The Horologist

  Praise for

  The Horologist

  “An excursion packed with imagery, learning, and risk. Above all, McCarthy’s book reminds us that life never stops teaching. The superb storytelling will captivate seasoned and budding readers alike.”

  —Lisa Maher, contributor to The Austin American Statesman

  “Highly entertaining! You’ll love this immersive novel, it’s a riveting read!”

  — Brilliant Liu, creator of @House.of.Leaders (800k+ followers on Instagram)

  “McCarthy is a promising young writer with a proverbial old soul as he takes readers on a thought-provoking journey like that of a wise sage. It’s a tantalizing must-read for all ages.”

  — Kimberly Key, expert at Psychology Today and author of Ten Keys to Staying Empowered in a Power Struggle

  “Ancient wisdom from a young voice . . . this story is destined for the ‘classics’ list!”

  — Mary Brooke Casad, author of Bluebonnet of the Texas Hill Country, and other children’s books; co-author of The Basics bible studies

  “Take the time to read this thought-provoking novel. It’s a page turner. You just might learn something along the way.”

  — Rebecca Reyes, author of Fajita Fiesta and other works in the cooking space.

  “The Horologist explores the deeper side of what it means to be human. That the story comes from such a young author is surprising, since its wisdom is usually the province of a person who has been long on this planet. While my own writing is more adventure and story-centered, I can appreciate a more meaningful tale—The Horologist appears to offer just such an adventure!”

  — Jess Thornton, author of Mailman Tales, Driftless Mailman, and many other novels

  “The Horologist is a MUST READ for everyone who wants to maximize the fulfillment of their life . . . an entertaining journey of personal discovery where characters find adventure, love and eternal gems of wisdom. The attention to detail and vivid descriptions compel the reader forward to see where the story leads. It inspires people to consider their current actions and how they will influence their future.”

  — Richard V. Battle, author of The Four Letter Word That Builds Character

  “An uplifting, engaging read. This story fosters a reader’s introspection, causing an appreciation of what life and happiness are all about.”

  —Rick Zehrer, Brigadier General, United States Air Force

  “The Horologist deploys witty and attention-grabbing storytelling that will captivate your attention. An exciting read from cover to cover, this tale is a must read for young and old alike. McCarthy manages to impart pragmatic and impactful life lessons while keeping the reader captivated by his vivid and colorful descriptions and cast of memorable characters.”

  — Felix Akompi, Founder of Energie Row and previous senior management at Royal Dutch Shell

  “A rebellious and refreshing escape form daily life to embark on an adventure of self-discovery. Clearly just the beginning of an exceptional career as an author.”

  —Dr. Dawn Buckingham, Texas Senator for District 24

  The Horologist

  by Miles McCarthy

  © Copyright 2018 Miles McCarthy

  ISBN 978-1-63393-598-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  THE WATERCOLORIST

  THE TROUPER

  THE DREAM

  THE MARES

  THE ARCHITECT

  THE BEL ETAGE

  THE CLOTHIER

  THE HEIR

  THE SOUS CHEF

  THE BULLDOG

  THE AVIATOR

  THE CARICATURIST

  THE MISCREANT

  THE SHEPHERD

  THE PIANIST

  THE MENTOR

  THE HERMIT

  THE LITTLE GIRL

  THE STUNNER

  THE SUPERCENTENARIAN

  THE HOROLOGIST

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  “OLIVER, YOU ACT like you have it all figured out. Take a moment, step back, and examine the convictions so deeply ingrained in your life. Do this, and you will find that you have tethered yourself in commonality and wrapped yourself in false chains. You know it as well as I: You are much more than you pretend to be.”

  The voice paused. Its source, ambiguous and obscure.

  “For some time, I have wondered how you can be so awake, yet so unaware of your potential. So, here we are . . . and in more ways than one, it is the examination of your destiny which brings us together.”

  With those words, the voice was gone.

  Oliver shook to. He found himself sitting at a nouvelle table, looking extravagant but not feeling it. He wore a seven-fold tie and beneath that a virile suit. The restaurant he sat in, the Bel Étage, was a cold tundra of stylish bravado and contemporary décor. The tables were scattered about like little islands of privacy and the misty climate in whole was chilling.

  At his table, Oliver’s breath condensed and atomized over his plate as he scanned the room. To his left, a heavy snow poured over a skyline of pencil towers and soaring constructs. To his right, inside the Bel Étage, suits and silk dresses occupied the bar, waiting to be seated; and at the front of the room, a grand piano sat beneath a staircase rising to an unmarked door.

  Oliver looked down at his own table. On the cloth with the silverware was an arrangement of sapphire roses and a bottle of white wine. He then moved his eyes across the table, and though he sensed a presence, he couldn’t make out who the figure was. A strange fog clouded his view. Oliver stared, sharpening his eyes, but he couldn’t pierce the mist.

  Oliver nervously arranged the napkin in his lap and picked up his flatware as he prepared to eat. But before he could, an elderly gentleman appeared at his side. “Mind if I join you?”

  Oliver paused, nodded approval, then tasted his first bite.

  The man pulled up a chair and let out a relaxed breath. “Things are a bit odd tonight, don’t you think?”

  Oliver swallowed and glanced up to inspect his guest. The man had the type of face that would age little over the years, but he looked like a typical buff—until Oliver locked onto his eyes. If they hadn’t been seated so close, he would have missed them. Those eyes. On the surface, of usual fashion. But he could somehow see behind them, like a filmy conception was tunneling from within.

  Oliver, growing more guarded, spoke. “Quiet indeed. I’m—”

  His guest interrupted. “I’m well aware of who you are, Oliver. That was decided a long time ago. The question now is who you might be.”

  Oliver looked across the table again. He still could see nothing behind the cloud. His guest continued, “You are capable of becoming someone great, Oliver. Remember that, because interesting things are afoot, my friend.” The man gestured over Oliver’s shoulder. “The storm; it seems to be fading.”

  Oliver shifted to look outside. The snowfall was gone and the skyline appeared to be warming.

  When Oliver turned back to continue the discussion, his g
uest had receded into the blur. And next to Oliver’s fingers lay a note and a silver pocket watch. He straightened the parchment and absorbed these words slowly and methodically:

  Once, I dreamt myself a butterfly fluttering hither and thither. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware of any manhood.

  Then I awoke, and I was veritably myself. But, now, I do not know whether I was then a man, dreaming myself a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming myself a man.

  Oliver reread the note, then lifted the clock. It was heavy, palm-sized, and cast in a fiery charcoal finish. He held it surprisingly tight, gripping it as if he were waiting for it to pulse. Oliver looked closer, and at the top of the trinket, above the Roman numeral XII, was an engraving of two butterflies.

  Oliver sighed and took the parchment, creased it over the pocket watch, and placed the gift in the lining of his jacket.

  Then he finished his meal.

  THE WATERCOLORIST

  OLIVE SKIN LINED his frame. Russet hair crowned his head. The boy was as charming as he was tall, as brave as he was humble . . . but what defined Oliver was his aloofness. He never let anyone know exactly who he was, and because of this, everyone only knew a side of him. He was a Rubik’s Cube, unsolved; a chameleon camouflaging his innermost desires.

  Oliver grew up with his mother and father in a Spanish town near Cantabria. His father was an engineer, and his mother was in photography. The three of them lived comfortably and simply, and had more than enough—and they were happy because of it.

  Oliver was popular and well liked, but everyone said that his mind was always in another place, like he was looking for something that no one could offer. What people didn’t understand was that Oliver had found what he was looking for; he had found something that captivated his heart and gave him purpose, and her name was Isabella.

  Isabella lived in a neighboring town, and until Oliver accompanied his mother on a photography job one day, he had no idea how empty life had been.

  On the car ride over, Oliver’s mother handed him her backup camera. “I’ll be at the wedding reception for a while. Why don’t you take this and go get some shots?”

  When they arrived, Oliver received a hug from his mother, looped the camera sling around his neck and started walking. At first, he was unsure of what to capture, but as he settled in, he began to see the charm of this new landscape. The town was picturesque, with old baroque architecture and softer stucco buildings. Oliver snapped stills of bicycles resting against walls and of residents walking along the streets. He paused to examine his collection when he first heard her voice.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Oliver looked up to find a tanned girl his age reaching for the camera. She smiled as she guided the screen towards her, forcing Oliver to move closer as the sling pulled against his neck. He studied her impassive green eyes and brunette hair as she flipped through the album. “You’re missing something. Come with me.”

  Isabella set the camera against Oliver’s chest and led him around the corner. The street opened into a roundabout, and on the adjacent side was an impressive cathedral with florid ornamentation and a maze of pediments.

  The girl’s voice was spirited. “There’s your shot.”

  And for the rest of the afternoon, Oliver and Isabella perused the streets. There was a connection there, an encouraging energy that resonated between them. Isabella was decisive and energetic and saw a challenge in bringing a reserved, methodical boy out of his shell.

  When Oliver was back in front of the reception, Isabella gave him her number, and for the remainder of that summer, each time his mother was called in, Oliver would go along to see Isabella. Weeks passed and the closer they became, the more they both felt like nothing was missing from life. Eventually, they began taking bikes into the countryside, where their imaginations infused, and their hearts aligned. The universe seemed to center in on them. Time seemed to stop.

  But one day, Isabella told Oliver that her parents were getting divorced, and that she was moving to Barcelona with her mother. Isabella gave Oliver her new number, but when he tried to call, the line was out of service. He tried twice more with the same result, and from then on, the boy and girl lost touch.

  When Isabella left, everything changed for Oliver. A feeling of emptiness emerged, and a large void quietly grew. Life without Isabella, without the warmth of love, just didn’t make sense.

  It was a brilliant summer day. Oliver and Leo were strolling through the town when an idea emerged.

  Oliver looked at his closest friend, who had dirty-blonde locks, broad shoulders and round chest. “Leo, has life has grown predictable? Sometimes I feel like I’ve become too set in my ways.”

  “And what do you propose we do about it?”

  “Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been. Do something we haven’t done.” Oliver scanned the stone street around him. His eyes stopped on a narrow alley tucked between two buildings. Deep within the shadow, something sapphire fluttered in the dark. Oliver edged forward and looked into the alley. The sight came again.

  Without a word, Oliver raced down the passage. Leo followed, hollering to his friend and staying on his heels as they made their way through the gloom.

  When the boys emerged on the other side of the alley, they were flooded with sunshine. Oliver swiveled his head in the light, searching for what he thought he saw.

  Leo was panting, his hands on his knees. “Oliver, are you mad? Next time let’s agree on the unpredictability.”

  As Leo caught his breath, he stood. “Where are we?”

  The boys were in a small courtyard. A light breeze stirred, and seated under the shade of a wide tree, a man known as Winslow was finishing up his latest watercolor piece. He sat perched on his stool in a sapphire sweater, taking the tip of his brush brush from his palette up to the canvas.

  Clamped to the easel was a portrait of a woman in remarkable detail. But what caught the boys’ attention were her features; they were disassembled across the frame. Her jaw was not below her cheeks. Her nose wasn’t beneath her brow. Winslow had spread her beauty across the canvas, and yet, there was something so real about her too. Something that transcended his brush.

  The boys watched from a distance as he painted her lips. When Winslow paused, they walked up behind him.

  “Who is that you’re painting?” Oliver asked.

  Winslow turned over his shoulder and found two timid boys observing him. He was kind when he spoke. “Oh, just someone who wishes to be painted.”

  “How did you learn to paint like that?” Leo asked.

  “Like everyone else. Don’t you know how?”

  Leo shook his head.

  “It just takes practice. Have you ever tried?”

  Another head shake.

  “Well. There’s the problem.”

  Oliver nodded towards the easel. “But who is she?”

  “Someone I once knew.” He paused but could see that Oliver was looking for a real answer. “This woman helped guide me on my journey. You see, boys, I am a traveler by choice and a painter by profession, but above all, I’m a self-actualizing man.”

  Leo looked from the woman on the easel to Winslow. “What’s self-actualization?”

  Winslow painted while he answered. “It’s a lot like art. Each is an endless process by which you constantly seek the causes of your own ignorance. Do either of you know what makes a piece of art or a person great?”

  The boys shrugged.

  “Great art and great people teach us. They make their audiences aware of an overlooked or underappreciated part of their lives.”

  Winslow touched his brush to the red paint, swirled it with the yellow, and then took the bristles up.

  Leo spoke beside the stool, “But why did you paint her like that?”

  Winslow smiled, but underneath, a jolt of sorrow flashed across his face as his eyes turned to black apertures.

  “This woman was my wife, and she passed
years ago. After she left, one morning on a long walk, I dozed off under a grove and I dreamt a powerful dream. In this dream I found myself at a crossroad. I looked to my left and saw my old life—a life full of consumption and momentary pleasures. I saw a false sense of security. In this dream, I then turned to my right and what I saw frightened me. I found myself looking into an abyss; it was a void I had felt my whole life but not seen until then. I turned back and re-examined my old life, but I suddenly felt hollow, and it was in that moment that I knew I had to leave it behind.

  “I faced the void and stepped forward, blind and uncomfortable and utterly vulnerable, but I kept moving. I shivered in the unknown and ached in the obscure, but the farther I walked the more I found myself growing stronger. For some time, I was alone in the dark, but my spirit lifted when I came to a path which led me out of this tunnel, a path which led to a life I never knew. As I continued on, the ether around me began to grow lighter, and eventually I was led to my wife. I knew I was dreaming, but somehow, I understood that she was really there, clear as day, painting a picture on a stool—of me.

  “Suddenly, I awoke back in the grove under a fresh sun. I felt enriched and anew, and I have been on this path ever since. So, I paint her as I do because as much as I am alive and well and fulfilling my vision, without her next to me, I can never be whole.”

  The boys stepped forward and studied the woman in greater detail. There was a remarkable sense of emotion in the air.

  Oliver looked up, “Winslow, how do we find paths of our own?”

  “I don’t know which path you should take, but I can help show you the way. Begin by asking yourself what you love to do. What is that one thing that you could wake up every day and do happily for the rest of your life? It’s okay to not know what it is right now, but if you haven’t found it yet, keep looking, and don’t settle along the way.”

  He turned to the woman’s portrait. “Go out into the world and find what you love, then do everything you can to hold onto it. Do that, and you’ll be free.”