The clock is a
large black and grey invention. It is set on a wooden base with a metallic
black cage shaped like swirling tendrils of fire. Around the face are a series
of moons and stars that mark the hour with a soft silver glow. As the clock
ticks a silver pendulum swings back and forth in the body of the clock, and
entire constellations spin on the face, stars rising and falling from the
intricately carved cap. The clock was made by a true artist, a magician,
visitors say, when they spot the clock.
The origins of
the clock are dubious. There are rumours that a member of the family made it
and left it to be passed down through the generations. Some assume the clock
was born of itself. Others say that one of the gentleman’s ancestors found the
clock, already ticking, and it has since never stopped.
The clock has
always ticked. It will tick until judgement day, people joke. The house has
never not known the sound of ticking to echo in the halls and studies.
This morning
Mr.Lampman wakes and descends the stairs from his bedroom to the dining room,
as per his morning routine. The paraphernalia for his breakfast has already
been laid out. He prepares his tea, settles down with his toast, feeling
somehow as if he has not yet awoken. Something is off kilter within the
confines of his house, some alteration that disturbs him deeply, though he
cannot quite tell what it is. He feels it in the air, rather than seeing it.
The ground beneath his feet, beneath the table, makes him nervous. Nothing
feels solid.
He finishes his
breakfast in some distress and prepares to depart. He exits his house but the
impression of something being fundamentally disturbed does not leave him. He
grows more and more agitated as he goes about his errands. Several friends or
acquaintances inquire if he is alright. He gives polite non-answers, but his
unfocused eyes and constantly moving fingers betray him.
On his way back
to his house people move out of the way on the sidewalk.
He tosses his
coat over the back of a chair rather than hanging it up. He paces the study,
his feet shuffling across the carpet. The sound is deafening.
He checks the
time.
It is then that
Mr.Lampman realizes that the grandfather clock no longer ticks.
Puzzled, he
opens the case and reaches inside, into the storm of mechanisms. He has never
wound the clock. This occurrence, the need to wind the clock suddenly, unnerves
him.
Outside the
study window, a crow perches on a bare black branch, watching curiously.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
Art by Adam S. Doyle
