Clocktower

by C. A. Valentine

  “And not enough room for both of them, hm.” Johnny stared down at a square-faced timepiece in the center display and watched its second hand tick past the two o’clock position. “Who was the other Index?” Johnny asked.

  “His name was Joji Shimotsuki, the Eleventh. One of the two empty seats you saw in the cathedral was his.”

  “He’s dead, then?”

  Pinion nodded, taking off his glasses as he did. “Shimotsuki’s temple was on the eastern cliffs of The Crown. In early 1971, an earthquake hit. Larger than anything I’d ever felt before in my life. The whole town must have shook for fifteen or twenty minutes. When it was finally over, we went to The Crown to search for survivors and help the wounded. It was then that we saw that Sonnerie’s temple had completely vanished. The quake must have caused a heavy landslide and taken the entire structure crashing down to the sea.”

  “A convenient tragedy for Ninomiya, one might say,” Johnny said.

  “Convenient or no, Ninomiya’s rival had been removed, and his nascent Church became the de facto religion of Sonnerie. The earthquake was painted as divine intervention against Shimotsuki for his unwillingness to accept the Church, and his one surviving child was shunned and denied her birthright. Thus, the Eleventh seat remains empty.”

  Johnny took out the last of his cigarettes and gave it a light. “That’s a hell of a story,” he said. “But how was Ninomiya able to deny Shimotsuki’s heirs? Can one Index really hold that much power over the others?”

  “You’re right, and he can’t,” Pinion said. “The purpose of having twelve equals in charge of Sonnerie was to ensure this dynamic was protected. Regardless of the prestige one’s office might carry, it afforded him no more clout at the voting table than his peers. But Ninomiya’s position was unique. He was the mouth of the Mayor himself, and he spoke with an authority that many considered divine.”

  “So he’s full of shit is what you’re really telling me,” Johnny said. “A prophet of the coming of his own rise to power.”

  Pinion reached into his pocket and pulled out an unopened pack of Seven Stars. He fidgeted with the box for a moment before producing a cigarette of his own, then placed it between his thin lips and set it alight.

  “I don’t like how you jump to the worst possible conclusion, Mr. Tokisaki, but I also can’t deny that the same thoughts had crossed the minds of many. Not the least of which was Isshin Hanekawa, the First. For many years after the rise of the cathedral, Hanekawa and Ninomiya found themselves on opposite ends of the many issues Sonnerie was facing. Even though Ninomiya was the face of divinity to many, the people also held Hanekawa in an almost deified light. The First among The Twelve. The man responsible for the economic boom that allowed so many to enjoy the fruits of a modern life. On some level, every business, building, and brick laid in Sonnerie can be traced back to a project that Hanekawa spearheaded.”

  Pinion stopped for a moment and filled his lungs with smoke, then let it out in one long gray gust. Johnny watched him, then did the same. For a short time, they only smoked and stared down at the ticking timepieces.

  “Sixteen years ago,” Pinion began quite suddenly, “the wife of the First Index, a beautiful, vibrant woman by the name of Saya, suddenly took ill. The doctors of Sonnerie could do nothing for her, and she passed away within a few short months, leaving him alone with their young daughter, Ayano. Around this time, the Fifth Index, who had been a longtime ally and supporter of Hanekawa, announced his resignation and left office without an heir, leaving another empty seat among the Indices. I imagine that Hanekawa felt betrayed by the sudden departure of his longtime friend, and combined with the loss of his wife, he became a recluse—avoiding public events, and appearing only when absolutely necessary.”

  “It sounds like his loss still weighs heavily on him,” Johnny said, thinking of the daughter Hanekawa had almost lost as well. “But there’s something I don’t understand. I can see why Ninomiya would want to deny the heirs of his rivals, but in the case of the Fifth Index, where there are no apparent successors, shouldn’t the office have been filled by some other means?”

  “Indeed,” Pinion nodded, flicking the ashes of his cigarette into a glass tray. “Indices are named only by the Mayor, and the Mayor only speaks to Ninomiya. There is no other way of appointing someone to the position by our laws.”

  Johnny watched Pinion as he spoke, but at some point—he couldn’t tell when—Pinion had stopped making eye contact with him. He spoke with a profound sadness in his voice, as if his words were torn from the pages of memories long suppressed. There was something missing from his story, something hidden, but what it was, Johnny couldn’t fathom. He took the remnants of his own cigarette and pressed it against the bottom of the ashtray Pinion had laid out, then backed away to the center display case once again.

  “You have a lot of knowledge for a simple watchmaker living at the edge of town,” Johnny tested.

  “I’ve been around a long time. In the camps, we were nobodies. Non-citizens. Non-humans, it felt like. But in Sonnerie, we became men again. Despite everything I just told you, of our history and even my own misgivings, I find myself believing in our city. No matter what wind fills our sails. I have lived as a proud man of Sonnerie, and I will die as one as well.”

  Pinion stabbed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray and stood up straight. “Will you be staying in Sonnerie much longer?” he asked. “If you happen to come by again, I can show you some of the new pieces I’ve been working on.”

  Johnny smiled and approached Pinion, stretching out his hand as he did. “Thank you for taking care of my watch,” Johnny said. “I’m only here for a couple more days, but if I have the time, I’ll drop by.”

  Pinion gave him a firm handshake, then walked him to the door and held it open as Johnny passed through.

  “Oh my,” Pinion said, observing the downpour. “You didn’t happen to bring an umbrella with you, did you?”

  Johnny shook his head. “No, it must have slipped my mind.”

  “Wait here,” Pinion said. “I have a spare.”

  Johnny kept his eyes on the watery surge. Fat droplets splashed loudly against the concrete in such volume that he half expected a river to form, splitting Sonnerie in two.

  “Here we go!” Pinion announced as he returned. In his hand was a long, elegant wooden umbrella with a midnight-green canopy and a slightly curved handle the color of desert sand. Johnny took it in hand and found it had much greater weight to it than he had expected.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “This seems like quite a nice piece to lend out.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Pinion said, waving a hand in front of his face. “I’ve got a friend back in Toyama who collects the things. Have you ever been?”

  “Toyama? No. Can’t say I’m a fan of snow.”

  “A shame,” Pinion said. “If you ever find yourself in Japan again, you should give it a visit.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Johnny said, opening the canopy and stepping into the deluge. “Thank you again, Pinion. I’ll make sure this gets back to you.”

  Pinion gave him a polite bow, then returned inside. Johnny checked the time on his Casio, then walked under the awning of Pinion’s neighbor again and took out the black mobile phone from his pocket. There was no hesitation now. He punched in the seven numbers he had been given, then pressed the phone to his ear. After just two rings, the voice of Mutsumi Baba answered his call.

  “Mr. Tokisaki,” she said. “Are you ready to begin?”

  Twenty-Second Movement

  Ambush

  His errand concluded, Johnny elected to return to The Wheel Bridge and spend the rest of the day in the comfort of his fourth-floor bedroom. The downpour continued his entire walk back to the hotel, but the sturdy green umbrella that Pinion had lent him afforded him ample protection, and he entered the lobby with nothing more than a pair of soa
ked loafers.

  Mutsumi Baba’s instructions had been simple. Wait at the hotel until midnight.

  “What happens at midnight?” Johnny asked.

  “Your chariot arrives and whisks you off to your job. We’ll give you another call once it’s time. Until then, stay inside and out of trouble. Half of Sonnerie knows that pretty face of yours now, and we wouldn’t want any harm coming to it, would we?” she mused before abruptly ending the call.

  Upon entering his room, he shut the door and locked it, then closed the window he had earlier left open and emptied the contents of his pockets onto his desk. When his pockets were bare, he set his coat on a thin wire hanger in the closet and removed his revolver from its holster, setting it on the desk with his other belongings.

  Each move was carefully meticulous. He unloaded the six bullets from his .38 and set them down one at a time at the far edge of his desk, then spun the cylinder once before snapping it shut and placing the weapon directly in front of its emptied contents. Satisfied with their positions, he next moved his lighter to the far left corner along with his mobile phone, then set his pen directly between his notebook and the copy of Sonnerie’s holy text he had earlier received.

  Once everything was in position, Johnny took the watch belonging to Mrs. Saito, and placed it between his revolver and his jury of bullets. He watched the second hand sweep around the dial for two full revolutions, then pulled his eyes down to the text at his hands and opened it.

  On the surface, it was exactly the same as the book he had found under Mari’s bed along with her diary. A matte black cover with the golden anchor escapement insignia emblazoned in the top center. On the first page was written the book’s title, “The Chronicle of Sonnerie”, and below that the words, “Our Time Will Come” in bold, black letters. On the page after that was a brief table of contents that divided the book into twenty-four numbered movements without any particular title.

  Outside, the rain had begun to pick up again with some amount of fervor. Johnny lifted his eyes and stared out the window just long enough to assure himself that this was still the real world, then flipped the page and started his journey through the annals of Sonnerie.

  As he began to read, Johnny quickly discovered this was no monumental work of divine fiction. No speculation about the first days of creation nor of the development of the flora and fauna thereafter. The first chapter began as somewhat of a journal written in the first person perspective. True to its name, “The Chronicle” provided an immensely detailed recollection of the Manzanar concentration camp.

  At first, Johnny suspected it was a recounting of events by Ninomiya, but reading along it became clear that the unnamed scrivener was undoubtedly the Mayor himself. No small feature was omitted from the text in regards to the camp and the squalid conditions of those living there. For Johnny, who had only a passing knowledge of the internment, the descriptions of communal bathrooms and barracks-style living quarters without privacy for families caused his heartbeat to quicken as he squeezed the thin volume between his hands.

  The tale came to a head at the end of the first chapter, which chronicled the Manzanar revolt of early December, 1942, and the resultant killing of two Japanese Americans by the camp guards. At this point, the writer was visited by a tennyo, a female angel, who showed him a vision of a great city overlooking the sea. In a fevered dream, she told him that he was destined to lead those unjustly shackled, and show them the way to their salvation.

  Here, at the end of the first chapter, notes and markings started to emerge. Some words were encircled, others underlined. Occasionally in the margins was a brief note, sometimes as short as a single word. Anytime mention was given to the tennyo, the words “Praise her,” would appear nearby, or sometimes directly above.

  The second chapter was not dissimilar from the first, but details of the camp decreased in favor of repeated visions, culminating with the closure of Manzanar in the autumn of 1945, three months after the war had concluded. It was only at the start of the third chapter that Sonnerie was first mentioned—not as the city, but as the name of the tennyo who had come to guide him.

  “She is called Sonnerie,” the passage began. “Absolute virtue. Absolute love. Absolute truth. Absolute wisdom. Absolute justice. She is the lady that walks our conquered souls through the gates of salvation, and shows us the light of the divine realm.”

  Johnny swallowed down the saliva that had puddled in his own mouth and continued on.

  “Twelve names she imparted unto me. Twelve lessons to be learned. Two shall be taken from the fairer sex, and ten from the men of Manzanar. Like lanterns in the darkness, they shall serve as beacons of our society. They shall be as Indices, marking the hour of day. Though the hands of time may continually sweep past them, they shall be the unmoved movers. Forever guarding the people. Forever in service to our angel, Sonnerie.”

  *

  It was nearly nine o’clock when he concluded the twelfth chapter of “The Chronicle”. Johnny tore a page from the back of his notebook and folded it into a crude bookmark, then placed it on the first page of the thirteenth chapter and set the book aside. The rain had ceased in the dusk hours, but the smell of rubber and wet concrete still seeped its way through the cracks in his window.

  After hours spent reading, he stretched out his whole body in one cat-like movement, listening as his achy bones popped in small explosions of relief in his neck and back. Revitalized, he walked over to the phone on his desk and dialed room service for dinner, then hung up just as the clocktower rang its ninth bell.

  Not wanting to disturb the order that he had laid out for himself on his desk, he pulled the copper-colored ottoman from its place in the corner next to his chair. Ten short minutes later, his meal arrived. Seared salmon with a bowl of rice and miso soup. It was a light meal, and the only thing he could stomach before a night job.

  The Mayor’s long saga had ended at the clocktower, and Johnny stirred on this fact as he watched the minute hand march forward in the distance. More than twenty years had passed since he had followed the angel, Sonnerie, into that tower never to emerge again. He would have surely died there, or at least Johnny would have liked to think so, if not for the knowledge he possessed of Sonnerie’s preternatural mechanisms.

  A flickering of light from the road below caught his eye. The streetlights on either corner of the intersection spasmed, then went dark. Then, another pair, and another, until the whole street below was drowned in umbra. Johnny took another helping of salmon and swallowed it down as the oddity continued. It wasn’t just the lights that had disappeared. An absconded silence had seized the night. No more cars. No more people. Nothing.

  The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. “Mari?” he asked the darkness.

  He felt her presence, but instead of her voice, a sudden melodical ring broke the hushed air. Johnny reached for the black mobile phone, then flipped it open and held it up to his ear.

  “Do not speak, Mr. Tokisaki. Do exactly as I tell you, and nothing else,” Mutsumi Baba’s voice was as urgent as it was grim.

  “Turn off your lights, now,” she ordered.

  Johnny obeyed.

  “Right now, a car carrying four of Hanekawa’s men are on their way from The Crown to capture you. You should be able to see their lights by now,” she said.

  Johnny peered up the road. Sure enough, a pair of headlights was slowly growing larger in the distance.

  “I see it,” Johnny said. He immediately reached for his .38 and loaded it.

  “Make no mistake, Investigator, if they catch you, you will disappear and never be seen again. But you mustn’t kill them. Everyone’s eyes are upon you now. You have to escape quietly. Is that clear?”

  “So what do you want me to do, yell at them?”

  “I want you to avoid them, Mr. Tokisaki. Get yourself out of The Bezel and down to me. Call me once you’ve reached The Lug
s,” she said, ending the call.

  Johnny closed the phone, then threw on his coat and quickly pocketed each item that was on his desk. Hanekawa’s car was only a block away now. Too close to make a dash for the front lobby without being detected.

  He wasted no time shutting his blinds, then proceeded out of his room and closed the door behind him. The hall was clear, and he hurried his way past the main elevators to the other end of the passage in search of a service lift. At the second corner, he turned to find a side hall with an emergency stairwell. He dashed down to the door, then pushed it open only to be met by the sound of footsteps quickly ascending from below.

  “He’s in room 414. Get ready,” a stern voice said.

  Johnny hastily closed the door and ran back to the main hall. This time, though, he was not alone. One of the hotel staff, a younger man with feminine features, had just emerged from one of the rooms with a cart and was pushing it down toward the end of the final corridor.

  “Excuse me!” Johnny called to the young man.

  “Yes?” he answered, turning around. “Good evening, sir. How can I be of assistance this . . . ”

  “Service elevator. Is it that way?” Johnny asked, pointing down the hall.

  The young man turned his head around, then looked back at Johnny. “Well, yes it is sir. But it’s for hotel staff only. I can show you to the main elevators, if you’d be so kind as to follow. . .”

  “No, thank you,” Johnny cut him off and sped down the hall.

  “Sir!” the young man called. “Sir, I can’t let you . . . ”

  Johnny turned and motioned toward the pin on his collar, only to find that it was absent. In his rush to leave, he had left it behind.

  Stymied, Johnny turned back to the elevator and hit the call button, but the young man was persistent. From the other end of the hall, he heard the sound of Hanekawa’s henchman as they burst onto the fourth floor of The Wheel Bridge.