Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1)

by Lori Williams

  “Never.”

  “Unbelievable. So what did she write?”

  “I’ll let her tell you.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got it. Right here in my coat. See?”

  “I’ll be damned. Hmmm, cute handwriting.”

  “I thought so too. So how about it, Alan? Want me to read a bit?”

  “Would she mind? Diaries are usually pretty personal things, you know.”

  “True. But I’d like to think she’d approve.”

  “Then by all means, Pocket, go ahead.”

  “Very well. What follows are the captured thoughts of a girl, no, an extraordinary young—“

  “Just read it, Pocket.”

  “Fine. Here begins the Diary of the Watchmaker’s Doll.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Doll's Diary

  Part the First: Dreams I've Had

  “To the One Who Will Awaken Me:

  The Collected Diary of the Watchmaker's Doll”

  Hello and thank you to the one who kindly now reads these words – please forgive my penmanship, as I am unsure of its quality. I am writing these pages I know not to whom, perhaps to no one. Maybe that is okay. But maybe they will prove to be important in some way, should I later deem myself worthy to burden a reader with them and then upon reading them the reader determines that they were worthy of being read.

  Please excuse my wordiness.

  Tonight I spoke to the tea lady, who lent me this pen. It is at her insistence that I now write these words. There seemed implied somehow in her voice that there was some sort of greater importance in my writing. I don't know if that is true.

  I shall start from the very beginning. My earliest dreams.

  The first thing that was not darkness was sound. So many, some little, some big, but the ones I liked best were the comfortable ones. They made me feel better before I knew what it was to be afraid. Quiet, low sounds like the hum of big machinery, lots of sighs, but always nice sounds. Later I will call these sounds Father.

  More sounds were threaded through Father's sounds. They were higher, like a bird's. Slowly, patterns emerged in the sounds. Words. Vi-o-let-ta, my Father said to the bird.

  Sometime later. Minutes, years, I know not. Father and the bird woman are laughing together. I must know more words now, but I don't remember how I learned them. “A drink, if you please, to celebrate the government's best new employee?” she chirped. Father promises her they will go sailing the world, and he will retire young. These must be good things.

  Then something strange, something like a touch but different. I suppose I should call her Violetta. She said: “Stop playing with that thing! Come have a drink with me!”

  Another time I remember: Father is with me. Somehow I know this though he is not making sounds. When Violetta comes in her voice is not like the last time, she wants Father to leave me. “Come to bed, you're going to make yourself sick over this obsessive little hobby of yours!” He tells her that obsessing is his job, that the King is demanding everything fast, great, and amazing.

  “What is that, anyway?” she said. “It looks like a skull, it's ghastly.”

  Father laughs. “Perhaps I should give it a face, would that please you?”

  “Well, it would definitely make it look more doll-like.” She chokes on the end of her sentence and begins to cough. Father leaves me and says he is going to get her a drink.

  One day suddenly a dream with shapes happens. There is a rectangle shape, maybe a door, and in that shape is a new set of sounds. A man, very large, forms in the rectangle. Another shape, tall and thin, holds my father's sounds. It seems my dreams are moving farther from my mind now. Now it seems like shapes are something that appear in my eyes, but then, I'm not sure. It is hard to remember.

  Father is begging the man in the doorway to reconsider something. The strong man refuses and reminds Father that not cooperating would be treason.

  Father's sounds are not comfortable now. He is loud with the man and tells him to leave. The man tells Father that Violetta's treatments will be cut off. Father begs him to let Violetta have her medicine and they go someplace else together to “talk.”

  I think a long time passed before the next dream. I remember Father's shape sobbing on the floor. He was saying that word: “Vi-o-let-ta.” Again and again. “Violetta, Violetta.” I don't like it. Any of it. I go back into the sleepy darkness.

  The next few dreams are different. My sensations are beginning to occur in a larger area. Father speaks to me now. His voice is faster and there is more air in his words but they are still comfortable somehow.

  And then, one day, shapes were everywhere. And they were beautiful.

  I remember Father's shape the best. I think he was the first real shape. He has grey hairs like a kitty's whiskers and I remember that he said “Finally! Welcome to the world!” the first time I saw him. He looked funny and I think I giggled at him. He told me that we would be living “below the floor” for awhile. I didn't know that there was any other place so I didn't mind.

  He said, “You are so beautiful, so much better than I imagined!”

  He said, “I was worried the gears would show too much through your eyes, but they're hardly noticeable at all!”

  He touched my cheek and said, “You look so much like her.” His eyes look like water.

  I don't remember when, but I started standing up. Father showed me mirrors. I remember how magical it was, to think about seeing yourself! “What are these?” I couldn't stop playing with the little wires coming out of my hair.

  “Those are your ears, they let you hear what I say.”

  “Hmm.” When I touch them, I hear noises. Loud, scratching sounds.

  “Your pigtails hide them, see? So no one will be able to see them, you'll seem normal that way.”

  Some time later I remember Father making food. He would break eggs and beautiful yellow things would come out of them and sometimes he would put water into a noisy pot that would tell you when it didn't want to be cooked anymore. Father said, “You won't ever have to worry about doing things like this.” I didn't understand why I wouldn't want to.

  Father taught me how to read and how to write. It is so delightful, how words look, with their curves and loops. When I write, Father tells me to try to make the letters straighter but I think they're so much nicer the way I make them. Like little vines. Father doesn't mind if I look at things, as long as I don't go above the ceiling and as long as I don't break anything, so I find a box full of books and read them. He says they belong to her but I don't mind. The books tell me about places that aren't below the floor and about being in love and about animals and that everyone has a Father like me but also a Mother but I don't think I have one of those.

  Father liked to make things, I think. Sometimes making things made him angry, but he would do it anyway. I liked to watch him when he did this. He would say things about gears and parts and he would pick up tools and sometimes he would ask me for a tiny spring or where his piston had got to and sometimes I would find things after they disappeared and then new things would be made.

  At bedtime Father would tell me to go to sleep and then it was like before there were shapes I could see with my eyes and sometimes I don't remember anything at all until Father wakes me up. And then one day at bedtime Father kissed my forehead and said “Go to sleep” and then I don't remember anything for a long time.

  The next time I wasn't asleep I was in a big glass case. Father looks different now and he doesn't have as many kitty whiskers on his head and there are a lot more things below the floor with us. He is busy and moving around a lot but he isn't making anything. I want to get out of the case and I tell him so.

  “Ha,” he says. “Now who would believe I have a secret little girl beneath the clock man's shop? You're my little secret.” He halfway smiles at me.

  “I hate it in here. Please let me out.” Father stops pacing and looks at me through the glass. Close, so that the glass gets
foggy.

  “Hate? Haha! And how would you know what that is, little one?” he said. “What odd placement of gear against gear made your insides turn in such a way to give you words like 'hate?' No, you've been reading too many books.” He moves away and digs through a box.

  “I don't like waking up in the case. I want to wake up outside, like before.”

  Father stops moving in the box. “Oh, so now she remembers things! And just what is this thing that I have made? My little miracle! Or my blasphemous curse?” He pauses. “You need to go back to sleep now.”

  “Please, no,” I told him, but the darkness was too difficult to resist and sleep came to me again.

  When I wake up I am still in the case and Father is different and he is more still. He is looking at a book. “I'm sorry you had to sleep so much,” he said, “but unfortunately it has to happen every two weeks.”

  “I don't like sleeping. And when the dreams don't happen, I don't like it even more.”

  “You don't have dreams,” Father said. He doesn't look at me.

  “Yes I do, but sometimes I don't.”

  “You've been reading too many storybooks.”

  “But dreams are when stories happen in your sleep, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then I have dreams.” Father looks at me. “I had a dream that you were talking to a bird lady.”

  “A bird lady?”

  “Yes, she said you were going to go sailing. Around the world!”

  Father pauses. The book is open but he is not looking at it. He slams it shut and digs through a box fast. He pulls out a lock and puts it on my case. He pushes the case and I start moving and then I am in the corner and there are boxes everywhere. Father stacks boxes in front of my case and then he is gone. I yell but nothing happens.

  I feel like Father in my dream from so long ago, sobbing, saying “Violetta.” Dizzy. That word. “Violetta...Violetta,” I sob, but water doesn't come out. “VIOLETTA!” I scream, but still nothing.

  Maybe I really am just a machine.

  I learn to make sleep come. But I don't let the dreams happen. I don't want them anymore.

  When I am awake again there is a loud noise and then I see Father. He is searching through a box in front of my case and when I open my eyes he sees me.

  “Dolly, my love, I'm so sorry! I've been awfully rude. Please, let me help you out of this case. Silly, silly me. See?” He tries at the lock, and when it won't open, breaks it with a hammer. It takes some time and he is grunting.

  “I've kept you hidden so long! Here,” he opens the door and takes my hand and helps me step out of the case, “you are not to be hidden! You! You are my wonderful gift!”

  He hugs me for the first time. Father smiles and looks at my face and then his smile starts to disappear. “Gift. The King. No, this won't work. Consciousness. Such a common gift!” He spins me around like the ballerina on top of a jewelry box I found and wasn't allowed to touch. “Consciousness! Everyone has one! Ha ha!”

  He pulls me close after the spin. He says, “A little miracle only.”

  I push him away. I hate him. I hate his things. I grab the nearest device. He made this. It is beautiful and it is covered in cobwebs and I throw it at his face.

  He ducks, but the device shatters. It helps me. I want more.

  “How dare you! You are the cruelest Father ever!”

  His eyes widen when I call him this. I don't know if I've said it aloud before. I want to break everything.

  “Father,” he says. “Yes. I'm sorry, my love.” I am holding something brassy I don't recognize, ready to throw it. “Please. Come to me.”

  He speaks softly now. My arm feels tense but I let it drop.

  “Come here.”

  I do. He hugs me again. “Don't be angry. Look. I have something for you.”

  My face is buried in his arm. The water still won't come out. “We're going sailing! Remember?” He gestures toward what looks like the bow of a huge ship. It looks like something from a book I read. “We won't be imprisoned much longer! You and I, we'll escape from this world of wind-up nightmares! We'll finally be happy! Don't you see?” I look at the ship. On it are words that read:

  THE LADY VIOLETTA:

  TO WORLDS UNKNOWN

  “We don't need them and their obsessive little march to progress, see? We don't need any of them! The King, all of them, they'll use anyone however they see fit. But not us!”

  The next night I am happy and sitting on the floor, finally with my books again, when Father runs in screaming “They know, they know! They'll come!” and I am not sure what he means but I am upset that that he has interrupted my story. He is running around in circles and when he sees me he stops and walks slowly toward me. “I'm going to need to make some adjustments to you, darling.” I don't know what this means but I don't like it. I'm not sure why. “When your two weeks is up this time, it will be done.”

  At the end of my two weeks Father puts me to bed again in the dreadful case. “Don't worry, it's only for your safety,” he says. “See? I won't even put the lock on this time. But you won't be safe if you leave your case, and we wouldn't want that, would we?” I shook my head. I'm not sure why.

  “I have a present for you. It's very special.” He places my turnkey into my hands. “This is what I use to wake you up, see?” He points to the words “Two Weeks” engraved into the metal. “Two weeks. Never forget.”

  “But you have to keep it! How will I wake up?” I try to give it back to him but he pushes it back to me.

  “Shhh, don't worry, it's all part of the plan, you'll see.”

  I don't know why but this makes me sad. “Well, then please be careful with my surgery.”

  “Of course.” He pets my hair and then slowly closes the door to my case.

  I go to sleep and then it is like my earliest dreams yet again for a long time, but something is different this time. I cannot move at all but I can still see the shapes around me. I am not sure if my eyes are open or not. The shapes are different than before, they are more detailed, or maybe I just understand what they are meant to represent now. When I dream this way it is hard for me to remember everything, and time moves quickly.

  I remember feeling Father's surgery. It didn't hurt at all, even though I read in a book that it usually does. I was disappointed about that.

  I remember noticing that there is no lock on my case, but still I cannot move.

  I remember that Father spent a lot of time working on our sailboat, and that made me happy. I was happy about traveling and about leaving the case once and for all. Father didn't seem to be as happy about it, for some reason. His shape was on the floor a lot, crying and saying that “V” word. I thought, if he would only stop making those sounds and finish the boat we would leave sooner and he wouldn't have to cry all the time.

  The room was getting smaller though. The walls of the boat were closing us in, but I have been in the case for so long that small spaces don't frighten me. I know that once we are on the sea I will have plenty of space. I am excited about that.

  One day Father stops moving and he never starts again. He is on the floor holding a picture of a lady. The dreams stop, but my thoughts do not. I want them to. Father is not working on the boat. The water doesn't come out. Maybe it is because of the gears.

  My next dreams are upsetting. There are lots of men, not just Father. They are wearing uniforms and one of them makes fog on my glass. I remember that his teeth are ugly and he grabs some part of himself and says I'm wearing a pretty dress and laughs and some of the others laugh too. They are throwing Father's things around and putting some of them into bags and one of them asks one of the others if he can open my case. I hope that he will see my key and wake me up so I can tell them to stop. The one with the teeth said they have to wait until someone decides something. I wish I could remember. Maybe it would help the tea lady with whatever she is trying to do.

  When they are gone I try to make the dreams stop a
s much as possible.

  One day, something is different. A dream happens, but this time, it is a vivid green and it glows. It is pure color and I let myself focus on it. And then, it is not just color. It is Father...no...it is another shape. Then something happens. It is like a rush of air, like something out of a poem I read. My eyes open and the shapes are clearer and I am falling.

  Someone catches me. I find out later that he is called Mister Pocket. He is taller than Father, with messy hair and a half-smile and he feels safe. He has big, scared eyes that look like the glowy green I saw in my dream just then.

  Here I would like to apologize, not just for my wordiness, (I fear I have been reading too many books) but to whomever may read them, and I hope, may also choose to awaken me. I fear I have been nothing but trouble to those I have met outside of Father's boat: Mister Pocket, Kitt-Kitt, Gren-Gren and all the others. I have so enjoyed my time with them, unfortunately for them, and maybe I could call them my friends (though I am not sure how one determines this) even though I have caused such a mess.

  If, contrary to my hopes, the one to turn my key is not Mister Pocket, I would like to make a second apology for being a selective girl and I hope you will handle the burden of my presence with the same understanding, though at times misguided, care that Mister Pocket has favored upon me.

  I must end this entry here, as Miss Alexia has offered me a midnight tea, and this is a treat I would rather not miss. I hope to have many more teas here. Goodnight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Red Flower

  In the years I have spent on this world following my foolish childhood decision to embrace the romantic life of a writer, I have talked and talked and talked to whomever was interested or bored enough to listen about the classic, nearly magical power of the written word.

  I now knew how much breath I've wasted.

  To say that the words of the Watchmaker's Doll have haunted me, consumed me, turned the notion of my own understanding on its side, would be a gross understatement.