The Clockmaker by Whazzit
The Clockmaker by Whazzit
The Clock Maker
- A Fairy Tale
In a town there was a clock maker. Famous across the land, he was renowned as
the greatest horologist of the age. His craftwork could be found in the halls ofpublic buildings, on the mantels of the wealthy, and in the pockets of the
public servants and professional men of the town, chained to their lapels or a
button of their waistcoat. But his greatest work, crafted at the behest of the
town itself, sat for all to see at the top of the church tower in the centre of
the town, controlling the great bells that tolled the hours in ringing tones
across the great breadth of the town.
And then one day his wife died.
Her funeral was held in the churchyard, in the shadow of his greatest work. She
was lowered into her grave at the peal of the noontime bells, and the echo of
their dolorous rings could still be heard as the dirt was piled atop her
untimely casket.
The clock maker was inconsolable. For six weeks he stayed shut up in his home,
admitting no one to the chamber of his grief. You must come out, said those
who knew him. The time for mourning has passed. You must live your life out
as she would have wished, added others. She would not want you to waste away
in misery.
But he remained sitting in the silence of his home, staring at the grandfather
clock his father had crafted when he was young, watching the hands of his
fathers handiwork wind around its face with the inexorable precision of deathsembrace, and wondered how it was that we should measure our lives in minutes andyears as if we were little more than the gears and pendulums of his lifes work.
We are more than that, arent we? He asked himself over and over. But what if
we arent? What if we arent?
The idea came to him abruptly, and his hands shook as he considered the
possibilities of his sudden inspiration. He got to work immediately.
His neighbours were relieved to hear the sounds emanating from his workshop in
the basement once again. The clangs and gongs of metalwork resounded late into
the nights. At least he is working again, they said to each other. He will befine soon enough. Give him a little more time.
But weeks stretched into months, and the clock makers nightly activities did
not cease, while still no one saw or spoke with him. Groceries were delivered tohis home each week, and the deliveryman was interrogated by the curious and
concerned, but even he had not seen the clock maker. Whenever he arrived with
foodstuffs and other goods, the door swung open on its own accord, on unseen
gears triggered by some unknown force, and the deliveryman would leave his bags
in the front foyer, a banknote sitting on the dressing table by the door along
with a list of supplies to bring the next week. His neighbours continued to
worry.
The clock maker himself was engrossed in his task with the obsession of an
artist knowingly creating his masterpiece. The minutest of details were agonizedover, the greatest decisions made in a heartbeat. But she was perfect, and a
year after losing his wife, she was almost done. The clockwork simulacrum of hisdead wife that stood before him was his justification, the validation of a life
spent assembling simple pieces into a complex whole, and the salvation of his
lonely and broken heart.
She was almost done, and in the light of the numerous oil lamps that illuminatedhis basement, in those last moments before everything changed, he saw reflected
in her still lifeless eyes his dream of a future together made possible through
the brilliance and desperation of his craft. Full of trepidation and hope, he
began his final labour to imbue within her the spirit of his lost wife.
Four days later, disheveled and pallid, the clock maker left his house for the
first time in over a year. He squinted in the sunlight while holding a hand up
to his forehead, and was unsurprised to see that nothing appeared to have
changed, since for him time seemed not to have passed at all since that fateful
day when his wife had died because she was returned now, and that terrible
interregnum of a year of dedicated misery was now past, a
dream that would soon be forgotten amidst the daily joys
of a life with her.
It was the child Joseph who first noticed the clock maker
had finally emerged from his house of solitude. With a yell and a jump he ran off to tell his father, who within minutes came jogging up to the clock makers house, slowing as he neared
until they stood ten feet apart, as if he were unsure if he should come any closer. But the clock maker smiled, and said Hello Samuel, and soon they were hugging as
Samuel welcomed the clock maker back into the world he
had forsaken for so long. Word spread quickly around the neighbourhood, and soon there was a large crowd of old
friends waiting to receive the clock maker back into
their lives.
After numerous greetings and welcomes, the questions of how he was and what he had been doing, the clock maker
said My friends, I will tell you all that I have done
and discovered this past year. But please wait a while
yet. I shall make an announcement this Sunday in the
square. You will come to know everything then.
Following some further talk the clock maker
begged leave to return home, For the sun is bright, and my skin has become too pale to
stay in the light for long.
By the time Sunday arrived, a wooden stage
had been installed at one end of the town
square, partitioned by a red curtain behind which the clock makers wife waited
nervously, while her husband stood to one
side as the last townspeople found a place to hear this prodigal son returned from
his self-imposed exile.
Finally, when everyone appeared ready,
the clock maker began to speak. He
spoke of his loss, of the anguish and
heartache, of the misery of sleepless nights alone, and those attending
his words understood the pain of
that terminal separation, for
over the years they had all
lost someone dear. But no
longer, said the clock
maker. No longer need
the loss of a loved one be absolute.
I have dedicated my life to the observances of time, he said, And to measuring it in the tension of a coiled spring and the frictionless swing of a pendulums arc. Each minute was but the turning of a gear in a hollow box. Each second was a nick carved on a metal flywheel. But therein lay the secret, for in those measurements I discovered the secret of time and life itself. In the measurement of time, I have discovered timelessness. And with that, the clock maker pulled the curtain back toreveal standing there on stage, in the full form of her eternal beauty, his wifereborn.
A collective exclamation
of surprise
escaped the
crowd, followed by a shocked
silence. No one
moved.
Her body is reformed,
her mind reawakened, her
memories regained. My wife
is returned.
A slow murmur began to spread
throughout the crowd, and within
seconds an incomprehensible cacophony of hundreds of incredulous voices
filled the square.
But when the automaton of the clock makers wife stepped forward, a hush fell over all
those assembled in the square. The crowd
watched in rapt wonder as she moved across
the stage. Later, when the townspeople told stories about that day, they would say she seemed to glide with the grace of a bird
floating on a current of air high above
a distant mountain ridge, so softly did
she step. And when she spoke, her voice was just as they remembered.
Im sorry I had to be away for so
long, she started. It wasnt by
choice.
But I hope you can accept that Ive come
back. Ive missed you all.
There were few who were unmoved by the impassioned yearning in her tone as
she spoke of reawakening from the
darkness to the voice and waiting
hands of her husband, but one of
those few grew more and more
enraged the longer she spoke for
though she did not say so, behind
her words hid an implication that
meant the end of everything, and
denied the truths that the priest
had always held so dear.
By the time the ceremony of the
unveiling of the clock makers wife was
complete, the priest had heard more than
enough to know that he must find a way to
put an end to the abomination that she so
obviously was. That it was both his duty and his desire made the decision to unmake the
clock makers work all the more satisfying.
He would undo what had been done.
But how? He watched as the clock maker and
his wife descended from the stage to the
aporetic arms of the townspeople, he watched
as the crowd hesitantly reached out to touch
her as if she were something hallowed rather
than the desecration of all that was holy, and he watched as she was accepted by the people
not for what she was but for their memories
of who she used to be, and he suddenly
knew the path he must take to unmask the malignance that was in their midst.
Preparations needed to be made.
The next few weeks were the happiest of the clock makers life. He and his wife nightly hosted their old friends to
dinner and dessert, learning all that had happened in the town over the
course of that lost year. There had been weddings missed and promotions celebrated. There had been
retirement parties, anniversaries,
and new business ventures. There
had been births and birthdays and
everyone seemed eager to relay the
news of their families to the clock
maker and his wife.
But perhaps the most attention came
from those whose own loved ones had
recently passed away, for they would
question the clock maker about how they
might go about bringing them back to life, and to these he invariably said the same
thing: I will do what I can.
But it wasnt long before the rumour
surfaced that the clock maker and his wife were not, in fact, married any longer,
and their continued life together would
be an affront to God and to the public.
For had they not sworn to take each other only unto death, and had the clock
makers wife not undeniably died that
fateful day over a year ago? And while
most of the townspeople found the idea
ridiculous, and argued that the wifes
rebirth signaled the marriages
resumption, it was still repeated around the town until the validity of the
marriage was questioned even by the
mayor, who asked the scholars at the
university to look into the matter.
It was the priest, however, who
suggested the most elegant solution. They would simply have to be remarried as soon
as possible, and he would be happy to do
the honour himself at the church alter at the base of the great clock tower.
The clock maker at first resisted
the idea, believing it
would imply that his
wife was not the woman
he had married but at the urging of those around him,
in order to put this minor
controversy to rest, and despite his
own misgivings, he finally agreed. They
would be remarried at the end of the month.
The priest was invaluable at that time. He took control of all matters
pertaining to the wedding, from the details of the ceremony to the organization
of the public celebration afterwards. He managed everything. His hand was seen
in the catering, the floral arrangements, the music, even the seating and when
asked how it was that he could be so prepared for so unexpected an event, he
simply responded that he had officiated at countless weddings in the town over
the years, and that with the mayors blessing and the towns goodwill it was nottoo difficult to expedite the proceedings.
The day of the wedding arrived. As many of the townspeople as could fit were satin the church, with many more standing outside in the churchyard and spilling
out into the main square of the town. In the front rows were the mayor, the
assistant mayor, numerous aldermen and other leading citizens of the town.
The priest conducted the ceremony with a grace that completely masked his true
feelings. The clock maker, he said, had shown everyone how the ingenuity of a
single man dedicated to his craft could bring about miracles, and that the powerof love could indeed conquer death.
And for that reason itself we should celebrate, for this union is an
affirmation of all that we believe is best about ourselves that we can rise
above the base nature of our mortality, and that our love for each other is a
stronger force than the accidents of earth and the ravages of time.
So therefore let this marriage be a symbol of all we are capable of, and all wehope.
After the wedding vows were spoken, the priest led the clock maker and his wife
up the stairwell leading to the top of the clock tower, so that the couple couldbe seen on the balcony by the assembled crowd below. It was a fitting spot for
the completion of the ceremony, the priest had argued, with the clock maker
standing next to his greatest works in view of everyone. And at that moment, thechurch bells would ring in celebration.
At the top of the tower, behind the four great clock faces that displayed the
time in each direction, was the room that stored the clockwork machinery the
clock maker had designed years ago. A large pendulum swung to one side, while
an intricate web of gears, weights, and springs clicked and clacked with each
passing second. Above it all, accessible by an old ladder that led to a rickety
platform, hung the two great bronze cast bells of the church tower.
It was here that the priest had laid his trap. At the right moment, seconds
before the hour struck, the clock maker and his wife stepped out onto the
balcony of the clock tower to raise their arms to the gathered throng below. Thetownspeople cheered the newly remarried couple that had defied death, and no onenoticed that the hands on the clock face behind them had struck noon but the
accompanying bell rings had failed to sound above the loud din of the cheering
crowd.
No one noticed except, of course, for the clock maker, who glanced behind
himself in quick consternation to see the priest in the doorway giving a
confused shrug as he pointed upwards at the silent bells.
When they had left the balcony and reentered the clockwork room, the clock makerquickly ascertained that the machinery itself was in pristine working condition,and surmised that the issue with the bells must have come from the bells
themselves and most probably from the bell hammers that the clockwork was
supposed to be connected to. He therefore climbed the ladder to get to the
platform from which he could reach the bells.
Upon reaching the top of the ladder, the clock maker saw that the wooden
brackets that braced the bell hammers had been ripped up from their moorings, sothat the hammers were well out of alignment with the bells they were supposed tohit when dropped by the clockwork machinery. It didnt occur to him to be
suspicious about how that might have happened.
To get a closer look, the clock maker raised himself onto the platform, at whichpoint his weight proved to be too great and the entire wooden structure of
platform and ladder suddenly collapsed under him. He was dropped backwards to
the floor twelve feel below amidst the shattered wood of the broken platform,
his head hitting the floor with a hard thud that knocked him senseless. His wiferan over and knelt over him in fear, and the last thing the clock maker saw as
his eyes clouded over was the priest hitting his wife in the back of the head
with a large shovel.
But he was not unconscious for long. When he came to, the priest had buried his
wifes prone body under the debris of the collapsed ladder and platform and was
kneeling ready to finish her off with another blow to the head. Outrage flooded
the clock maker, giving him the strength to push himself up and jump onto the
priest, whose attempt to fend him off was feeble in the midst of the clock
makers fury. They grappled each other over the decumbent body of the clock
makers wife, the clock maker attempting to incapacitate the priest through the
sheer ferocity of his attack, while the priest frantically defended himself fromthe clock makers assault. They spun and disentangled only for the clock maker
to advance with a roar once again, and yet again the priest desperately tried toevade the clock makers rage.
The clock makers wife slowly opened her eyes to see her husband and the priest
wrestling with each other near the doorway to the balcony, but she found herselfunable to rise under the weight of the mound of wood on her back. She could
therefore do nothing but watch in helplessness as her husband the clock maker
made yet another attack upon the priest, rushing forward and grabbing him in a
tight clasp that sent them both out the door towards the balcony railing, and
she screamed in horror as they tumbled over the edge together.
She was still trapped under the debris of the sabotaged platform when the mayor
and his aides came bursting into the room minutes later. They worked her free,
and amidst the sobs of frustration and loss she told them everything that had
occurred in that cursed room. The back of her head was cracked open, and the
gears of her clockwork were visible within. The mayor offered to take her to thehospital, but she shook her head with a steel resolve and replied, I dont needa doctor. I need a craftsman. Then she slowly climbed down from the clock
tower, entered the crowd of shocked onlookers outside the church, and made her
way home.
The clock maker was buried in the churchyard two days later, in the shadow of
the clock tower from which he had fallen, and the bells remained silent as his
casket was lowered into his grave.
The huge crowd of townspeople who had come to mourn his passing noted that his
wife was not present at the funeral, but that night they heard the unmistakable
sounds of metalwork emanating from the clock makers workshop in the basement ofhis house, and they understood that they would not see her again for a year, andwhen at last she did emerge from that basement of clockwork miracles, she would
not be alone.
- Whazzit