The Mammoth Book of Sorceror's Tales

by Mike Ashley

  “Your watch, Mr. Monson,” said the clockmaker. He placed a small box on the glass and opened it. Inside was a spotless white handkerchief – Monson’s own, as the monogram attested – which he unfolded to reveal a watch in excellent condition. The hands were at two minutes past four.

  “No, no, Mr. Bell. You must have misunderstood me. I want my own watch, not a replacement,” said Monson, shaking his head.

  “This is your watch.”

  Monson took up the watch and inspected it front and back. After a time he said, “It may be my watchcase . . . either the original or a damned clever imitation . . . but even if it is my own, the rest of it. . . .” He put the watch down and shook his head emphatically. “I didn’t authorize you to replace the works, I told you to repair them, and you said you would.”

  “I replaced only those parts that were missing,” Bell said. “I repaired your watch, Mr. Monson.”

  “Nobody could have repaired that watch,” said Monson flatly. “I handed you a lot of junk.”

  “You did indeed. Nevertheless, I repaired the watch. Do you want it, Mr. Monson?”

  “Of course I do. It’s my watch, isn’t it? You said so yourself. But if you think you’re going to charge me some outrageous price, you’d better think again. I’m on to that trick.”

  Bell quoted the price of his repairs. The men with Monson grinned at one another. One of them laughed. Whether Monson, or Bell, or the situation in which they found themselves, was the source of their amusement was not clear, but Monson did not appear to share their feelings. He took the coins from his pocket and dropped them with a clatter on the glass top. He took up the watch, turned, and stalked from the shop without another word.

  Later that week, two of the men who had been with Monson came to Bell’s shop. They looked over the clocks on display carefully and critically, and finally informed Bell that they intended to buy a clock for their clubroom at the hotel. Nothing on the shelves or in the display case was precisely what they had in mind, one of them explained further, but there were three that might be acceptable, provided the price was low enough. They pointed out the three, and when Bell told them the prices, they gaped at him in astonishment.

  “What do you mean, asking prices like those?” one demanded. “There’s nobody in this town can pay that kind of money for a clock!”

  “I hear that if you like people, you sell them a clock for practically nothing. What’s wrong with us that you ask so much? Do we look like fools?” said the other angrily.

  “My prices vary,” said Bell. “You saw how little I asked from your friend.”

  “Well then, treat us the same way, if you don’t want trouble,” said the second man.

  Bell did not reply at once. Then, as if he had not heard the threat, or had chosen to ignore it, he said, “You gentlemen have chosen three of the most expensive clocks in my shop. I have others that cost much less.”

  “If we wanted a cheap clock, we’d go to the general store. We’re willing to pay good money for good workmanship, but we won’t be gouged.”

  “Perhaps I can show you something else. The clocks you selected are very delicate. I may have others more suitable for a gentlemen’s clubroom,” Bell said.

  They blustered a bit, but were mollified by what they took as his apology. He went to his storeroom and brought out several sturdy clocks set in brass and polished mahogany, with deep resounding bells to mark the hour. The price of these clocks was absurdly low. The men examined them and selected one; but even as Bell was packing it carefully in a box for them, one of the men looked longingly at the first clock they had chosen.

  “That clock with the little acrobat is still my favorite. Will you reconsider the price?” he asked.

  “I set my prices very carefully, gentlemen. It is impossible for me to bargain.”

  “How does that acrobat work?” asked the other. “That’s what fascinates me. I didn’t see any wires.”

  “I didn’t see wires on any of them. Be damned if I can figure out how those little people operate. What’s your secret, Bell?”

  Bell smiled, but said nothing.

  “Probably just as well for us to get a good, sturdy clock and not one of those others. They’re interesting, but they wouldn’t last long once things got boisterous down at the club,” said one of the men. The other laughed, and said, “Even a good, solid clock like this one may not last long. What do you say, Bell – if someone bounces this off a wall, will it keep on telling proper time?”

  “If anything happens to this clock, come to me,” Bell said.

  Elizabeth Sutterland revisited the clockmaker’s shop in the spring. Bell was at the door, awaiting her arrival, and she waved to him as her carriage pulled up. She entered the shop with the light step of a girl. Folding back her veil, she looked around the shelves and turned to Bell, beaming.

  “Mr. Bell, I came at a perfect time – you have a score of new creations on your shelves!” she exclaimed.

  “I trust the clock you purchased last year is performing satisfactorily?”

  “It hasn’t lost a second. And it’s such a pleasure to watch. It seems to be just a bit different every time it strikes. The children love it, and Mr. Sutterland is absolutely fascinated by it. He keeps saying that he intends to come here himself and tell you how much pleasure he’s gotten from it.”

  “I look forward to his visit, Mrs Sutterland.”

  “Well, I hope he gets to it soon. He seems so very tired lately.”

  “These are busy times,” said Bell, ushering Mrs. Sutterland to the counter and seating her.

  “Oh, it isn’t overwork. He just seems weary. It’s almost as if he’s gotten much older in the last few months,” she said, looking up at the shelves.

  Bell did not reply. He followed her gaze, and then reached up to take the clock that had attracted her eye. He set it on top of the counter. She leaned closer, examined it, then looked at him and smiled expectantly. “It’s a lovely scene, Mr. Bell. So peaceful. I can’t imagine what I’ll see when it strikes.”

  The hands stood at two minutes to three. The clock face was set in a gold dome that canopied a woodland scene; a still pond surrounded by willows. A rowboat about the size of a child’s little finger floated near the center of the pond. In it was a figure in a straw hat, dangling a fishing pole in the water. All was serene. When the first chime struck, the fisherman pulled up a tiny fish, unhooked it, and cast his line again, to land a fish at each stroke. The three fish flopped and thrashed in the bottom of the boat. The fisherman took them up and dropped them back into the water. As the ripples spread and faded, he settled in his seat, tilted his hat against the declining sun, lowered his line, and returned to his fishing.

  Mrs. Sutterland clapped her hands together in an innocent gesture of sheer delight. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Bell!” she exclaimed.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sutterland,” he said, taking up the clock to replace it on the shelf. “Is there any other you’d like to see?”

  “I love them all, Mr. Bell, but I’m really here to look for something suitable for my mother’s birthday.”

  “Have you a special clock in mind?”

  “I was hoping you might have another clock like the one I bought for my husband.”

  “Alas, no. Each clock is unique,” said Bell. “But let me think. I may have something more suitable.” He swept the shelves with a slow, searching gaze, then studied the contents of the display case. He stood for a time, frowning, a finger pressed to his lips; then, excusing himself, he withdrew to his workroom. Some minutes later he emerged bearing a delicate white vase that contained twelve red rosebuds.

  “A clock, Mr. Bell?” she asked.

  He nodded, pointing to a small dial near the base, its hands at one minute to twelve. He set the clock going and placed it before Mrs. Sutterland. As the clock struck, a rosebud opened at each stroke, and a growing fragrance filled the air. She exclaimed softly in wonder and delight.

  “Oh, Mr. Bell, it’s abso
lutely perfect!” she said when the last rose was full-blown. “My mother adores roses. I couldn’t give her a nicer present.”

  “I completed this clock only yesterday, Mrs. Sutterland.”

  “Just in time for Mother’s birthday!”

  “Exactly on time, it appears,” Bell said.

  Late in the summer, Paul Sutterland died quietly at his home. He was in his early forties, and showed no evidence of disease; but in his last days, he was a shrunken white-haired man, drained and feeble in body and mind. His widow mourned him sincerely, but there were many in town who counted her fortunate to be free of him.

  In the fall, on a dark, rainy day of empty streets, Monson and two of his friends brought their damaged clock to Bell’s shop. Monson stood it on top of the display case and stepped back, laughing. The others joined in as Monson pointed to the shattered face.

  “One of the lads fancies himself a marksman, Bell. How long will it take you to fix this one?” he asked.

  Bell took up the clock and examined it, turning it in his hands. His expression was grave.

  “Well, how long? We want it tomorrow. You’re a fast worker, aren’t you?” said one of the men, glancing at his companions and laughing.

  “Too much for you, Bell?” asked Monson. “If you can’t fix it, we’ll take another one to replace it. A fancy one, one of your special models this time,” he added, gesturing toward the shelves.

  “Those clocks are not for sale,” Bell said.

  “You’re a hell of a businessman, Bell. You don’t want to sell your best goods, and what you do decide to sell, you sell at crazy prices.”

  “He makes enough on the ones he sells to rich women. Is that it, Bell?” one of Monson’s companions asked.

  “Yes, what are you up to with Liz Sutterland?” Monson asked. “She spends a good bit of time here, some people say. Don’t get any ideas about her, Bell, do you hear me?”

  “Leave my shop,” said Bell.

  “Leave? We’re customers, Bell. You’re a shopkeeper, and you’ll treat us with respect. We want to look over these precious clocks of yours, all these not-for-sale treasures you’re hoarding, and you’ll show us what we tell you to show us.”

  “Leave my shop,” Bell said once again, his voice level and unchanged. He put down the ruined clock and took a step toward them.

  “How about this one?” said Monson, moving swiftly to the shelves and picking up a creation of gold and porcelain and brightly enameled metal on which a single uniformed guardsman stood smartly at attention. “Don’t do anything to upset me, now, Bell. I might drop it.”

  Bell’s voice was calm and icy cold. “Put down the clock and leave my shop.”

  Monson looked at his two friends and grinned. He cried sharply, “Oops! Careful, now!”, and feigned dropping the clock, laughing loudly. At his motion the figure was jarred and fell to the floor. Monson quickly replaced the clock on the shelf. “I didn’t mean to do that. You should have just kept quiet, Bell. We didn’t intend any harm.”

  “Of course you intended harm. And you’ve accomplished it.”

  The atmosphere in the shop had changed in an instant. Bell seemed to loom over the three men; and they, though all of them were more powerfully built than he, and some years younger, now shrank from him. He bent, very gently took up the fallen figure, and raised it close to his eyes.

  “You can fix it, Bell,” one of the men said.

  “Yes, you can fix things like that easily,” said the other. “It’s not as if we hurt anyone.”

  “Don’t bother about the clock we brought in. It was a joke. Just a joke,” said the first.

  Monson stepped forward and thrust out his jaw defiantly. His voice was forced and unnaturally loud. “Just a minute. Bell can fix that clock of ours, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t. If I did any damage – any real damage – I’m willing to pay for it, as long as it’s a fair price. We have nothing to apologize for. We’ll pay, and that’s the end of it.”

  Bell raised his eyes from the broken figure in his hand. “I will calculate the proper payment,” he said.

  The disappearance of Austin Monson and two of his cronies was a matter of general discussion and much speculation around town in the following months. Explanations of all sorts, from the ridiculous to the lurid, circulated for a day or two, then gave way to newer. But as time passed, interest waned, and soon the three vanished men were spoken of only by their friends.

  In the year that followed this cause célèbre, Bell’s clientele grew to include nearly everyone in town. Even the poorest family, it seemed, could afford to own a clock from his shop. And all his clocks, whatever the price, however simple or elaborate, kept perfect time. No customer was ever dissatisfied.

  Bell was always available to a customer or a casual visitor, always willing to demonstrate some ingenious new timepiece. By this time, Lockyer and his wife had become regular weekly visitors; and every week, Bell had a new clock to display, ever more ingenious, sometimes close to magical. When the hour struck, one might see birds take wing or porpoises leap from a miniature sea or bats fly from a ruined belfry; woodsmen felled trees, skaters swooped and spun and cut intricate figures, a trainer put tiny lions and tigers through their paces, jugglers tossed Indian clubs smaller than a grain of rice, archers sent their all but invisible arrows into targets smaller than a fingernail; a sailor danced a hornpipe, a dervish twirled in ecstasy, a stately couple waltzed serenely while a quintet of periwigged musicians played. And never were the movements of these little figures awkward or mechanical, but always smooth and natural; no wires or levers of tracks could be seen, only graceful and disciplined motion, time after time.

  Bell seemed to sell his clocks as quickly as he could make them. Even those that were not for sale left the shop, to be replaced on the shelves by new ones. Only a few were permanent. The little Harlequin whose acrobatics had captivated Lockyer on his first visit to the shop was still in place. The fire-breathing dragon on his hoard of gold and precious gems and skeletons in armor was still in a corner of the window, slouching forth every hour to the terror and delight of all the children. And a trim little pavilion of gold and porcelain and bright stripes of red and blue enameled metal, before which a single uniformed guardsman marched and counter-marched every hour while a piper and a drummer marked the beat, stood where it had been for as long as Lockyer could recall; a year, at the very least.

  During the holiday season, Bell’s shop was a crowded, busy place, cheerful and lively. Those few townspeople who did not yet own one of his clocks were finally about to make a purchase, and others wished to buy one as a special gift for a relative or a friend. How he managed to do it no one knew, but Bell met the increased demand and even produced a magnificent new clock, a lighted cathedral with carolers before its steps and a choir of angels hovering over its spires. He placed it in the window three days before Christmas, and every passerby stopped to marvel.

  In the cold, dark days of the new year, the mood of the town changed. No one criticized Bell or his work, or complained of his prices, but now the shop was often empty, no customers visiting for two or three days running. The Lockyers still came regularly, sometimes bringing their infant daughter. They noticed no change in Bell’s manner and heard no word of complaint from him, but they sensed a difference that they could not explain to one another.

  New rumors had begun in the clubroom where Monson’s friends still gathered. Here they drank, and brooded, and their idle minds dwelt on the still-unexplained disappearance of their old companions. As rumors do, their stories fed on themselves, and interwove one with another, corroborating exaggeration with misstatement and validating both with falsehood. In time they became firmly convinced of their own imaginings.

  Bell was the culprit, said the rumormongers. Why? Envy, of course. That was plain to anyone who knew the facts. Monson had shown him up, made him look foolish. The ridiculous clockmaker had thought himself a rival for the widow’s affections – fancy a woman like he
r wedded to a shopkeeper! – and when he learned of her preference for Monson, jealousy added to envy had pushed him to desperation. Monson had put him in his place, and he had sought revenge. It was obvious. Just what he had done to his rival, and how, and why he had included others in his deed, was not clear – Bell was too crafty to leave evidence that would give him away; no one questioned his shrewdness – but he was the guilty party, that was plain to any reasonable person, and he must be brought to justice.

  At first the townspeople laughed at these wild tales, considering their source and their probable motive. But they heard them again and again, and in time a tiny seed of something – not quite doubt, but perhaps a vague and reluctant uncertainty – took root in their minds. What was said so often, so earnestly, could not be completely without foundation, they told themselves. Not that they believed a word of it – but Bell was a mysterious man; no one would deny that. Where had he come from, and why had he come to this town? How could a man price his wares so erratically and stay in business, even prosper? Who bought those expensive clocks, and what became of the ones that were not for sale but nevertheless vanished from the shelves? How could anyone produce mechanisms of such delicacy and precision so quickly and yet so perfectly, and still turn out sturdy, serviceable clocks at bargain prices? And if it was indeed true that Monson and his friends had been talking about visiting Bell on the very day of their disappearance, then the clockmaker owed the town an explanation. No amount of good workmanship, not even genius, exempted a man from the common judgment, said the good citizens. The rumors grew more insistent, the issue more troublesome, the questions more pointed, as spring drew near.