The Boy in the Grandfather Clock
Harburr stood in the doorway of his shop and waved goodbye to his last customers of the day. They had been pleasant enough, but it always unnerved him when mortals wandered over the river and found themselves inside his shop. He supposed they were lucky when that happened.
A grandfather clock guarded the door – it’s deep ticking sound and the rhythmic swaying of its pendulum sent subliminal messages to any nearby mortal that they had something very important to do on their side of the river. Most would go scurrying back after a few moments. Others resisted long enough to purchase a new clock for their homes or a new watch for their pockets and wrists.
Harburr was pleased at least, that all eventually returned over the bridge and did not venture any further into the dark side of town. He would stand on the doorstep every time and watch them down the street, all the while congratulating himself that he was not like other fae. Not at all like that witch, Hemlock, whose name wasn’t really Hemlock.
There were others like him who tried their best to keep the witless mortals from harm. Hickory for one, with her teashop right off the bridge. She caught most of them and sent them back to their rightful place – after a spot of tea. There were many who were not so lucky. Harburr preferred not to dwell on them.
He watched his customers cross the apex of the bridge and disappear into the evening, then ducked back inside and locked the door. Almost at once, the bricks on either side multiplied and interlocked with one another until none would believe there had ever been a door there at all.
Harburr went about his evening ritual of winding all the clocks in his shop. A ring of keys that fit not a single door hung from his belt. He knew each one by touch, by its weight in his hand, and he knew exactly which key fit which clock.
He made a slow circuit of the room, stopping at each clock in turn and trying to ignore the sounds of life coming from overhead. The mother was always respectfully quiet, but the boy was at an age when he seemed to have discovered his vocal cords and was enjoying putting them to good use. Harburr was sure someone else had lived in the flat above his shop not so long ago. They had been so quiet he’d hardly ever known she was there. She’d had a strange name – something floral – but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Sometimes he doubted she had ever been there at all.
He finished his winding and slipped the ring of keys back into his belt. Now there was only one task left before he was done for the evening and could retreat into the back room that held his whole life between its plain walls. He turned to face the grandfather clock.
It did not need winding. He took the brass key from around his neck and fitted it into the lock. Through the glass, he could see the pendulum swaying from side to side. It gleamed in the dim light. When he opened the narrow door, that same pendulum became a child.
The boy rocked back and forth in the small space. His eyes glistened with tears. His skin and clothes were grubby with dust, his hair unkempt. He stared at nothing but some far off, unseen soul.
“Let me out,” he whimpered. His voice was barely audible above the ticking in the room. His rocking kept perfect time with the clocks. “Let me out.”
Harburr crouched beside the open door and held out a hand to his five-year-old self, the manifestation of the memories he kept locked away and out of reach. “You can come out,” he said, softly.
Young Harburr never heard him and never would. He only rocked and cried and whimpered, forever imprisoned in a memory. Harburr, the man, sighed and locked up the clock again. The boy behind the glass was once more nothing but a swaying gold pendulum.