The grandfather clock
Elizabeth Brown
The grandfather clock swung its heavy pendulum low in its belly, heaving it up once more until it was a
constant rhythm of in and out. It did not glisten or shine against the crackle of the fireplace’s flames but became
dull in the titian light, shadowed by grey dust and solemn tales.
“We live in an age of invention,” Henry insisted, resting his elbow on the cabinet top behind him. He
did not seem to notice that the soot on the wood had now clung to his sleeve as the ash did to the air. “The
revolution has only just begun. What potential there is!”
Another voice arose, head inclined toward the glass of brandy in his hand. There were lines around
his eyes, ancient wrinkles, furrowed and knotted as an oakwood table. “Just as every age has.”
“Ah—but this one!” Henry lifted his arms high into the dust, as if to grab the clouded moon above.
The long sleeves whispered in the wind, a hoary ship’s sail gliding on a sea of ash and bound for pearly
waves frosted with moon-washed crests. “This age promises the sound, the smell of change.”
The head bowed over the dirty glass lifted, angel-white hair blending into the night’s shadows. “You
were always far too full of prose.” It raised a little more as the clock swung in and out. “What do you observe
that makes this era so promising?”
Liquid slipped down a throat; the bell tolled three. Henry, with his hands in the sooty air, drank in
the taste of dust and fire. The silky notes of pale moonlight on the floor sunk into his eyes and his lips,
highlights from a star-kissed heaven. “Hope.”
The grandfather clock was still. The moonlit dreamer was still.
The pendulum swung determined and steadily as a mocking lilt murmured from ancient lips, “There is
a fragrance of change, you mentioned. But what does that taste like?”
“Freedom.”
The fireplace shot forth a shower of sparks, much like fireworks that had been contained between
bars of iron grating. Breath of a June wind tickled the leaves and the cinders on the ground, sending it
spiraling into a jet-black heaven along with spiral columns of smoke. All this was unobstructed; the walls around
them were spotted with moonlight and shadowed leaves, but they crept into nothingness; there was no ceiling
to disrupt the observation of moon and stars.
And still, the flames burned brighter, the smoke rose higher.
The pendulum swung.
“There is no freedom.” The liquid at the bottom of the glass swirled, passing through the smooth
lips and throat. “Every century, there is captor and victim. The human race is plagued by its own self, and it
pursues and captures those that share the same blood. We are, after all, hunters by nature.”
Glittering grey eyes shone like two moons. They hung in a sky framed by curls of hair, dancing
about as twinkling stars do when they brush the sky with delicate fingers. The moons blinked, and ash
drifted about the shapes, hazing and blurring their color. “Yet, therefore, we are prey by nature, too.” Henry
swept his finger along the cabinet behind him, suddenly aware that his shirt sleeve was stained with the
remnants of the building that they were in. He was covered in embroidered pillows, a lace glove, words upon
words upon words. “Are we not?”
All scattered to dust.
There was a grunt, then, a clink of a fingernail against the sooty glass. “I do not belong to those who
allow themselves to be hunted.”
Henry bent at the waist, examining his companion closer. “And yet,” he murmured, “you yourself are
hunted by man. Time is a costly jewel.”
“I am not time,” he said sharply in return. The glass of brandy lowered and was set on the table before
him. “I simply embody it.” And his golden, glistening pendulum swung once more in his belly, swirling
about the liquid brandy as a spoon in a teacup.
As it arced across the waist-coat buttons, light alit its gleaming surface, and both men lifted their
heads to embrace the rising sun. The fire seemed to dim, and the grandfather clock, cocooning its arms
within itself with a long sigh, closed its eyes as a farewell to the moon’s departure and an abandoned glass of
brandy.
The smoke rose ever higher, despite the flame’s dimming, and the pendulum swung.
The grandfather clock was still.
Henry reached to grasp the half-full glass of brandy on the table, taking a sip and staring at the room around
him. “Time will bring revolution.” He glanced at the grandfather clock, solemn and finally silent, as he bit
back the fire erupting within his throat.
“You will see,” he whispered, “I promise your freedom, too.”
constant rhythm of in and out. It did not glisten or shine against the crackle of the fireplace’s flames but became
dull in the titian light, shadowed by grey dust and solemn tales.
“We live in an age of invention,” Henry insisted, resting his elbow on the cabinet top behind him. He
did not seem to notice that the soot on the wood had now clung to his sleeve as the ash did to the air. “The
revolution has only just begun. What potential there is!”
Another voice arose, head inclined toward the glass of brandy in his hand. There were lines around
his eyes, ancient wrinkles, furrowed and knotted as an oakwood table. “Just as every age has.”
“Ah—but this one!” Henry lifted his arms high into the dust, as if to grab the clouded moon above.
The long sleeves whispered in the wind, a hoary ship’s sail gliding on a sea of ash and bound for pearly
waves frosted with moon-washed crests. “This age promises the sound, the smell of change.”
The head bowed over the dirty glass lifted, angel-white hair blending into the night’s shadows. “You
were always far too full of prose.” It raised a little more as the clock swung in and out. “What do you observe
that makes this era so promising?”
Liquid slipped down a throat; the bell tolled three. Henry, with his hands in the sooty air, drank in
the taste of dust and fire. The silky notes of pale moonlight on the floor sunk into his eyes and his lips,
highlights from a star-kissed heaven. “Hope.”
The grandfather clock was still. The moonlit dreamer was still.
The pendulum swung determined and steadily as a mocking lilt murmured from ancient lips, “There is
a fragrance of change, you mentioned. But what does that taste like?”
“Freedom.”
The fireplace shot forth a shower of sparks, much like fireworks that had been contained between
bars of iron grating. Breath of a June wind tickled the leaves and the cinders on the ground, sending it
spiraling into a jet-black heaven along with spiral columns of smoke. All this was unobstructed; the walls around
them were spotted with moonlight and shadowed leaves, but they crept into nothingness; there was no ceiling
to disrupt the observation of moon and stars.
And still, the flames burned brighter, the smoke rose higher.
The pendulum swung.
“There is no freedom.” The liquid at the bottom of the glass swirled, passing through the smooth
lips and throat. “Every century, there is captor and victim. The human race is plagued by its own self, and it
pursues and captures those that share the same blood. We are, after all, hunters by nature.”
Glittering grey eyes shone like two moons. They hung in a sky framed by curls of hair, dancing
about as twinkling stars do when they brush the sky with delicate fingers. The moons blinked, and ash
drifted about the shapes, hazing and blurring their color. “Yet, therefore, we are prey by nature, too.” Henry
swept his finger along the cabinet behind him, suddenly aware that his shirt sleeve was stained with the
remnants of the building that they were in. He was covered in embroidered pillows, a lace glove, words upon
words upon words. “Are we not?”
All scattered to dust.
There was a grunt, then, a clink of a fingernail against the sooty glass. “I do not belong to those who
allow themselves to be hunted.”
Henry bent at the waist, examining his companion closer. “And yet,” he murmured, “you yourself are
hunted by man. Time is a costly jewel.”
“I am not time,” he said sharply in return. The glass of brandy lowered and was set on the table before
him. “I simply embody it.” And his golden, glistening pendulum swung once more in his belly, swirling
about the liquid brandy as a spoon in a teacup.
As it arced across the waist-coat buttons, light alit its gleaming surface, and both men lifted their
heads to embrace the rising sun. The fire seemed to dim, and the grandfather clock, cocooning its arms
within itself with a long sigh, closed its eyes as a farewell to the moon’s departure and an abandoned glass of
brandy.
The smoke rose ever higher, despite the flame’s dimming, and the pendulum swung.
The grandfather clock was still.
Henry reached to grasp the half-full glass of brandy on the table, taking a sip and staring at the room around
him. “Time will bring revolution.” He glanced at the grandfather clock, solemn and finally silent, as he bit
back the fire erupting within his throat.
“You will see,” he whispered, “I promise your freedom, too.”