By Manasvi Mukherjee
Eloise Deveraux, an art lady in her twenties who portrays the image of a struggling artist, only managed to sign a smooth-paper on a breezy Tuesday morning when a courier came to deliver the same. She was lost in her thoughts regarding a painting that was drying up in her apartment, but there is one thing that she clearly remembers. And that is, she doesn’t know either the lawyer nor the sender, who goes by the name of Bernard Deveraux, Esquire.
The three statements mentioned in this excerpt is what elicited the dumbfounded response. “It’s regarding your great uncle’s passing,” four keys should suffice. Did Hugo Deveraux know her? There was no way she made a mental note to meet her cousin, or tell his tale, nonetheless! Anyway, the cowboy hat and the convoy decked with locks—after tangling through vines and bushes should retrieve the muddy annex!
At the first try she failed as the estate was yet still, a former apartment complex of dilapidated walls, deep gash swelling from above, entwined with a moist green wood at the edge of a cut-off pathway. But the clockmaker surprised me the most, he is capable of making it with care dating back to around a century and twenty two years.
In the devolved world , there was the workshop that was astonishing in its design, as it included tools, brass fittings, and partially assembled clocks. The smell envelopes, as anything ancient’s smell would. The air revolved around a singular glass container,that was the only defined object in the room. Eloise observed ‘the clock’ which was unbeatable of beauty, having the quality of standing out from all of its versions, as it comprised of bigger digging elements such as a coherent structure fully painted in gold, a hypnotic face, alongside words ‘Tempus Aeternum’ inscribed on its side.
And then this envelope, taped at the upper end of the glass surface showed up which Eloise opened :
“Everything in this world can consider the clock to be their primary tool but this is more of such, in all regards. If used rightly, it has the capability to fulfill the purpose of any need one requires taking it as the wish of my follower, the one born of the Deveraux family and let me tell you, you are the last of your kind”.
The uneasiness gave imagination to thoughts as she chuckled nervously what the key would do.
A few pounds of her musculoskeletal anatomy though sufficed in colliding towards the golden instrument and as soon as it moved from the case a resonance resonated and bells could be heard in her ears which disrupted all peace. And thus began the legacy of an unclear future as the forwards turned into the deepest of black shades.
As the figures in the room faded, she was unable to keep up with the rapid speed of what appeared to be her time travelling. The brickwork of the workshop dissolved. In its place appeared busy streets of another time, Victorian folks walked about while horse carts rattled over stone slabs and the flickering of gas lanterns in the dusk was visible.
“Could you explain where…” Eloise spoke as her thumb interacted with the hands of the clock.
“Not of this planet,” she picked up from behind her.
She turned and met the gaze of a man dressed in a suit with strong features including deep-cut cheeks and strangely carved eyes.
“Welcome, Miss Deveraux,” he said with a slight bow. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“YOU, who are you? And what is this place?”
“My name is Lucien, and this is a crossroads of time,” he explained. “Your great uncle was not just a simple clock maker, he was a keeper and protector of several doors through time. And now, I suppose that you have succeeded him and you carry his burden.”
Eloise stared at him open mouthed. “A… A guardian of time? Are you telling me a joke?”
“Tempus Aeternum,” Lucien said, looking at the clock she was still holding, “is not an ordinary item. It is an artefact that permits its possessor to travel in time. However, with that comes a great deal of responsibility. Time is interwoven with thread, even the tiniest of it has the potential to unravel all betides.”
“But I didn’t ask for it!” Eloise sounded vehement. “I’m some kind of an artist, I’m not a-whatever this is!”
“Susan concurred with the clock but he did keep time for over half a century, I agree that he was a doer!” Lucien’s slightly complicated hyperbole threw Eloise off for a second, she quickly composed herself. “Hugo knew what he was doing, and now its your time.”
Eloise stared down the clock, its glaring aura was gone yet time around her was still moving. She recalled her monotonous life in the city, without the endless grabbing of bills, the displaced impression that she needed to do something worthwhile.
"I beg your pardon,” she said with caution. “What would happen if I refused to do as you say? I mean what options do I have?"
Lucien’s gaze grew colder still. “When guardians leave their post, time may find other means of self-preservation. But chaos is what usually follows,”
Eloise sighed biting her lip as her fingers clenched the clock. It was simply unreachable, impossible to cope with, and more so a distortion of reality. But deep inside her heart, a flicker of interest started to emerge.
"What do I need to do to achieve that?” she said after a long pause.
Lucien was undecided in his feelings. “Show up, attend classes and do as you are told. The most vital point is to always have an eye on the clock.”
As the figures of the Victorian street began to disappear and return once again with lassitude towards the workshop, she began to buckle under the weight of the legacy that had been conferred upon her. A student of art focused on creation she was no more. She had woken up as a timekeeper, a protector of balance.
And her journey was only just beginning.
By Manasvi Mukherjee
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