Tic-toc goes the Grandfather Clock.
“They are yours to care for now, sir.”
I had made it to the attic almost completely thanks to Dunlop’s aid. He had pulled and tugged and beckoned me on until we stood before the old, padlocked door. The ticking that I had thought my own sole infirmity rang tenfold there. When Dunlop threw open the door and lighted the oil lamp it had increased beyond aural capability. I had almost cried.
There were hundreds of them. From pocket watch to carriage clock, carriage clock to pillar & scroll, the dusty floorboards was littered with them. Each individual timepiece looked to me in turn all with once human eyes. They had lost their master, their Grandfather, their maker, the grandest clock of all; I was their new Lord.
Generations of automaton lay before me, as Dunlop drew back musty curtains to reveal them for what they truly were. Some would have damned them, others destroyed them, I would cherish them. Some needed slight adjustment, others just a few caring words, but at my arrival and positioning at their centre the disparate noise grew synchronous and I had a reason for being. For the first time in my life the boy born with a silver spoon knew what it meant to have purpose.
My life would be one of preserving that which humanity cherishes most: Time. For what is time without clocks to measure it?
Tic-toc goes the Grandfather and his clocks.
(Image courtesy commons.wikimedia.org)