by Rick Hautala
“Yes!”
“And Mitch, you like stories about sprites and good luck?”
“Yes!”
“Well, how about I tell a story with all three?”
Three kids stared back in disbelief.
Mr. Ridgecomb laughed and filled his pipe. With a wooden match, he lit the tobacco and blew out a few smoke rings. The sky outside was beginning to turn dark. He saw Old McMurphy’s clock across the street and pointed with one crooked finger.
All three kids craned their necks.
“See that clock?” he asked. “That is a very special clock. Some say it is the heart of Sterling Springs. There’s also a legend behind it. A prophecy. Some say the clock is haunted by a shadow called the Timekeeper. As legend predicts, one year on Halloween night, right at the stroke of midnight, the shadow will stop time and the clock hands will begin again in reverse. For each day in reverse, the townspeople will become a day younger.
“But there were three kids who didn’t want this to happen. They wanted to experience the world ahead of them, not what was behind. They decided to stop the Timekeeper before it could complete this transformation.”
All three kids were leaning forward, glancing at the clock, then back at him, waiting.
And then Mr. Ridgecomb began his quite unusual tale.
Chapter 1
Clocks, Seasons, and Thereafter
The three kids waited under the old clock.
Chris watched the clouds swirl across the autumn sky. The land was pretty, especially this time of the year, with all those oranges and golds covering the parks and forests. Those colors were a sign of age, of decline, and he relished feeling the leaves in his hands, the crispness, the smell. All around, leaves rustled and scraped, and he loved the sounds they made. He buttoned up his jacket, breathing the moist air, and waited for the echo-chime to signal their departure.
Two minutes to midnight.
Sarah regarded Chris while twisting a strand of blonde hair between her fingertips, the edges of her mouth turned down, in worry. She had never been out of Sterling Springs before, but she knew what was ahead. And it excited her. She had read enough books to know there was an entire world outside. She wanted to travel throughout the world, to see beautiful lands and taste exotic foods. Not to remain grounded in this place—a cell made of forests and meadows. She glanced at the clock and couldn’t help but smile in anticipation. Then she elbowed Mitch.
One minute and thirty seconds left.
Mitch snacked on a sugar cookie with creamy frosting, teeth and tongue stained orange. He said “ouch” under his breath from the little jab to his ribs, and then he glanced at the clock, stuffing the last of the cookie into his mouth. He loved cookies and cakes. He also loved hot fudge and chocolate, with or without nuts, caramel and pecan clusters, banana sundaes and chocolate chip cookies and just about anything else that tickled his sweet tooth. He had twenty-four of them. Twelve on top and twelve on bottom.
The second hand ticked past eleven-fifty nine.
They watched the clock hand circle, mechanical and lifeless, round and round. Then the clock, all moonshadows and gears, struck midnight and chimed once.
The clock stopped ticking.
On the clock face, a trap door opened and a progression of statues emerged. Old gears and pulleys dragged a sun and a moon and a dozen other statues across the clock foundation. The last shape was an hourglass.
The Timekeeper yawned inside the hourglass, wiping quartz from its eyes. It would be back inside within moments, in un-time. It peered through the clouded glass from its concave throne and laughed.
Then it stopped moving.
The Timekeeper pressed its face to the glass, saw each kid set an hourglass down on the ground, saw their displacement-sands sift, silver-moon flashes filtering through the funnel middle, separating two glass oceans.
It gouged at the glass with claws and smoke, counting the synchronized grains, three by three.
Because un-time had stopped for the three kids.
And the Timekeeper, trapped for the next hour, watched them ride out of the dark valley.
*****
The kids rode their bikes for close to an hour and stopped on a hill that overlooked the valley below. The cemetery walls rose out of the distance like an encompassing fog. They pedaled down the twisting road and halted in front of the creaking gates. Chris tried to open the gate, but it was locked. After studying the grounds, he decided they should climb over. Finding a suitable oak tree, they each climbed onto a thick branch, one by one, and lifted themselves over the barricade.
Here, the moonlight shone off the pale stones as shadows twisted and taunted them.
“You know what?” Sarah said. “This is the best time for witches to call upon the dead.”
Mitch covered his eyes.
“See,” she continued, “the night is the best time for the skeletons. They like to dance before dawn.” She wiggled her thin body around like a skeleton dancing. Her flashlight illuminated the stones in eerie flickers. “Then they go to sleep in cold crypts and catacombs. But not before dawn. And they like chubby little seventh-grade kids, too. Ones who eat a lot.”
“Stop it!” Mitch sputtered, hiding his chocolate bar. “You’re lying!”
And then they saw a small light down the path and heard a voice, far off. The light grew closer and bobbed up and down and then disappeared. Before they could run and hide, an old man emerged from the darkness, dressed in dirty clothes and black boots.
“So, what have we here?” he asked, stopping in front of them and scratching his thick beard thoughtfully. “Some vandals, eh?”
“No sir,” Chris said. “We’re on a journey. We’re looking for dirt from a grave.”
His eyebrows arched in amusement.
“We don’t mean any harm,” Chris added.
“The grounds are closed. Didn’t you notice the locked gates? We open at dawn.”
“We can’t wait,” Chris said. “We’re in a hurry.”
The old man laughed. “I believe you. Now, what do you youngsters want with dirt from a grave? Let me guess…a practical joke, or maybe for brewing a little potion?”
“We need it for a spell!” Mitch squealed. His eyes grew big as balloons and he covered his mouth with his hands.
The old man frowned. “Sounds like tricky business.” He glanced toward town. “I think you better come with me.”
*****
The Groundskeeper had a small house in the center of the cemetery surrounded by a garden of withered vegetables. A scarecrow with a grinning pumpkin face stared back at them. Green vines entwined around the red brick of the house, seemingly in an attempt to pull the aged stone into the soil, to rest along with the ancient coffins.
They followed him up to the rickety door. A silver key sparkled in the lamplight. The door creaked open. They entered and sat down next to the fire. The Groundskeeper, who enjoyed the late-night company, brewed them each a cup of hot chocolate.
“So,” he began, “what kind of spell are you looking to make?”
“It’s a secret,” Chris said. “We need the right spell components.”
“Of course. Spells are a serious business. I don’t blame you for not telling. But I might be able to help you. Is there a certain reason you’re constructing this spell?”
“Yes,” Chris answered.
“Is something following you?”
“Yes. But it’s also in front of us.”
The Groundskeeper nodded. “Ah…a time spell. You need dirt from the freshest grave in the cemetery.” He walked to the window and stared outside at the gravestones.
“In May the sun shines brightly. Flowers blossom and birds sing lovely tunes. School ends. Boys can’t wait to play that first summer game. Girls can’t wait to pick that first summer flower. But it’s not like this for some adults. Some look back to summer, not forward. They want simplicity in their lives because autumn makes them ponder each step. They trample the leaves and breathe the winter droplets. T
hey see their gravestones silhouetted against the November dawn. And they are scared.
“But time is circular, like the moon orbiting the earth, like the earth orbiting the sun. Time can also spin in two directions. For some, autumn can come before summer and spring can come before winter. It all depends on the Timekeeper. And the town.”
“You know about the Timekeeper?” Mitch asked.
“Yes, I know of the Timekeeper. All manner of folk travel to Sterling Springs, from all over the world, begging to be let in. Why do you think this graveyard is so big? Now tell me…who taught you how to escape? Those who are bound to Sterling Springs cannot leave.”
Sarah spoke up. “I found it in a book.”
“A book?” the Groundskeeper asked.
“A book about Atlantis,” she continued. “It’s about how the people exist today, even though the ocean covers them up. They have a magical hourglass that repeats years over and over so they live in a…stasis…of time and memories. The only way to leave and collect new stories is through a portal, and you have to trick it, set up a decoy so you can travel outside in spirit form, and…”
The Groundskeeper stopped her. “Where did you buy such a book? Surely not in town. The Timekeeper would never allow it.”
“From a peddler woman with eyes like frost and hair long and black. She told me I should read it. That’s where I got the idea.”
The Groundskeeper turned to his three new friends. “You need something more than dirt from a grave to thwart the Timekeeper. You need dirt from a grave that defies time. And the only way to find magic is by using magic. I will show you where you can get what you seek. It’s not far, but you had better go now. Autumn is almost at an end.”
The Groundskeeper rummaged around in a desk drawer, and then handed Chris an empty glass vial.
“Take this vial and follow the path to the heart of the cemetery. You will come to a withered tree. Climb the tree to the top. This is the home of a grave-faerie. It will guide you to what you seek. But don’t be afraid. The spirit is my friend and keeps me company on long digs. It will not harm you.”
Chris obeyed the Groundskeeper’s words. He trotted outside and down the path. After a few minutes, he came to the tree hidden behind a concrete wall. Hopping over the squat barrier, he felt the aged wood with his fingertips, marveling at the strange etchings and pictures and poems. He even read a few lines. And then he climbed up the tree and sat looking at the beautiful countryside.
The grave-faerie soon bobbed around him. It radiated in green and purple hues. He watched it for some time, amazed at such a strange and wonderful creature. Then it flew away.
Chris climbed down and followed.
He traveled through the graveyard, hoping he wouldn’t see a ghoul or specter fleeing to a secret underground lair. On and on he walked, following the light, until the grave-faerie hovered over a bare plot of ground. There were no stones, no graves, nothing.
Chris thought he hadn’t followed the Groundskeeper’s directions properly. He thought hard and decided he did everything right. So, with glass vial in hand, he scooped up some dirt and capped it.
He thanked the grave-faerie kindly, wondering if it understood him, and ran back the way he had come, back to the Groundskeeper’s home.
And as Chris ran back to his friends, he never realized that the grave-faerie had used up the last of its magic. It nestled down in the hole Chris had dug, pulled a leaf over its body, and died. And when it stepped through the ancient Atlantean portal and was back home, all the other spirits rushed over to hear of new stories and marvel at new adventures.
Chris’s friends were waiting for him when he returned.
“Did you get what you need?” the Groundskeeper asked.
“Yes. The grave-faerie showed me where to dig.”
“It is the last of its kind in a world of dying magic.” A trace of sadness crossed the Groundskeeper’s face. Then it went away and he smiled and led the three kids outside. “Now, my friends, your quest leads to the traveling carnival, in the west. To the Fatekeeper. She will help you find what you need. You must travel quickly! Your displacement sands will soon run dry!”
*****
They all bade goodbye to their new friend, the Groundskeeper.
And he bade goodbye to them.
And just like a dream, they were gone.
And far away, the sands of their hourglasses stopped. The Timekeeper descended from the old clock and ticked through the countryside. It searched for three May flowers.
But first, one November blossom.
Chapter 2
The Carnival and the Shadow
The three kids traveled for two hours before seeing the carnival fires glow throughout the valley. The wind echoed softly through the trees and numbed their faces. With cold fingers, they buttoned up their coats, dreaming of how fun it would be to join such a splendid show, to travel all over the world, to the sunken city of Venice, or the ancient temples on Mount Olympus, or even the fabled continent of Atlantis.
They heard laughter swell like a thunderstorm.
They inhaled cotton candy and peppermint taffy.
And they listened to lutes and dulcimers play haunting melodies, tapping their feet to the hypnotic scales, watching from afar as the belly dancers weaved their exotic craft within the shadows. Silver glimmered in their hair and over their linen-draped bodies.
Soon they were racing down the hill, as fast as they could, toward the warm fires and laughter of the traveling show.
*****
They halted just outside the edge of the flames and strolled cautiously into the light. The air was sick and sweet at the same time: sulfur and perfume, ash and candy. Crowds of performers and workers passed around mugs of ale. They glanced at the youngsters with smiles and hugged the kids tenderly, inviting them to join in the festivities.
The kids sat on the cold ground and were each handed a drink. The liquid was warm to the touch and sweet to the taste. Sarah drank and watched a trio perform their dance. Silver chains dangled and slapped around the dancers’ waist and thighs like the ticking of a dozen clocks.
She wanted to dance with them.
Soon, the music ascended an octave, gaining in speed. The dancers’ hips gyrated and swayed with the notes. The flames licked the heavens and burned bright green. And before she knew what was happening, she was dancing along with the women, hand in hand, laughing and drinking the green liquid.
The two boys joined her.
Chris’s vision shifted from the green flames to the dancer, who held his hand and kissed him on the cheek. He arched his arms high over his head and floated above the red clouds, like a midnight dove, weightless and free. Sarah swam through an ocean and breathed the droplets as if she had gills, circling the multicolored fish that bobbed and weaved around her. Mitch tobogganed down a mountain of fudge, his scarf billowing out behind him, down and down the peak overflowing with peppermint ice-cream glaciers.
Soon they were curled up next to the fire, and dreaming.
*****
The fire was gone when they awoke.
An old woman sat next to them. She was gray-haired and wore a purple gown. Her eyes were December.
Mitch gave a little squeak.
Chris rubbed his eyes, doubting his vision.
“Are you the Fatekeeper?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“We’ve come to find you."
“And now you have found me. Come, my friends. It is cold out.” She strolled to a wagon and threw back the cloth door. “Please, come in and have a seat.”
They entered and sat on a small couch, waiting.
The Fatekeeper set a circular table in front of them. In the center was a black needle the thickness of a pencil lead. She grabbed a glass sphere and positioned it on the needle. With one triumphant spin, the glass ball was set in rotation, perfectly balanced.
Her dead eyes flared with green light.
“You’re being tracked something.” She co
ncentrated hard. “It’s Time. Look and see for yourselves.”
The three kids leaned closer.
A green mist melted and bounced inside the sphere. Out of the haze, they saw their friend, the Groundskeeper. And out of the mist emerged another shape, a very dark shape, right behind him.
*****
The Groundskeeper felt the dark presence.
He whirled around just in time to see a cloaked figure descend from the old tree. It glided toward him and sat perched on top of a gravestone.
The Groundskeeper stuck his shovel in the ground and leaned against it. “It’s been a long while.”
“Yes, my friend,” the Timekeeper said. “Perhaps too long. I’ve forgotten about you, all alone up in these hills, caring for the dead. It’s a mistake I’ll soon remedy.”
The Timekeeper extracted an hourglass from its pocket.
“These are your sands,” the Shadow said. “See how they filter through, grain by grain? How would you like me to tip it over? How would you like to wake up tomorrow a day younger? A year? Ten years? I can do that for you. All you have to do is tell me where they are.”
The Groundskeeper laughed. “Can’t find them, eh? Surely you must know. You’re the Timekeeper.”
“Your sands will soon run dry, my friend. Tell me where they are and you can run in summer again, like the others in Sterling Springs. All you have to do is tell me who is hiding them.”
“Memories are meant to die. They’re designed that way. I have no inclination to become a young man again. No, I don’t want it. My time here is at an end.”
“Don’t think you can get out of it that easy.”
The Shadow held the hourglass to its hidden face. It counted the grains aloud: “Five…four…three…two and…”
The Timekeeper tipped the glass on its side.
One grain remained.
The Groundskeeper gasped. He threw his shovel and ran, trying to outrun the Timekeeper. He dodged amongst the gravestones and shuffled across the wet grass. But the last of November’s heat seeped from his body. He fell over and looked up at the dark sky, at the harvest moon, at everything, completely motionless.