The Horologist Page 14

  The boy then spoke to Oliver. His younger self had the eyes of a possessed ghost. “Some days, when I rise, I have memories of tomorrow.” Each letter came out like a bullet.

  Oliver removed his fingertips from the back of the empty chair and sat. The silent constellation of empty tables in the dining room weighed on him as Oliver looked across the table and stared at who he was once. Then he spoke softly in a crystalline voice. “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.”

  But the boy didn’t respond. There was a conception between Oliver and the boy; his words bounced off a two-way mirror, like a shadow melting across glass. Oliver was about to reach his hand across, wanting so desperately to speak to his younger self, to tell him what his life would be, to warn him, when he heard, “Sir, for dessert . . . we have the rarest selection. It’s from old alchemy, from something eternal. Enjoy.” Oliver turned to find the horologist holding a small plate. On top was a small white ingot encaged by a black mesh of epitaxial growth. It reminded Oliver of another era.

  Oliver looked from the plate to the horologist. There was something in those deep eyes now that he couldn’t read. The horologist set the selection on the table, halfway between Oliver and the boy. He then reached into his jacket and pulled out the alloy clock and set it beside the plate.

  The horologist spoke across modulated static. “Did you know, my friend, that if you were to live a hundred years that only amounts to 876,000 hours? I’ve never heard anyone say that before. 876,000. That’s not very long. Why do people live as if they have all the time in the world, when life is hardly a wisp in the wind?” The horologist’s voice was heavier than it had been. “Whether people accept it or not, Oliver, the day they are born, their hourglass is flipped and the sand begins to fall.” He rolled the case of the clock on the cloth. “Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.”

  Oliver grabbed the horologist by his sleeve. “What is this?”

  “I think, Oliver, you know.”

  “A choice?”

  “Yes, a choice of the preternatural—a final solitaire, if you will. There is only one piece of time available in the alloy. Either you or the boy may have it.”

  In the horologist’s eyes were the ancient beginning and the eternal ending of the universe. He spoke with wisdom not based on knowledge or experience, but on something innate.

  “I am in a very important line of work, my friend. It surpasses all rational understanding, but this was the only way I could design it. At any one moment, the world is at once being pushed out of, and pulled into, existence. Time is an endless balance of life and death.”

  The horologist looked down at the alloy. “This clock, the one I made for you, is unique. It is the first of its kind. Oliver, this clock can be reset, but it comes at a cost.”

  “What happens to the boy?”

  “I can’t be sure. Time, and its abiogenesis, does not enjoy being anticipated. But I’d like to think he will grow up to be a nice little story. We can’t quite know though, can we? Like I said, this is the first of its kind.”

  The horologist took the pocket watch and opened the face, glossing his thumb over the dial. There was a sense of satisfaction there.

  “What we can know is whether his story will have a chance. You now sit at the supreme crossroad, Oliver. I am offering you time, something I’ve never been able to do.”

  Oliver stared at the boy for a long moment then turned to the horologist. “Time is three-fold; it is three fortunes at once. There is what we say, what we mean, and what we do. What we say is forgotten. What we mean is lost. But what we do is all we really have. For my whole life, I have tried to get a grip on time. I grasped at it, but it always slipped through my fingers. Maybe I’ve never gotten my hands on it because it isn’t there in the first place. So here I sit, thinking of who I’ve become, and I know that if I let go of what I am, I may grow into the person I was meant to be. And all I now have, all that I’ve ever had, is a choice. And I intend to make the right one.”

  Oliver felt a sense of purpose and cosmic identity. He ever so carefully lifted the framed skin of the selection, set it in his mouth, and crushed it with his molars.

  The next moment engulfed itself in a supernova. And out of the chaos, out of the sapphire flame, came a little creature. There was a flutter here, a flutter there, and thrice more.

  EPILOGUE

  OLIVER LOOKED AT his reflection like he recognized himself for the first time. For a few moments, he sat in motionless wonder as he looked at his image in the water. He was a boy again. He stared deep into the lake, and somewhere beneath, somewhere not here nor there, he saw a blur of something sapphire and radiant and ubiquitous behind him.

  He turned, but all he saw under the moonlight were the dark foothills near Isabella’s home.

  Oliver stood. He could sense a fresh, beating heart in his chest. He greeted the world with a smile that had long been forgotten as he walked beneath the stars, up the hedged lawn and into the pink-caper garden to meet Isabella. It was the night he left.

  When he saw her, he once again fell into the slipstream of love.

  And they were on their way.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  WRITING HAS A stigma, which I must address.

  Society tends to believe that novelists design complicated plots, then proceed to fill in the holes. The real process of authorship is much less structured. Stories arrive foggy and obscure. They come as characters whispering in your ear, characters who are a part of you, and it is your job to give them life.

  So, if you have an itch to write, please don’t think of authorship like you’re standing at the base of Everest. Just take time each day to allow your story to bleed out. The plot, the timeline, the dialogue, will come as they will. Just write, and remember that if you have a story inside of you, the world deserves to hear it.

  Of course, writing is not for everyone, but I strongly believe that each person has a medium for their artistic expression. It may be painting, or singing, or acting; but whatever it is, develop it and use it as a tool to learn more about who you are. Life’s answers come from within; you will not find them anywhere else.

  So, why did I write? It’s simple. I wrote because I had to. I wrote because I took great pleasure in developing the characters, the story, and the timeless messages planted throughout this novel. Nothing more. Nothing less. I just loved the process. Find what you can wake up on a Saturday morning and do for fun, then fall in love with the idea that you might become successful doing just that.

  I had remarkable help and guidance crafting The Horologist, so I must take a moment to thank a few people who have been so kind as I’ve defenselessly exposed myself in this book.

  A particular acknowledgment must be extended to a few people: Joan Hester, Michelle Manos, Cindy McCabe, Susan Smith, and Polly Caprio,, thank you for editing this text, and for providing tremendous wisdom when it came time to deepen the impact of my words. Lisa Maher, thank you for taking time to shepherd me on the publishing path, and for providing guidance on the jejune lapses which flowed through my draft manuscripts. I am indebted to you both.

  To the Koehler Publishing team: wow. Thank you for believing in me and for taking a chance on an unknown young man. You all caught so many mistakes and unnecessary scenes in even my most-polished manuscripts.

  To my friends: I needn’t thank you. That is why we are friends. You prop me up when I am down, and I know that I have strong bonds to lean against. Our ties will only grow stronger.

  You may be wondering if I’m going to acknowledge my colleagues. Here’s the thing: I don’t believe in that word. You should work with people you like, people you can count on, and people you enjoy spending time with. So, if you’re reading this and don’t like your job, find a new career, or develop your own source of income. Just don’t keep doing what you’re doing. It’s not worth it. Time is
too precious.

  Of course, where would I be without my family? You have been there to deal with me from the beginning, and I’ve not been easy. And I will be there with you to the end. No words can capture my appreciation, but I’m excited to show it.

  Lastly, to the Isabellas of the world. Find the man who will do anything for you, and don’t settle for anything else. That is the deepest lesson that I’ve learned in all this. It is okay to love, and it is okay to fail, but it isn’t okay to not try at all. If every person in this world keeps their heart open and their spirit strong, our planet will be better for it.

  It has been a great pleasure.

  Consider me a friend,

  MILES