-sized bathroom across from the door. I yank off my heavy windbreaker and toss it into the dryer. I let it run and lay down on my bed a foot away, watching the steam escaping the vent outside my window until I drift off to sleep. 

I wake to the sound of my alarm in my ear and roll over to turn it off. Then, I get out of bed with a sigh. I go to the bathroom and pull my jacket out of the dryer, slipping my arms into the thick holes. I grab my boots from beside the door and head out into the deep indigo twilight. I pull up my hood even though it’s not raining and make my way down Main Street. It’s quiet as usual–shop windows boarded over and darkened. I don’t linger on them long. Instead, I hurry to the Mystic Shoppe, and my face falls. The gate is still down, and the gray shop blends in with the vacant stores. I decide to go there later, after my shift. 

I head under the windscreen and into the depths below the Traction Station. The twilight sky turns black by the time I reach my designated Tuning Station. I slip my key into the hole and push open the heavy door. I power up the Console, put on my headphones, and check my watch; the first train’s due in 10 minutes. I use the time to oil the gears that move the Rotating Mallets, pouring a black waterfall into the square deposits in the floor until they’re full. Then, I move to the other side of the Tuning Cable to oil the twin gear. As I fill the deposits, I wonder if Luna is opening up her shop now. I imagine her pulling open the grate and turning over the sign in the door, taking a random singing bowl from the shelf, and sitting cross-legged on the floor. Then, my mind fills with the sweet sound of the bowl, and I smile. As she stirs the mallet, sound pours out of the bowl and drowns me. I close my eyes and listen. 

I nearly jump out of my skin as the alarm on my watch blares into the hollow Tuning Station. I rush to the Console and crank up the dial until the Mallets whirl to life. They whack the Tuning Poles at increasing speed, flooding the Station with unbearable volume. I feel the buzzing of the vibrations travel up my body, starting at my feet and ending in my ears, where it creeps under the pads of my headphones and into my brain. I feel a searing pain behind my eyes and wince. I push my headphones against my ears and try to block out the sound, my body shaking violently until the train finally passes. 

Panting, I cautiously lower my moistened hands from my ears. I take a deep breath and frown. It isn’t a feeling I am familiar with. The shaking is normal, but I’ve never felt so sick before in my life. My stomach is reeling, and I feel the burning bile rising in my esophagus. I choke it down and check my watch; 30 minutes till the next train. I pull my headphones down around my neck and bring my hood up. Then, I rush out of the Station before I can reconsider. I run through the trash, along the Tuning Stations and swaying cables, until I reach the street. I continue down the street and sprint up to the Mystic Shoppe entrance. The gate is up and the door is open, so I hurry inside. I pause.

The entire shop is empty. The shelves have been stripped clean, no trace that the singing bowls ever rested on them. My eyes move swiftly along each level until I’m dizzy. Unsatisfied, I push through the door into the back room. It’s vacant, all except for a black stain on the floor. I kneel down and touch it; it’s oleaginous and warm. I bring the substance to my nose, and my eyes widen. “No…”

I slump down in front of the puddle and bow my head. I stay there for a while, unmoving. I’m not sure what to do now. They took everything from me—all of my hope—leaving nothing but longing in its wake. Yet, even with everything gone, nothing will go back to the way it was before. That tone is not something I’ll forget, no matter how many trains pass over my head. I won’t stop searching for it either; I’ll spend every breath working to perfect it. I stand up, looking down at the spot on the floor. “I will find it.”

I  leave the shop and return to the Tuning Station. I push the door inward and take my place by the Console, watching the clock until it’s time. I slowly begin to power up the Mallets, leaving my headphones on my shoulders. I increase the frequency, listening intently. As the sound builds, my hand slows the dial, but I don’t stop turning it. I listen, feeling the sound echo in my skull. The pressure increases, and something hot begins to drip from my ears—but I don’t stop. I listen to the sound in my mind—the sound of Luna’s bowl-until I match it with the dial. Then, I surpass it. 

I close my eyes and cast my line. I immerse myself in a sea of blackness, listening until I hear the splash and feel the hook catch onto the slippery mouth of my fish. Reeling as fast as I can, I slowly bring it closer and closer. Meanwhile, I feel my feet lift off the ground, and I rise. I float higher and higher, and the fish pulls helplessly on the line. But my line is stronger now; I will NOT let it break. I bring it all the way to the top, and then, CRASH. 

I burst through the windscreen, leaving a storm of glass in my wake. I fly above the Station Runway and see a train lying on its side, derailed. The passengers are flooding out onto the metal strip until a crowd has formed on the Runway between the Traction Posts. A hundred blue eyes gaze up at me, glinting like stars beneath the dark sky. Their mouths open all at once, and they sing the note that now fills my mind—my soul. It is all that I am—that we are—binding us together within the cosmic mesh. Our voices fill the night sky, growing strong and loud enough to reach the city, my home in the underbelly, and far beyond to heights we never thought we’d reach. Then, all at once, we begin to rise.

Written in December, 2024