Sample - Mister Weatherspoon's Unfortunate Clock

Elijah Weatherspoon took one more look at his image in the looking glass which hung above the dressing table in his candle lit bedchamber. The flame on the two candles in the holders on either side of the looking glass flickered, as a sudden stray draft of air came from nowhere. One candle’s flame blew out.

At any time of the year, his house was drafty. But it was an old house, and the gas no longer worked. Nor had the gas worked in a very long time. He would not have paid the city for gas service. Coal was cheaper to give heat. And candles produced enough light for the light he needed.

A grumble arose from down inside him. Through clenched teeth, he mumbled a curse at the now darkened candle. Now one side of his face in the glass was darkened in shadow. And the other side, in the light of the remaining candle, appeared sallow.

“Are ye falling t’ sickness, Elijah?” he asked himself, as he rubbed that cheek with the fingers of his left hand. He did not answer that question.

“Ye’ll do. Aye. Ye will. Be on with ye, man. Be on. The day’s a runnin’.”

Just one more look in the glass. He took note of his own countenance. Bushy eyebrows overshadowed the deep-set grey eyes. And the nose? Straight it was, and it was the most self-admired feature of his own face.

Never mind that the tip was sharp. And tiny visible veins formed thin purple lines just under the skin. But it was a noble nose. Worthy of any king or emperor.

But his cheeks were sunken, and his ears were large. Too large. Never mind them. It was the nose which made the face, and with that, he was satisfied.

“Oh but ye was a handsome man in yer prime,” he reminded himself. “‘Tis a good nose still,” he assured himself, having another look at it, while running the tip of his finger along the bridge of it.

“Not hooked like that one th’ story book writer man did t’ place on his story character. Ebenezer.

“Hrumph! Even the name’s a measure o’ the meanness of that man. Fits the likes o’ a miser. Nay. I’m not like him.” Whether the man dubbed Ebenezer by his creator had such a hooked nose or not mattered not to others. But it did matter to Elijah.

Any man bearing the name Ebenezer would certainly be miserly. And be cursed with a hooked nose. That was just the nature of it. The name Ebenezer, that is.

But Elijah did not consider himself to be miserly. He had little of worldly possessions to be miserly about. But he had the means to own many worldly possessions, had he chosen to own such. But to own many things was not his choosing. In that he was very miserly.

He stood and buttoned the black great coat in the front. Then he placed the worn to a shine beaver top hat on his skull, allowing the ends of his thinning silver hair to stand out on the back, and over his ears. There was nothing of hair above that to the top of his head.

He swung open the front door of his townhouse to be greeted by a bright, sunlit day. Ah, but it was not cold outside. Just the slightest nip in the air. That was all.

Spring had come along, bringing tiny green buds to every bough and branch of every tree which lined the street in front of his house. The crocuses someone had planted in stone pots by the curb were now blooming. It was a beautiful day.

But Elijah never saw the crocuses. Or he never took note of them, if he did see them. He possessed no sense for things of beauty. Unless those things were the colour of gold. That he did see as something beautiful.

He stood with his arms outstretched, his palms were placed against the door frame sides. He drew a deep breath. “Ah. ‘Tis, Elijah. Isn’t it? A wondrous day. What a day t’ seek new adventures. An’ today is me day t’ seek adventure.”

The truth was, Elijah Weatherspoon followed this routine every day. Never did he vary. He had neither mind nor heart for actual adventure. But he called every new day the same. A day to seek adventure.

What to him would be adventure, would be to decide whether to choose two pats of butter for his breakfast toast, or just his usual one. Yes, he was much given to habit. And habit was comfortable.

He swung his cane as he walked. Little did he use it as a walking aid. He did not need such an aid for walking. But it swung nicely.

From time to time, a spirit of mischief would see it rattling the pickets of a neighbor’s white painted picket fence.

And that neighbor standing on his own front porch, seeing this ill treatment of his fence, stood with open mouth. He stood while shaking his clenched fist at the one who would dare such ill respect of another’s property. That was followed by the sound of cursing. But Elijah did not hear that. His hearing was not what it once was.

***

“The usual, Stemmons,” he mumbled as he sat down at his usual corner table in the tavern. He never varied the table. Nor did he vary the eating establishment. Nor did he vary the order.

“Aye, Sir,” the one called Stemmons replied. Not that the request was necessary, for Mr. Weatherspoon had ordered the same breakfast for the past twenty years. Or maybe it was longer, but that was from the beginning of Mr. Stemmons’ employment here. What Mr. Weatherspoon may have ordered before that? It wasn’t his place to know.

Soon it was brought to his table. Two eggs, poached. A slice of ham. And a stack of exactly three toasts. And with a small bowl of marmalade on the side. And one pat of butter for his toast. Unless the spirit of adventure was upon him. Then it would be two.

And two cups of black coffee. Both cups brought at the same time. He would first finish one, and the other would follow, though it was by then cold. It mattered nothing to him. That was his morning pattern, and it varied not.

“Will that be all, Sir?” the waiter asked, already knowing the answer. The answer was always the same. Nevertheless, Stemmons asked. And he asked the same question every day.

But that was not the answer this day. Today would bring a different answer from Elijah Weatherspoon.

“Have ye the paper, Stemmons?” he asked.

“Why of course, Sir,” the waiter answered. His eyebrows raised in surprise, for Mr. Weatherspoon had never requested the paper before. He hurried away, and quickly returned with this morning’s issue of The Sun.

The single overhead hanging lamp above the table where he sat, provided a meagerly light to read the print on the paper. But it was enough for him to see by. That is, with the assistance of the spectacles he now wore straddling the bridge of his nose.

From the other side of the room, being careful to avoid notice, the waiter Stemmons watched from the shadows. This was certainly a day to remember for him. And a day portending something exciting.

After all, the man who never did anything outside of his normal routine, this day was doing something outside of his normal routine. This was worthy of seeing, and for the expectation of what the old man might do next.

He was not disappointed. For after turning page after page, and peering closely at the page with his eyebrows arched down, he laid the paper down. With an audible “whoop” he motioned for the waiter to come once again.

Stemmons’ days on the job lacked any excitement, and if something were to vary from what was ordinary to him, he considered the day blessed. Now Mr. Weatherspoon who never did anything different from day to day, was doing just that. Now what was Mr. Weatherspoon about to do or say?

“I found it! Aye indeedee I found it!” he exclaimed as the bewildered waiter stood beside his table. He looked up at the waiter.

“Bring me ‘nother cup o’ that good coffee. An’ one of those, what do ye call, those sweet things? You know the ones.”

An air of joviality caused his face to beam as he tried to make his hands describe that thing which he could not name. “Go. Hurry now. I’ll thank ye to hurry.”

The coffee request he knew. He was sure he knew what his customer meant by “those sweet things.” But in all the years Mr. Weatherspoon had been breaking his fast in his establishment, Stemmons had never known him to order any such dish. No dessert ever.

But today was different, and the heart inside Stemmons’ chest beat faster with excitement. Tonight, he would have something new to tell his wife.

The elderberry jam roll-up was just what Elijah had in mind. He had seen other patrons eating them, and inside he had always battled the urge to, just once, indulge. It would add to the price of his invoice for his meal.

That, was a bitter pill for a man who counted his pennies. He counted them as though they were his heart’s last beating. Once counted, he sometimes counted them again. To ward off the chance that he may have counted amiss.

But today, he would indulge. And the sweet went down pleasingly, and he liked the taste. Perhaps again sometime. Not too soon, of course. He would not indulge himself so readily. But sometime later, yes. Then the final sip of the coffee was downed.

He paid the invoice. He even left a silver coin on the table for the waiter Stemmons. Not too large a silver coin, mind you. But the waiter claimed it with the gratitude due the gesture. His wife would make good use of it at the market.

But now the waiter was left holding empty expectations. What was it the old man found that had excited him so? The newspaper sheets lay scattered across the table, and with no hint of what it was on the pages that had prompted the outburst of euphoria. The promised excitement was pulled away as a rug from under his feet.

Surely Mr. Weatherspoon would be in at his usual time tomorrow. He would make it a point of urgency to ask what it was the man had found in the newspaper that had excited him so.

***

Elijah walked out of the eatery with a spring in his step. He had a purpose this morning for the first time in many years. Today would not see him adhering to his usual routine.

Tomorrow, he would redirect his path back to his normal. But today there was something he must do. Something he must buy, actually. He had been seeking it. Now he had found it. His feet took him straightway to the street toward the little shop which had advertised it in the paper.

The street was lined with many other shops of the same order, but only one which he sought. He had asked for the paper with the hope of finding it among the classifieds. And by the happiest of chances, there it was.

He kept his eyes steady on the windows of each shop as he passed. He had not sought the shop by address. He would look through all of the display windows on both sides of the street until, of all the other merchandise in each window, he would espy what he sought. Then to the next store window.

Passing each one until... There it was in the shop window. His heart leaped for joy. He had actually found it. The newspaper advertisement had not led him wrong.

The shop had a weathered shingle over the doorway. In faded letters it read, ‘The Devil’s Locker.’ Had he noticed the lettering, even in his un-pious view, it would have raised his eyebrows. At the very least, it would have. But he paid no heed to the name of the place. In the window was what he sought.

“Certainly Sir. May I ask what your interest in this one is?” the proprietor asked while fetching it from the shelf behind the window.

“I had one like it as a lad,” he lied. In truth, the image had appeared to him in one of his recent dreams. He did not remember the substance of that particular dream. Other than the item now held before him. That was in the dream.

He remembered only that what he saw before him had somehow figured into the dream. Nor had he any recollection from the dream why the object made him desire to search for it.

He would not reveal that to the store man, for he himself did not believe in messages in dreams. Nor did he expect that the seller would believe that. But there it was. Just as clear and plain in detail as in his dream.

“How much fer it, me man?” he asked.

The seller did not answer anon. He had to give it thought. He had after all, placed a tag with a price marked, on the thing. A tag attached by a string.

But now the tag had fallen off, and the selling price was unknown to the customer who held it, and who desired it so. Here was his opportunity. For after all, demand can bring its own price.

“Seein’ you’re a man of discretion, and of excellent taste.” He ended that statement with a sigh, and continued. “It pains me. It does. It was a treasure of my dear departed grand uncle.”

“Jes the price, man. The price,” Elijah demanded, not believing the man’s claim of the thing’s origin.

“I’ll sacrifice it fer ye for the low price of a hunnert dollars. It cost me three times that to purchase it.”

“What!” the other exclaimed. “Would ye rob a blind man o’ his seein’ cane?”

The seller brought his white apron up with both hands and wiped the sweat from his brow. He let out a string of sighs.

“Ah, but you’d rob me, Sir. Oh but… Well, seein’…” Here he paused again. More sighs. “Fifty dollars, Sir. ‘Tis a real sacrifice. ‘Tis.”

Elijah now recognized that he had won the bargaining game. Fifty dollars was more than he had wanted to pay. But fifty dollars was a fifty-dollar reduction from one hundred dollars.

That was a win in his opinion. It had been a very long time since Elijah Weatherspoon had parted with fifty dollars for anything. But today he would.

“Package it up, an’ mind ye, package it well,” he ordered, as he removed the required currency from his wallet.

With his treasure carefully wrapped, and bundled in his arms, he left the shop, re-entering the street. Elijah was a happy man. A glint of satisfaction showing in his eyes.

Then the seller stooped to the floor behind the counter and retrieved the price tag which had fallen off of the object. Turning it over in his hand, he read with satisfaction, and a grin. “Fifteen dollars selling price.”

Chapter 1

Two city blocks away was the city square. Typical of such places, the centre of the square was dominated by the impressively designed building which served as city hall and courthouse. The area surrounding the building forming a park was made up of grassy areas broken by paved walkways.

Spaced about the grounds, mostly along the path, were black painted wrought iron benches. These provided for rest, and observation of the comings and goings of the folk who chose to spend their day, or even a brief hour, in the park like environment.

This is where Elijah came to spend a good portion of every day of his featureless existence. Today he was late arriving. And because he was late arriving, someone else now occupied the bench which was his.

It was his because that was where he always chose to sit, and to watch the happenings around him. Even the pigeons which frequented the nearby ground knew him. And they offered no objection to his walking among them. Even though he never fed them.

But today was different. He had breakfasted differently. He had walked on different sidewalks. And he had bought differently. Thus if he had to choose another bench this day, it would just be one more thing which today he did differently.

One bench remained unoccupied. That is, it was unoccupied when he first espied it. Now a woman with a pram – apparently with a babe inside it – was wheeling toward the bench. Elijah hurried up his pace, for he must reach the bench before the woman reached it.

He did. He sat down in the centre of the bench, and he did not look in the direction of the approaching woman with the pram. He would not wish her to think that he had intentionally rushed to take the bench from her. He would rather it looked to be unintentional, and with no rudeness intended on his part.

“Beg pardon, Ma’am. I din’t see ye comin’ tard this bench.” That would have been his response to her had she challenged his rude act. But the lady simply turned the pram in the direction of another bench which had just now become vacant.

The flock of walking pigeons moved in, and gathered at his feet. With their clucking voices, and their bobbing heads, they moved to congregate about his feet. For surely, this gentleman would have pity on them, and some seeds, or even bread crumbs would be scattered among them.

No. Elijah Weatherspoon had no time for kindness for the feathered beggars. “Be off with ye!” as the toe of his shoe pushed the nearest ones away. The near ones yielded with some fluttering of wings. Then they returned. But now seeing nothing of an offering from him, they waddled away.

The pigeons had moved on. Their bobbing heads led them to better prospects further up the path. There on another bench, an elderly woman dressed in fur – real or not, he did not know, nor care – fed them scraps from a bag. But their feeding was no concern of his. Elijah had greater things to consider.

Now seated by himself, he began the task of unwrapping the treasure he had just purchased. The seller had wrapped it in several layers of wide white paper, and with much tape. He had taped all of the layers together. And Elijah was not careful about tearing the paper.

He had to see his prize. Crudely was the paper torn away. The paper pieces fell on the ground about his feet. The pigeons, having returned to the area of his bench, taking fright, fluttered their wings, and with heads bobbing, ran rather than flew away from him.

“Me own prize castle clock,” he whispered to himself in admiration of his purchase. It was all of brass, except for the clock face. And for the most part, it did resemble a castle, with tower and walls. “‘Tis beautiful,” he whispered to himself.

In the centre of the front was the clock face. A pearl looking face, with hands of brass. The whole piece was built into a round brass case on the front of the castle wall. A key was attached with a chain, and the glass front could be opened on a hinge to allow for winding the clock.

Now as he continued to examine it, he began to see it differently. On the whole, it was nothing spectacular. Decorative clocks were commonplace. Practically every mantel in every house boasted a clock on its top. Even where the design of the clock was different, the theme was the same.

It was simply an old clock. Whether the clock itself kept time, as of the moment, he did not know. It had run down, and was not running. Upon his returning to his home, he would use the key and wind it. And some of the brass was tarnished.

But he had dreamed. In that dream, he had seen that clock. And he was driven to have it. Or one like it. Were there more like this one? Or was this one of a kind? He did not know. He simply knew that this was the clock which had appeared in his dream. It would indeed grace the top of the mantel in his parlour.

With the clock now laying on his lap, from the inside pocket of his coat, he drew the worn and stained long stem pipe which never left his presence. Now the pipe bowl was packed, and lit, and the thin swirl of light coloured smoke rose about his head, and caught by the breeze, away from him it went.

He turned the clock over in his hands. He turned it top side down. He turned it left side to right. Front side to back. Now it did not look as magnificent as it had in his dream.

Now a cold feeling rose inside him. Fifty dollars, and it now looked more like a child’s windup toy. With a clock on the front.

He turned it over in his hands again. He was looking at the back side of it. There, on the back, near the bottom, he saw something he had not previously noticed. A small door. A very small door. Or simply a rectangular piece of brass over what was probably an opening into the clock.

Not more than two inches high. And about one inch wide. Certainly, a cover over the inner workings of the machinery, he thought. After all, it was a mechanical invention. And access to the inside must be accommodated.

But the door, or covering, if that was its purpose, had no knob nor latch, nor other device to take between the fingers to pull it open. It lay flat against the metal on the back. Lacking anything to suggest hinges, there was no revealed way to open it. Nor did it reveal what kept it closed.

He tried a fingernail under the edge of the little door. That did not pry it open. Then a stronger thumbnail. Neither did that force it open. Then he tried the well-worn blade of the pen knife from his pocket. He slipped the end of the blade between the door piece and the back of the case. Hard. And pried. The little door gave way and sprung open.

Peering inside, even in the light of day with the sun well up in the sky, he could see only darkness inside.

The inside seemed to go beyond just the thickness of the clock from back to front. It seemed to be a long tunnel of thick, swirling cloud like blackness.

He blinked. Then it was nothing but a hollow space in the lower back of the housing. He could now see the back side of the front wall of the part which represented a castle. There was nothing else inside to be seen.

He closed the tiny door. Without evidence of any latching mechanism, the door was shut tightly.

“It’s a strange house, would you say?” The comment came from the bench just across the path from his. And facing his.

Elijah looked up, surprised. He had seen no one sitting on that bench before now. But he had been looking at his clock, and paying no heed to anything or anyone around him.

A little man sat on the bench across from him. Sat, was not quite how he was, for he actually squatted, with his feet on the seat of the bench.

He was short of stature. Overall, small, seemingly no more than five feet tall, and proportionate in his smallness.

His dress was all in green and yellow plaid. Square plaid. The knickers he wore were of the same pattern, over socks of yellow. The shoes on his feet were brown, with a brass buckle on the top. The toes came to a point. An upward point. He wore a short waistcoat, also in plaid of the same colour. On his head, a pointed cap of the same pattern and colour as the rest of his attire.

His face was round, and freckled. Actually, his entire head was round. His hair was red. He presented a comic, and unbelievable image. He was in Elijah’s opinion, the image of a harlequin.

For a space of some seconds, Elijah sat and studied the man who looked to be, and actually was, out of place in his world. “Who might ye be, Sir?” he asked.

The strange man laughed. “Oh I am a friend. I owe you many thanks, my good Mr. Weatherspoon.”

“How’d ye ken me name? Have we e’er met?” Elijah asked.

“Only just now,” the plaid clad man answered. He hopped down from the bench seat. Now he sat properly, with both feet flat on the ground before him.

Both hands were on his knees. He turned his head and looked around him. “Ah, it feels good to be out of the house. It’s been a very long time. Would you believe how long I was in the house?”

“I hain’t the faintest idee what ye’re speakin’ of,” Elijah replied, now becoming irritated, and not a little impatient. “Ye’ve yet t’ tell me yer name.”

“Hmmm, let me think, Sir. What should I be called?” He appeared to be studying something in the air above him. His eyes swung to the left, and to the right.

“I know!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger at Elijah. “You name me. You’re the reason I’m out of the house, so you have the right to name me.”

Elijah’s insides turned cold. Who was this madman sitting across from him? Was the man possibly violent? He wrapped his arms tightly about his brass clock, holding it close to his breast.

“I ken not what ye speak o’, man. Are ye mad?” His voice trembled as he asked the question.

“Oh I am not mad, as you now fear, my friend.” His voice now took on a soothing quality. Elijah was not soothed.

“Where’d ye come from?” Elijah asked. “I din’t see ye walk up t’ that bench.”

“Did I walk here? Hmmm. Nay, I don’t believe I walked here. I just came out through the door. When you opened it for me.”

“Ye’re mad. That’s it. Ye’re a mad man.” Now he anticipated what might be his means of escape. Fear was beginning to fill him with cold.

But if he were to rise and run, he being old, and his antagonist being much younger, or appearing much younger, how was he to escape? No. That would not be to his advantage. He remained sitting.

“Where’d ye come from?” he asked again.

The other, sitting across from him, did not answer, but simply pointed one finger. He pointed at the castle clock in Elijah’s hands.

“What’d ye mean?” Elijah asked, now completely confused. He looked down at the object in his hands. “What’d ye mean? Ye pointed here at this clock.”

He nodded his head. “Aye. I came from there. You opened the door for me. Truly I thank you.”

Now Elijah’s knees began to tremble. Even where he sat. He struggled to keep them still. Was the man sitting across from him mad? He must be mad.

He looked up and… Something was wrong. Something had changed. No longer did the man’s hair look red. Now it was coal black. No longer was the cap on his head a plaid pointed one. Now it was a tall, black felt top hat.

“You do not believe that I came from that house,” and once again, he pointed at the castle clock.

“‘Tis not possible,” Elijah objected. “Ye’re too big t’ fit in it.”

“Ah, but that is not true,” the other one answered. Now his voice became tiny, but by shouting, Elijah heard him. And now he saw him. Now he was but inches tall. He stood upon the seat of the bench. “Do you now doubt my fitting into that thing?”

“‘Tis I who is mad,” Elijah said to himself.

“Examine the door once again,” the little man shouted.

Elijah turned the clock on its face and yes, even across the pathway, he judged the man, or whatever the thing looking like a man was, yes, he could easily enter or leave through that small doorway in the clock.

“So ye can fit in it,” Elijah countered. “What’s that to me? I still don’t know what ye means t’ me. An’ why’re ye talkin’ t’ me?”

It was no longer the little man he was speaking to. Sitting on the bench across from him was a well-mannered looking man of polite society. Tall. Looking to be taller than Elijah himself, the man was dressed in a suit and top coat in keeping with the likes of a lord of Parliament.

He had a clean and handsome face, with a thin trimmed black mustache. With handsome features under a silk bowler hat of black. A long black bumbershoot leaned against the seat of the bench by his side.

“‘Scuse me Sir,” Elijah began. “I din’t see ye come upon me. Another gentleman was just there. On that very same bench. Ye gave me a startle. Me pardon.”

“What is that to you?” the polished gentleman replied. “What indeed do I mean to you? That was your question, was it not?”

Elijah felt his breath quickening, and he could hear his pounding heartbeat in his ears. His face grew ashen.

“Why does your countenance grow so pale?” the other asked. Except that it was not the well-tailored gentleman who asked the question. But once again, the plaid clad harlequin who had first addressed him. The well-tailored gentleman was no longer there.

“What wants ye from me?” Elijah asked, now stiff with terror and pressing himself back against the back of his bench as hard as he could. As though by doing so, he could broaden the gap between himself and the thing, for it surely could not be a man, sitting across from him.

“Relax. Peace be on your nerves, my friend,” the other said in a soothing voice. “You have naught to fear from me.” Then he paused before continuing. “Or is that true? Do you have cause to fear me? Or do you not?

“You rendered me a great service, Sir,” he continued. “Do you not know that?”

“I don’t ken it,” Elijah replied. “What’d I do fer ye?”

“Well certainly you know,” the harlequin replied. “You freed me from my prison. You know that. You opened the door on the back. Remember?”

Elijah could say nothing. His manner was as one frozen with terror.

“Ought I to offer you three wishes, and then grant them?” the other asked. He then broke into laughter.

“I don’t understand yer meanin’, good Sir,” Elijah answered, his voice trembling.

“Have you not read of the lad who found the enchanted brass lamp? And he rubbed it. For it surely needed rubbing. Right? And out from the narrow spout, smoke, and from the smoke, came a genie. Is not such a story within your memory, Mr. Weatherspoon?”

“Aye. ‘Tis. ‘Tis, Sir,” Elijah answered, now somewhat regaining his composure. “But those be just stories,” he objected. “Fables. Sech things ere not true.”

“Are you certain of that?” the harlequin asked.

Elijah was certain of nothing right now. Least of all was he certain of his own sanity. If this man, if indeed it was a man, sitting across from him had removed himself from the inside of the clock, then he was very much like the genie of the fables. But that was not possible. He, Elijah Weatherspoon, must indeed be going insane.

“I nay longer ken what I’m certain of,” he answered. “I think ye’re a creatin’ o’ me own mind.”

The other one let out a prolonged sigh. “Ah, that I may be. I may be. I am not truly real. No man can change as you saw me change. Even in size.”

As he spoke, he began to fade. First as a transparency. For through him Elijah could see the ironwork of the back of the bench. Then he became pale, and Elijah could see little of him at all.

But just as quickly, he was again a solid being. He arose from the bench, and in a flash, he was across the distance between them. With a finger, he poked Elijah in the chest. Hard.

Elijah felt it, and the feeling remained after the finger was withdrawn. Then he was once again seated on the bench, and his arms and legs were both crossed.

“Am I but a vision? Or the result of an undigested bite of food?” He laughed again. “The old man Scrooge thought the spirit of his dead former partner to be just that. Is it thus with you, Mr. Weatherspoon?”

“I ken not what it is,” Elijah answered with a whimper. “I’m at a loss to ‘splain. Or t’ understand. What wants ye with me?”

“Oh, but I owe you,” the other answered. “You freed me from my imprisonment, Sir. Do you know how long I was trapped inside the walls of that clock?”

“Nay. That I don’t,” Elijah answered.

“I was! I was!” the other insisted.

At that moment, Elijah heard a clink sound. Looking, he saw that the tiny door on the back of the clock housing had fallen off, and now lay on the pavement at his feet.

A small puff of smoke appeared about the opening, and then it was as though it was sucked into the opening where the door had been.

From within, the tiny voice which he had heard before called to him. “As easily as I came out. I can go back in. But you cannot shut me in, for the door is gone.”

And once more the little puff of smoke. This time it drifted outward from the opening. The garish attired figure was once more sitting on the bench before him.

“You never answered my question. How long was I trapped in my prison?” he asked.

“Aye. I did answer. I said I din’t ken how long ye’re in there. That’s an answer,” Elijah answered, with irritation in his voice.

“Ah, I suppose that was an answer,” the other one sighed. “I will not tell you exactly, but it was for many years. Do you know how old that clock is?” Elijah did not know.

“More than your lifetime. Years more. I was imprisoned in its first year.”

That struck Elijah’s curiosity, and he wondered how the being he was speaking with came to be imprisoned inside. “What fell fortune caused ye t’ be locked inside? If I may ask.” And he did ask.

“I am not free to tell you,” the other one answered. “But I am now grateful to be free. I owe you a gratitude for my release.”

For a space of some seconds, he looked straight at Elijah while saying nothing. Then a strange grin began, and it grew on his round face. Then he spoke.

“I know. You believe that I owe you three wishes in return for your setting me free. Well? Is that not the law of the genie? Pray tell, your three wishes, Sir.”

Elijah briefly opened his mouth to speak, but no thoughts came to him to speak. Surely the old fables and stories were not true.

Genies were the product of the story tellers, and nothing more. The thing he held on his lap was a clock. It was not a magic lamp.

It was not even a lamp. Surely it was not magic. It was merely a clock. A clock in the shape of a castle. And it was not made of precious materials. Rather it was simply brass. And common brass at that.

Chapter 2