The Clock King and the Queen of the Hourglass

by Vera Nazarian

  “Where does it go?” she asked. “I mean, where does it end?”

  Ginadi wrinkled his smooth bronze browline. “I’m not sure. Never thought to ask. Sorry, don’t know. I’ve been to Edge City a couple dozen times but never followed the River much farther than here and there. You need to ask the locals.”

  The Palace was recognizable in the distance, even to someone who had no idea what to look for.

  It was a vaguely dome-shaped circular structure of deep gray-rose granite stone, a work of ancient art. As they approached through city traffic, Liaei noticed that it was in fact a circular pyramid of expanding platforms, like great stepping-stones in a circular staircase. The floors, ever narrowing in diameter toward the center, were often enhanced by regular columns, and there were many windows of modern plasti-glass and glassoid material. They shone like mosaic panels from a distance. At the center of the Palace stood a tall thin needle-tower of several hundred floors, the tallest structure in the city. At its tip was a harmonium-powered antenna that could broadcast into the atmosphere and beyond.

  Liaei gasped in wonder, seeing it. She had been taught in her schooling that this was the oldest structure known to the moderns, a remainder from the dawn of the harmonium civilization.

  But she had no idea it was part of the Palace where she was now headed. Or maybe, at some point she did, but she had paid no attention in class, had forgotten. . . .

  And now it was drawing near, a titan alone in a flat world, and the Palace structures were emerging in places all around them, drawing them in, engulfing.

  Another couple of minutes, and they arrived.

  Vioma was a petite tiny woman dressed in a sterile mauve lab coat, completely unimposing, completely unlike Riveli. And yet she had energetic eyes, unusual to Liaei who was so used to measured softness and a kind of dissipated lack of focus in the eyes of all the people who comprised her limited world.

  Vioma met them outside the front entrance of the Palace, where Ginadi stopped his cruiser and several strangers came out to begin helping them unload Liaei’s meager baggage items.

  “Let me look at you, Liaei!” Vioma exclaimed, staring unabashedly at Liaei’s deep gold hair gathered in a thick tail at the back, at her brows, the curves of her form. “Oh, you are wonderful, just lovely, child! They did so well with you, in Basin City.”

  And then Vioma corrected herself. “Not a child for much longer of course, since the Ceremony is scheduled for the coming week.”

  “The Ceremony?” Liaei said. Then she understood. “Oh, yes, of course. Nice to meet you, Vioma, and I look forward to the detailed last minute training. I have a general idea of it, of course—”

  Vioma shook the palm of her hand. “Not here, Liaei. We can talk of all this after you’ve settled into your apartment and rested up a bit. Today you move in, tomorrow we run a couple of last minute physical tests, then we train. All right?”

  “Good,” said Ginadi, who in that moment got out of the cruiser. “Because the poor kid is barely keeping awake, she’s so tired. Go easy on her.”

  “Thank you for all your help on the trip, Officer Ginadi,” said Liaei.

  But he only smiled, then reached out and unexpectedly patted her on the top of her head.

  “Always a pleasure. Now, you take care, girl! Remember what I say, always be careful when you walk up a slope, all right?”

  And then with a wink and a nod he retreated back into the cruiser, and was on his way. With his departure the last bit of familiarity left Liaei. She was now truly away from home.

  Or maybe not quite.

  Liaei glanced up once as they were heading indoors, and saw a familiar razor-gleam of clean transparent water rushing suspended through the air, just around the corner of the Palace building.

  “The Clock King,” Vioma said. “How much did they tell you about him?”

  “Not that much. I mostly asked the harmonium a million leading questions, so I have some idea that he is my biological mate.”

  Liaei was seated in a comfortable chair in a room with a tall airy ceiling and walls decorated with pleasing warm earth tones. Across from her in another chair sat Vioma. They were both holding warm mugs of slightly sweet saffron tea. On a small glass table between them stood a decanter and a tray of fresh hothouse fruits and baked goods.

  “His story is an ancient puzzle.” Vioma took a sip, then licked her austere lips with the tip of her tongue. “The Clock King has been here, or rather, has been discovered here, in this structure of the early harmonium age, by the earlier generations.”

  Liaei nodded.

  “He is within a device which maintains him in a biological suspended state. The function of that device is also unclear, but we do know how to bring him back to us. And we’ve been reviving him periodically over the years.”

  “I see,” Liaei said.

  “Your task is indeed to be there when the Clock King is revived, greet him and become comfortable with him, and mate with him. Don’t be afraid, he knows exactly what is expected of him, and much of the ritual is in fact to facilitate your acquaintance and give you time before the resulting biological mating act.”

  “How will we speak?” Liaei asked. “His language must be ancient and different.”

  Vioma smiled. “Good question. The device which contains him will prepare him somehow. He will speak and understand—at least our records show that he always does.”

  “Records?”

  “You may see them later. They are rather old document files that the harmonium stored for the last several generations. They will give you some idea. But—actually, no, I don’t think you need to see them just yet. Nothing terribly important, but just so as not to have preconceptions when you meet him.”

  “Oh . . .” said Liaei, thinking that Vioma was being evasive. “Is there something about him that will disturb me?”

  But Vioma put her mug down and leaned forward, closer. “No, I think you will be just fine.”

  Liaei was becoming very cold suddenly. True realization, an awakening to the full implications of what was about to happen to her, made her as numb as though she was back somewhere along the Basin slope, looking down over the abyss.

  Except, this abyss was even less familiar, less comprehensible.

  “Okay . . .” she said softly. “Does the Clock King have a human name?”

  On the day of the Ceremony, Liaei was taken to a strange bathing area the like of which she had never seen. Whereas normally everyone would shower in a cube closet with a timed high-pressure spray of rationed water, here was a generous basin the size of a bed, filled with precious water. The water was scented with some kind of flower and herb essence, and had a fine oily film that sparkled. She was told to enter and submerge herself in the warm water and stay there for as long as her skin needed to be soothed and lubricated and acquire a sheen.

  When Liaei came out, her damp hair plastered to her in long curling strands, holding a large absorbent towel around herself, she was in a chamber filled with colors and scents. Two appearance professionals greeted her, and they worked on her, drying and brushing her hair so that it lay soft and shining down her back, then applied adult makeup on her face.

  Liaei thought of the suave women in the dance clubs who had colorful designs painted on the skin of their face and head and arms, with color and sparkle cosmetics. She also thought of the funny old porno displays the harmonium had shown her—the big, puffy red lips of the ancient women.

  Her outfit was lying ready for her on a side table. It was a white diaphanous gown of lightweight, translucent material which reached below her ankles and swept on the floor. Underneath she was supposed to wear an odd looking halter for her breast area, and something that looked like a pair of underwear pants. The items were made of shiny metallic stretch-fabric, colored delicate bronze and gold and patterned with complex designs of various shades of deep brown. Colorful faceted faux jewel stones encrusted the belt area, and fine metallic jewelry chains hung in looping clusters, b
rushing against her thighs with a fringe of cold sensation.

  Liaei said nothing when putting this on. She slipped the halter around her front and it fit uncomfortably around her rounded breasts, pushing them together to create a crevice. Then one of the assistants came around from the back and showed her how to clasp the thing together, and it bit into her ribcage.

  The pants were slipped on next, tight against her bare skin, and the belt was low against her hips, below her exposed navel.

  “Stop for a moment,” said an appearance professional, as Liaei took hold of the white outer gown. “We are going to put a whole lot of traditional antique jewelry on you.”

  The appearance professional brought forward a large box and inside, Liaei saw sparkling decorative costume pieces made of stones, metallic chains, odd pretty shapes, carved, molded, faceted, rounded.

  “I don’t suppose your earlobes are pierced?”

  Liaei shook her head.

  “Then we’ll use loops that go over the ear and hang beneath. Now, put out your hands.”

  Liaei did, and several moments later, was burdened.

  Metal bands circled around her wrists and upper arms, rings stifled her fingers, various lengths of loops of metal and stones were strung together around her neck. Symmetrical looped bunches of jewelry went around and over her ears. Finally, a band of metal, a torque, was placed around her forehead and the back of her head, horizontal and just above her browline. In the center of the torque a suspended brilliant jewel of deep amber rested in the cradle between her brows like a third eye.

  “Now, the outer gown. It will come off, as you approach the Clock King.”

  “So I get to greet him in underwear,” said Liaei.

  “Oh, no, no! This is an ancient traditional costume of seduction. Trust me, he will love you in it!” The appearance professional laughed, and Liaei wondered if the person was a man or a woman, since he or she was glam-dressed to the point of obscurity.

  “Now, just a final touch-up of facial paint around the eyes, and you are ready to go! What a gorgeous exotic creature!”

  Minutes later, they were done with her at last.

  When Vioma came to fetch her, also dressed in her finest, Liaei was an unreal, sparkling, jeweled, veiled statue with dark glass eyes.

  In the monolithic Palace central hall that could hold thousands, a mere handful of people gathered—all of them horticulturist techs, medics, and other scientists.

  In the center, upraised on a sort of stone dais, was a strange mechanical device. It was circular and flat, about a meter in height, and six meters in diameter and the topside of it was bisected by many radii that came from the exact center and out, in even intervals. The edges along the circumference of the device were marked in archaic symbols that Liaei recognized as an ancient form of symbolic recording, a numeric decimal code of combinations of linear, angular, and circular strokes. They were impressed onto the metallic surface of the device, pale metal against dark deep brown, near-black. Several arrows of various lengths overlay the device like radii extending from the middle. There were at least ten of them, and they were all movable around the small palm-sized hub in the center.

  The thing was a clock. An ancient time measuring device. Except, Liaei realized, as she stood on the platform before it, this one was a monstrous, somehow useless thing. She imagined the network of interlocking gears of all diameter sizes and coiled tension springs underneath its dark metallic face. And somewhere, among the cold sharp parts of angular metal, he was imprisoned, the Clock King.

  He was inside, waiting for her.

  Two of the scientists in the foreground stepped forward and started to wind the arrows on the face of the Clock. They aligned them in precise order next to various symbols on the outer border, along the faint concentric circles that Liaei only now noticed were etched on the surface. A third tech assisted by holding down combinations of several recessed buttons that were along the outer edge, as various motions were carried out by the other two.

  Vioma drew closer to Liaei and took her cold right hand in her own, only slightly more living one. “They are setting time the old fashioned way,” she whispered in a comforting tone of voice. “It’s based upon the very first harmonium calendar which we no longer use. It’s certainly not the oldest known to humanity, but it is the closest that makes sense to this device. Took them several decades to figure that out.”

  Liaei listened in silence.

  “When they are done, we will hear the clockwork mechanism come to life. We will wait for the cycle to end, and the Clock King will emerge. At that point it will be time for you to proceed as discussed. Are you ready?”

  Liaei nodded.

  The last arrow hand was aligned, and all those standing in the hall heard a rumbling hum. The sound came to life from nothing and built on a very low frequency, until its echo made the floor and walls vibrate.

  Liaei felt herself lightheaded, faint, sick to her stomach. The bright illumination in the hall made all things appear washed out, pale, and her mouth was dry, while all the rings, bracelets and chains lying like armor against her cold skin began to constrict—an illusion of pressure was building.

  The hum grew, rising in frequency, and then became recognizable as rhythmic grating of gears, moving parts aligning, something happening on the inside.

  For long interminable moments the whole world was vibrating, humming, contorting. The Clock was a monster coming to life, contracting and expanding its innards. Then, suddenly, the Clock began to rise. As it came up a meter off the ground, there were metallic arms revealed in a recess underneath. They extended, gradually bringing the device to an inclined position, and then completely upright.

  The Clock stood up on its edge, a single point of its diameter resting against a portion of the recessed floor—what was down there, below, in the murk, Liaei could not tell.

  The Clock stood. The rhythmic hum had become high-pitched and gentle, like droplets of water hitting a filled bowl.

  It was ticking.

  The hands on its face made several turns around the face, and one by one they all stopped on the topmost notch symbol marked against the border. They were pointing directly up.

  When the last shortest radius hand came to a stop in the upright position, the ticking stopped.

  There was a moment of perfect silence.

  And then the face of the clock separated from the body and fell forward and out and down—without a sound.

  An inner compartment was revealed.

  Within the compartment was a man. He was like a life-size toy, a statue colored blue—no, colored rose, or maybe he was black—but no, the surface of his skin was shimmering, iridescent, light waves passing over him.

  The play of strange light stopped. The skin underneath was dark olive, almost with a greenish tint. His head had dark hair, and his browline too was covered with hair. He moved then, at first like a doll, then with fluid, living, albeit slow movements.

  The Clock King stepped out of his chamber, and stood before them, nude and alien and unreal. His eyes were pale, possibly colorless. His shoulders were significantly wide and top-heavy compared to his hips; his body musculature well-defined. Between his thighs, his genitals were prominent, belonging to homo sapiens from ages past, and just above was a growth of dark hair, a patch.

  Liaei did not stare at it as she stepped forward. Instead she looked at his beautiful impassive face, that of a stranger, as she walked the several steps, pausing when they were face to face and she could, if she wanted, embrace him.

  With a slow fluid gesture that she practiced a number of times, Liaei slipped off from her shoulders the white gown that was made to separate in the middle, and she offered it to the man before her.

  “Welcome, Clock King, to our time.” Her voice rang out in the hall. “I am the Queen of the Hourglass.”

  As instructed, Liaei smiled, feeling the quivering nervous tension in her jaw. Still holding the white cloth she sank to the floor, sweeping her hands
forward in a dramatic gesture of offering, and gently inclining her head. Her mane of hair followed her motion. It spilled about her shoulders, fanning out like liquid gold.

  It was the hair that he observed as he took the cloth and immediately bound it around his hips, covering himself in the front.

  Liaei recalled that the ancients found nudity of that portion of the body a public shame.

  And then, like a shock out of the primeval ages, she heard his voice. It was deep and low, rich unlike any modern male voice she ever heard.

  “When and where . . . is this?” the Clock King said.

  — 2 —

  The Clock

  It amused him in a small pointless way that everyone came here to see The River That Flows Through The Air, and not himself, the Clock King, the one and only oddity of his kind. Actually, no, that was nonsense on all counts. They all came to the Palace on their own business which had nothing to do with him or his nature, or the River, but with the daily course of their own lives. And he was not unique—not while there was she.

  The Clock King stood on the fifth story balcony and watched the sheet of water flow, sparkling in the orange sunlight, jetting past just at the level of his knees. It flowed higher off the surface, here on the Palace grounds, the aqueduct support rings that focused it being exposed to a greater degree, thrusting far into the air. A clever design, having it pass by his living complex.

  He could observe it this, endless and hypnotic in its joyous flow, a striated brushstroke of hueless liquid suspended against a warm background of nothing, and through which he could see the horizon line.

  What a strange sky it had been when he first came outside, afterwards, after all that initial foolish ceremony. He stood, gasping internally at the sight of the bloated giant sun that greeted him. The sky held no blue at all, only a hint at the outermost edges. He felt the weight of it all, overpowering the mind—a mind still covered in veils of recent memory suppression, or maybe loss. . . . For, as always upon first awakening, he would forget all about the swollen sun, forget that he had seen it before in a similar engorged state for at least a hundred earlier awakenings and could observe its gradual progress into gianthood, if only memory has served him.