Clock Tower

Somewhere at the top of the world, a clock tower bell rang. It was noon on a lovely Spring morning, with all the green plants yawning toward the sun and all the white birds returning to their nests after a busy morning of work. All was right and orderly on the grassy hill where the behemoth clock tower stood, it’s cracking chalk bricks a pale outline upon the fresh blue sky. At the place where the bottom of the tower met the top of the hill, a wooden door, strewn with vines, swung open. And out stepped a man.1

His long, thin spider legs seemed to move in time with the ringing bell, alternating with a tall, silver cane that ticked against the stone pathway leading from the clock tower. Like a metronome, the man made his way, cane ticking, feet tocking, down the crumbling stone path to the edge of the hill. The clock tower rang a twelfth time and the thirteenth was a quiet, moist sound. Salty waves splashed up from the bottom of the hill.2

Motionless now, like a sun dial without sun, the man stood in the shade of a great weeping willow tree and peered into the distance. His face was lined with wrinkles. His eyes were sagging and dark. His mouth was a cautious line. And most of his gray hair hung trim and neat from his chin. The rhythm of the waves flowed through his ears as he watched, far away, as the Ocean consumed the clouds. He stood like this for what seemed like eternity. 3