Something Always Remains: Part Three of The Journals of Bob Drifter

by M. L. S. Weech

  A boy, perhaps eleven, stepped out from a room in the back. He smiled when he saw Bob.

  “You’re right again, Fogey!” the boy shouted over the clocks. He had sandy-brown hair and tan skin. He was thin as a rail, and his eyes glimmered like someone who knew a joke no one else did.

  The boy had hardly had time to shout before an old man came from the same room. “I usually am about these things,” he said. He sounded older than he looked, and that was accounting for the fact that Bob knew he was a Journeyman. The slight chill down Bob’s spine told him that much. Drisc said to call him the Clockmaker because there wasn’t another name. Bob wasn’t about to call him Fogey.

  “You’re always right,” the boy said.

  “I like to leave room for error, Pip,” the man said. He had unruly white hair and sharp green eyes. His face looked like the side of some old mountain cracked by ages of rainfall, but those eyes were young and vibrant. The old man’s smile gave Pip’s a run for its money. “Now head to your family’s house and finish your homework. I mean to check it before you leave for school.”

  “But I wanted to see you talk to the other Journeyman!” the boy, Pip, complained. Bob nearly fell when he heard the mortal child mention Journeymen so casually.

  “And you will,” the Clockmaker said, patting the boy’s head with a smile. “Mr. Drifter will be helping us here for a time, and I’ll need you to show him the ropes.”

  Pip seemed to like that response. His chest puffed up, and he smiled broadly. “OK, then; see ya, Fogey.”

  Bob watched Pip run out the door and down the street. He turned, expecting to see the Clockmaker ready to talk, but the old man moved over to a small clock carved to look like a shield.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” the old man whispered.

  Bob glanced back out the large, glass window of the shop. He noticed a man walking by. He had a flickering Death Sense, one that said the man was about to make a decision that could end in certain death.

  Bob looked back at the Clockmaker, who seemed to be watching the same man.

  “Will I have to Transport him?” Bob asked. He wasn’t annoyed, exactly, but it wasn’t as if he was the only Journeyman in the area.

  “We shall see,” the Clockmaker answered.

  The man in question stopped at the side of the road to make a call. Bob turned his attention back to the Clockmaker. He nodded once and placed a finger on the second hand of the shield-shaped clock. Bob gaped at the old man, confused.

  He looked back at the man who may, or may not, have been ready to die, and he realized the Death Sense had flickered out and didn’t return. The man’s cell phone slipped from his hands. As the man knelt to pick up the phone, an oncoming car ran the red light, screeching to a halt exactly where the man would have been, had his cell phone not slipped from his hand.

  Bob jerked his head back to the Clockmaker, who pulled his finger away from the clock, allowing the second hand to move again. Bob looked at the clock, the car, the man who had nearly died, the Clockmaker, and then the clock again.

  “Did you do that?” Bob asked.

  “That’s a very unspecific question,” the Clockmaker said. His green eyes sparkled with a laugh Bob just knew the old man wanted to unleash.

  “I mean, did you just stop that man from dying?”

  “No.”

  “But the clock-”

  “Doesn’t have the power to stop death.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I shifted things about to account for the man’s choice.”

  “So you stopped time.”

  “Absolutely not!” the old man shouted. Apparently he had a temper, though he seemed to relax after the outburst. “Time doesn’t even exist, when you think about it. What I did was fairly complex, but to say it simply, a man’s choices led to certain actions. Part of my job is making sure things happen when they should, and only when they should.”

  Bob looked around the store again. “The key to all these lives is in a clock shop in California? Why?”

  “Because I like the weather,” the Clockmaker answered. He walked behind the counter and began to drag two stools from behind the register. Bob helped him set the stools across from each other in the center of the shop. Bob felt obligated to help; either of the chairs had to weigh more than the old man.

  “So where does Pip fall into this?” Bob asked.

  Clockmaker sat down on a stool and let out a sigh. Bob thought he heard the sound of a bone popping into place when the old man took his seat. Bob sat down across from him.

  “The boy’s real name is Tom,” Clockmaker said. “I call him Pip, because I have great expectations for him.”

  “I never really liked Dickens,” Bob said seriously.

  “That doesn’t make the comparison inaccurate, Mr. Drifter.”

  “You can call me Bob.”

  “Very well, I suppose you can call me ... ” the old man paused, as if he were making up a name. “Archie.”

  “Archie?”

  “Yes, Archie,” Archie said slowly, as if getting used to the name himself.

  “Why Archie?”

  “Because Al would have been a little inappropriate, I think. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Archie held out a hand that felt like sandpaper when Bob shook it. He’s older than dirt and stronger than an ox.

  Bob surreptitiously tried to massage feeling back into his hand once Archie let go. “So ... are you ... well,” Bob stammered as he tried to think of the right question. “What are you?”

  “A Senior Journeyman, but in experience, not years,” Archie answered. “I’m afraid I’ve only been in this form for about ninety years.”

  “‘This form?’” Bob echoed.

  “That opens the door to a lot more questions,” Archie replied. “It is simplest to say I’ve been on this Earth in another form before.”

  “You have a—” Bob stopped in mid-sentence, remembering Archie’s outburst. “I mean, do you have a Blacksoul, then?” Both Grimm and Drisc had said that a Blacksoul tells a man who he had been before he died.

  “No,” Archie said. “There are more ways to discover your past, if you insist on knowing it. All you need to know is that I know who I was before I was the Clockmaker, and before I was that man, I was another.”

  “Did you come back by choice?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much more information about the next life than you do.” Archie took a moment to hop off his stool and turn a clock shaped like a cat back a minute, and then he sat back down.

  “So you’ve been a Journeyman more than once,” Bob surmised.

  “Indeed,” Archie said. “And because I have a drive to understand things, I tend to want to learn more. Each time I come back, I know a little more about death than I did the time before. But, that’s more information than you really need. Just know that I’m a Journeyman with a different set of abilities. I’m one of a very small few who only work with a chosen group. For instance, you, Mr. Navin, and, unfortunately, Grimm, are the only three Journeymen in the world who know at this moment.”

  “And you do what?”

  “I make sure that the area I’m responsible for has the right amount of Journeymen, as well as doing what you just witnessed. That helps with the process—keeping people where I need them, I mean. By the way, I was sorry to hear about your trouble at the airport.”

  Bob’s jaw nearly fell all the way to China. He hadn’t told anyone about the baggage issue. “You did that?” Bob gasped, standing off the stool.

  “Did what?” Archie’s lips said. Archie’s eyes laughingly said, Yeah, yeah, I did.

  “Is it going to be like this the whole time I’m here?” Bob asked.

  “No,” Archie said. Bob noticed that Archie kept his distance from the raven clock. The old man crossed the room to move a clock in the shape of a heart up a minute. The heart-shaped clock was three clocks dow
n from the raven. “I’m happy to say the rest of your time here should be very interesting.”

  Bob groaned. Archie’s lips said interesting, but those eyes of his sparkled and said, interesting for him.

  6

  Time to Kill

  It was useless. Grimm understood that much, even as he began to cut the soul out of the woman who’d died of a fall. A fall! No amount of hacking, slashing, or bloodshed made the lie any more convincing. He was every bit as far from being Death as he’d been when he’d collected his first Blacksoul.

  Drenched in blood and listening to the sounds of his newest pet being born, Grimm sat, unsatisfied, on the road where the woman had decided to land. The bitch wanted to die, and I couldn’t do it! He wondered what use it was having new power and new weapons if it didn’t lead to the final solution: the power to decide who should die and when.

  That first Blacksoul had been an experiment of curiosity. His mentor, the Death Pretender who called herself Robin, had forbidden him to do it, so it became a challenge to see it happen. It served as a source of humor for Grimm to think that the woman guarded that bit of information so closely, but in the end, no one would care. Every pretender was warned against letting a soul sour. Like Eve’s warning about the apple.

  They were all cowards. They would all die as soon as Grimm could manage the how of it. Grimm stood to welcome his new Blacksoul from its smashed and shredded shell. He’d no sooner collected the soul than some random mortal turned into the alley. The mortal stared dumbly at Grimm and the ruined body at his feet.

  The bastard had the audacity to wet himself. Grimm sent his entire arsenal at the mortal. They swarmed the human, trying to obey Grimm’s command to kill. They scratched at it. Grimm could hear the mortal screaming in horror, but there was no pain in the scream.

  Eventually, the mortal found his feet. He was disgustingly uninjured. Grimm himself charged the man and wrapped his hands around the mortal’s throat. Everything seemed to burn. Grimm smiled as he sensed his victim struggle to breathe.

  I’m doing it! The burning sensation seemed to move until it focused on Grimm’s hands, but he refused to let go. He could feel the mortal’s life fading. He could sense ... something ... about to break. He just had to stand the pain.

  Blacksouls rushed to Grimm’s aid. They clamped themselves around his hands and even helped him squeeze. Grimm began to laugh. It was finally time. It was finally going to happen.

  His Blacksouls began to scream in agony only an instant before Grimm felt the heat of the mortal’s soul burn through the creatures. They fled the living soul and abandoned Grimm to struggle alone with the white-hot pain. Grimm held. And held. Then he let go, screaming in rage.

  The mortal gulped in a breath of air, then another. The pitiful creature rolled over and crawled away, coughing, as Grimm huddled over his burnt hands. As he let out another howl, Grimm wasn’t sure if it was the pain or his shame of failure that he felt more deeply.

  After a few slow breaths, he found the strength to deny the pain any right to affect him. Controlling his rage, Grimm considered how close he’d come to success. He could feel the wall between life and death shake. There was one other time he’d felt close to success. He hadn’t come quite as far, and he was twice as battered after the attempt. Perhaps it was time to try again. Grimm smiled as he watched his flesh drip from his hands.

  Pain was worth effort. Effort would eventually lead to success in his mind. His Blacksouls surrounded the bone and meat and created new hands. It hurt. It felt so good. Grimm focused his will, and the rotted souls obeyed and stretched themselves into black-onyx claws. He laughed; the pain was only a component of the noise his body of flesh made.

  He’d shown his mortal shell to the pretenders in New York. He intended to kill them all. He intended the world to only see Death. It was fitting that his weapons would become a part of his flesh. Mortality was a lie. It was the souls that lived and died inside shells of flesh and blood, so Grimm decided to hide the shell. But now, it seemed, he had the power to rid himself of the shell entirely. The agony was only a price to pay. It was a price he was cautious of, but very willing to pay.

  7

  Questions, More Than Answers

  April 8, 2008

  All I understand is that I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. He’s reading Ann Rand, and I’m reading See Spot Run. He’s talking nuclear physics, and I’ve just figured out I have ten fingers. I don’t even have the ability to write a metaphor to describe it. What’s worse, I think I’m frustrating him.

  “I thought you were a teacher?” Archie said, watching Bob cut his finger on a small, intricate gear of a clock.

  “I am,” Bob said, “which is why I’m no good at clock-making.”

  He sucked at his finger to stop the bleeding. Bob thought he’d come and talk about ways to stop Grimm. Apparently, the only thing Archie didn’t know was how to stop that maniac. So Bob learned how to make clocks. Actually, he learned he’d never make a clock that worked.

  “So, this clock will represent someone’s life?” Bob asked.

  “No,” Archie said with a wry smile, “because you’ll never finish it.”

  Bob gave the old man a flat look. Archie didn’t seem to notice. He bent over an intricate spaceship that blasted off a mechanical launch pad at the end of every hour. Archie had watched the model spaceship scoot up a one-foot track three times, which meant Bob had spent three useless hours trying to put together what Archie said was, “a simple project.”

  Bob picked up a screwdriver that looked more like a toothpick and began to tighten a gear down.

  “Don’t make it too tight, or the gear won’t turn,” Archie said.

  Bob loosened it.

  “That’s nice,” Archie said. “The clock should fall apart beautifully now.”

  Bob took a deep breath, then another. He tightened the gear until it was snug, then loosened it a single turn. He looked up at Archie.

  “Should I applaud you for finishing a single component?” he asked. The spaceship began a countdown. It took its standard one-foot flight. Archie stood and smiled at Bob through the whole performance.

  “So if I never finish this, does that mean someone won’t be born?” Bob asked.

  “Nonsense; it’ll mean I have to build a clock you said you’d finish this morning, and even then, you’d have nothing to fear. Not every clock is connected to a soul, and some clocks keep more than one.”

  Bob listened as he screwed in three more gears. He latched the back of the hand-carved wood to hide the gears and turned to look at the clock. It ran backward. Bob let his head sink. He could hear Archie chuckle.

  “Well, I suppose you were a master clockmaker from the start?” Bob spat.

  Archie pointed at Bob’s clock. “It’s a fascinating theory, but I’m afraid that clock wouldn’t help anyone.” Archie’s chuckle graduated to a full belly laugh. “Maybe I’ll attach my life to that clock when I get a soul.”

  Bob froze. Archie had spoken about Blacksouls, how souls Transport, and what amounted to physics that Bob only vaguely understood. But this time, Archie had revealed something new, which meant he wanted to talk about that exact subject.

  Bob put his hand over his chest, where he could feel the last part of Patience surge on occasion. “I’m not the first?” None of the other Journeymen had ever heard about it happening. If Bob wasn’t the first, it hadn’t happened in some six hundred years.

  Archie pointed at a tall grandfather clock. “That clock has been linked to five lives.”

  “And if I smashed it?”

  “I’d make you fix it. It took me a year, so you should finish it before you die of old age.”

  “But the soul attached to it?”

  “I said life, not soul.” Archie walked around the worktable and pulled Bob’s clock away from him. “You could ruin this whole store, and no one would die, but some very strange things might happen if I weren’t around to sever the links.”

&nbs
p; “Was that clock ever linked to a Journeyman?” Bob asked, watching Archie work.

  “No.”

  “But I’m not the first,” Bob said, trying to steer the conversation back to something more personal.

  “Hand me the screwdriver.” Archie began tinkering on the clock. He was always more talkative when he was working. “You know about Grimm’s previous life?”

  That question wasn’t leading in a direction Bob wanted to go. Bob wanted to leave the question unanswered, but as it turned out, it wasn’t actually a question.

  “You think because he was a maniac, that you were,” Archie said. “That’s untrue.”

  “Do you know who I was?”

  “You’re some 280 years older than I am.” The comment was true in the more literal sense, even if Archie looked eighty and Bob looked younger than forty.

  “So how is it you know so much?”

  Archie looked up at Bob and smiled. Oh, I’ve really stepped in it this time.

  “It’s not that I know so much; I just know a lot more than you.” Archie absolutely loved pointing that out.

  “So how did you learn all of it?” Bob asked, a little angrily.

  Archie just stared at him. It had taken Bob a full day to learn that meant he was expected to figure it out. “I hate vague hints,” he said.

  “Consider that this isn’t my first trip around the bend,” Archie said.

  That hint was much more blunt. “You’ve been a Journeyman before? I mean, you lived, died, came back as a Journeyman, and then—”

  “I’ve been around the bend a few times, actually.” Archie put the screwdriver down and closed the clock. It ran perfectly.

  “Thanks,” Bob said, looking at the damn clock. I did most the work. “So how do we become what we are? I don’t remember asking for the job.”

  “We all have our reasons,” Archie said. “I can’t begin to know yours. For me, I have a few things yet to learn.”