so much for putting up 3 chapters yesterday. perhaps i can do that today.
this is chapter number 3. later i can post up numbers 4 and 5, the last chapters.
as usual, i ask you to continue writing great comments!
Chapter 3
Sheldon’s suspicions were correct: there was another door
leading outside. He carried Abigail out
and suddenly saw a signpost that hadn’t been there before.
To Carol the Clock-Maker
All Magical and Unusual Clocks
Abigail’s clock is certainly unusual, if
not magical, thought Sheldon. I hope
it’s not too far. He set off to
Carol’s clock-shop, wondering how far and long he needed to walk.
He
set Abigail down, deciding to check her supposedly broken clock. He looked, and there was the strange
timepiece. It no longer made a ticking sound, however faint, and the single
hand was perfectly still, pointing at the twelve. He could only suppose that meant ‘mortal
peril.’
Suddenly
a young woman, perhaps sixteen, raced down the path.
“I’m
assuming she’s another of those girls with the clocks, banged it up or
something – oh my goodness!”
She
hurriedly bent over Abigail and checked the clock. A grim look spread over her face.
“I
do hope I can cure her,” she said. “Often,
with a scratch, I just repair the scratched section. But the very gears have broken, and if the
clock breaks down, so does the child. These clocks are the persons’ heart and
brain. Emma! I need your help!” The woman called down the
twisting road.
A
small, chubby figure appeared running towards them.
“Yes,
Mistress Carol! I’ve got the kit!” cried the little girl. She looked younger
than the twins, perhaps three. Emma
handed over a large drawstring bag, which clanked loudly.
“Good,
Emma. Take the boy back. I’ll get the girl.”
Emma
hurried away with Sheldon and Carol was left with Abigail. She reached into her bag and drew out a clock.
“Oh,
help. Help me save the girl. Oh Holder of the Clock of Fate, I pray to you
to save your daughter. I pray to save
the girl.” Carol lifted Abigail up and carried her down the path, to a dark
wooden mansion.
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Sheldon
was sitting in a large room filled with overstuffed couches and tables. They all faced a central fireplace, and over
the fire, set into the wall, was a huge clock. Its face was twenty feet in diameter at least,
perhaps longer, and there was a single hand that was twice as long as Sheldon
was tall. No, not one hand, one thick
one and – strangely enough – a hundred other, thinner hands, most moving gently
from one number to another, all ticking in unison.
A
small figure was bent over the fire. At
first thought Sheldon assumed she was tending it, but then realized she was
praying hard.
“Oh
Holder of the Clock of Fate, let her live, let her live, let her live, let her
live, let her live.” The chant was repeated. “Oh Holder of the Clock of Fate,
let her live, let her live, let her live, let her live, let her live.”
Sheldon
knelt on his chair and imitated. “Oh
Holder of the Clock of Fate, let her live, let her live, let her live, let her
live, let her live.” He realized he was
praying for Abigail, and redoubled the force of his chant. “Oh Holder of the Clock of Fate, let her live,
let her live, let her li -”
Just
then, the doors burst open. “Come,
Sheldon!”
Carol
beckoned. She led him through a series
of twisting passages. Doors lined the
walls.
“We
are practically empty,” she said. “It’s
lucky: she’s the only patient here, and we can use everyone. But it’s unlucky as well, because it will
still take a month.”
Thank goodness, the wedding is in six weeks, thought Sheldon. But
he was still troubled.
“What
is the cost of the repair?” he asked.
“There
is no cost to save my sister,” she said, and pulled down her dress so he saw
the glint of an identical clock. “She’s
my half-sister to be exact.”
Carol
stopped at a wooden door in the marble walls. She pushed it open.
Baby-blue
wallpaper lined the walls. A huge window
and window seat were on the opposite wall. On the left was a white shelf with a
collection of wooden clocks. On the
right was a canopy bed with white curtains, drawn back, and Abigail lay on it.
The
white covers were drawn to her chin, and she wore a long-sleeved blue-and-white
striped nightgown. It was V-necked, so
her clock was exposed. Abigail looked
simply and peacefully asleep.
Oh Holder of the Clock of Fate, let her live, let her live,
let her live, let her live, let her live, thought
Sheldon.
Carol
continued on down the passage. She
stopped at another door.
“This
is your room,” she said. Sheldon looked
around.
On
the walls, which were painted dark green, hung an assortment of clocks. An emerald-curtained four-poster stood in the
corner. Bookshelves, a table, and a
wardrobe filled most of the room, and a window let light dance in.
“I’ll
be back,” she said. “Make yourself at
home.”
Sheldon
sighed. He had no idea what was going
on.
“I’ll
be back to give you the tour.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
A
few hours later, Carol gave Sheldon the tour. It was pretty simple. There was the kitchen, a giant stone room filled
with cooking ware. A bunch of young
girls and boys, Emma included, were scrubbing dishes and stewing meat and
carrots. There was the room Sheldon had
seen before, with the clock. That was
the timekeeping room. There was another
room, too.
“This
is the workshop,” said Carol.
There was an innumerable amount of clockwork,
scattered here and there, piled up, on the floor, all taken apart. A few entire
clocks were stacked in a pile.
Suddenly,
a young man burst through the doorway. He
wore a blue tunic, the precise shade of lapis lazuli as Carol’s dress. He looked tired.
“Carol,”
he panted, “she’s worse. We’ve
transferred Megan from cleaning to nurse duty, and Leah is helping. Emma
offered to make a bowl of soup – bean, I think. You need to get there fast.”
Carol
swept out of the room with a grim look on her face, and the man following, and
Sheldon thought of what the family would think if Abigail was dead.
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