Time Doctor

­­­something timely
   for Christmas
   from
   Juliet Eyeions
   & Paul Brazier

Remnants of elder magic pervade our modern age, interwoven and blent into the fabric of our lives, half-noticed, ignored, often too fleeting to be properly grasped by busy mortals — an intriguing old shop below a gas lamp glimpsed around the corner in an alley behind a modern supermarket might pique the interest but there is never time to investigate. Not, at least, for adults. And rolling flapping into the alley on a gust of wind, what is apparently an old newspaper is really an ancient spirit of mischief known to the few humans aware of such things as a boggart, or a gremlin, or a house-elf. Boggarts live in entrances, cleave to magic places, and this one is homeless now the old town hall has been demolished to make way for a car park outside the new council offices where business now seems to go much more smoothly… The newspaper rustles idly up to the door and settles – and the next time the door opens, it drifts in...

?arah-Jane looked around as Grandfather stood up suddenly with his silver fob watch in his hand. His knees had creaked and cracked alarmingly.

   “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said. “My joints are like this old watch, running slow or not at all. They’re not as young as they once were.”
     “Oh, Grandfather, don’t.” She abandoned her cutting out and gluing and colouring in and, kneeling down, wrapped her arms firmly around his knees and said, “Have some of my young to make them better.”
   Sarah-Jane knew about ‘old’ and ‘young’; Mummy had explained how it was to do with numbers of seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years and how calendars and clocks and watches were used to measure it but how the peculiar thing was that if you only had a little number you had lots of time and this was called ‘young’ and if you had a big number like Grandfather you were ‘old’ and didn’t have so much time. Well, at six-and-three-quarters, she was sure she could spare some time for Grandfather’s knees.
      “You keep all your ‘young’ for yourself, lass. It’ll be gone soon enough. Now, let me get your Mum’s tea. She’ll be here any minute.” As he spoke, he heard Susan’s key in the latch.
   Susan was more hungry than angry with Grandfather. But she had a solution.
   “Here,” she said, holding out a small box. “I brought you an iPhone so you can tell the time and set alarms and I can ring and tell you if I’ll be late or early…”
   “Mmmm,” he said, looking at the round silver-and-enamel face of the watch in his hand. The ornate hands, the curlicues and old numerals of the dial were old friends, familiar and delightful and comforting — but that wouldn’t get Susan’s tea on time and he had never been afraid to embrace new technology, so he took the box.
   “Why, thank you, Susan“ he said, “that’s very thoughtful. You can show me how to use it once you’ve eaten, and…” he looked down at Sarah-Jane, still standing by his knees, “… perhaps you would like to have my old watch now it’s redundant. I can’t wind it properly any more, anyway, but you can use it to practice telling the time — and it is a beautiful thing…”
   Sarah-Jane was overwhelmed to be given Grandfather’s watch. It was so beautiful, and intricate, and baroque, and a lot of other words a child of her age had no right to know. But she was no ordinary child and a large vocabulary was only one sign of her precocity.
   The next day, when Susan took her to the supermarket and deposited her in the creche as usual while she went off for coffee with the other mums, Sarah-Jane slipped into the warehouse and then out the fire doors (which shouldn’t be open but people went there to smoke illicitly) into the alley and along to the tiny corner shop she had found on her last escape/adventure. The sign had intrigued her —

Rudolf Zeitmeister,
   Time Doctor
   all timepieces repaired
   no job too small
   

— and its little clock face reminded her so much of Grandfather’s watch that she had had to bring it here.
   Stepping up onto the smooth-worn stone doorstep, she pushed timidly at the dark brown varnish below the brass fingerplate on the door. The door resisted for a moment then sprang open with the clang of a bell and a thump as it hit the stop against the wall. Alarmed, she stumbled forward but immediately forgot her fright when she saw the wall in front of her, entirely covered with clocks of all shapes and sizes. Thankfully, most were stopped but their lack of movement was accentuated by the three that were ticking.
   In the centre, a huge Grandfather clock towered more than seven feet above her head and spoke with a slow, sonorous tick, its pendulum swinging lugubriously in its long case. Instinctively she ducked her head.
   “Pleased to meet you, Grandfather, sir,” she said.
   “Bongggg!” it replied as it struck the half-hour.
   To its right, a Black Forest cuckoo clock ticked busily, and to its left was a glass-cased pendulum wall-clock with ornate fretwork and a porcelain face… for a moment, another face looked back at her but it was probably her own reflection…
   “What can I do for you, young lady?”
   She turned to find a tall, elderly but slender woman peering at her from behind the counter and a pair of demi-lunes with a watch-maker’s graticule fastened in front of the right lens.
   “It’s Grandfather’s watch,” she said, placing it on the counter. “It’s not working properly, and neither are his knees. He says they are getting old. Can you fix them?”
   “Vere I come from, it is considered impolite to conduct business without first being introduced. Your name, please?”
   “I’m sorry. I’m Sarah-Jane.”
   “And I am Frau Zeitmeister but you may address me as Frau Z if you find it easier to pronounce. Now, zis vatch…”
   “Pardon me, Mrs… er, Herr…” Sarah-Jane was still struggling with the idea that in another language a man could be called ‘her’ and it was muddling her thinking. “The sign outside says ‘Rudolf Zeitmeister’. Isn’t that a man’s name?”
   “You are quite right and your eyes are very sharp. Herr Rudolf is my grandfather and this is his shop. However, he only vorks in the varehouse now, so I rarely see him unless I need some special parts. Now, zis vatch.” She picked it up and examined it closely through her various lenses, first popping open the front with the hole in it, and then the back, revealing the delicate clockwork within.
   “Aahh, a very fine piece of work. I can see it is not working properly but zere is nothing wrong with the mechanism. No, the escapement is merely clogged with time units that haven’t been used; instead of escaping back into the warehouse as they should, they have been adding themselves back into the timeflow, making the watch appear to run slow. If I just brush zem out like this…” She took an almost invisible brush and made sweeping motions over a tiny brass pail. Holding the pail now above the watch, she peered closely into its innards again, muttered something like ‘keine Platz’ and snapped it closed with a sigh. “Zese will haff to go back into the hopper. We must never throw anything away.” As she turned, Sarah-Jane thought she saw another glint from the face of the pendulum clock then, as Frau Z brushed through the curtain behind her, calling out, “Rudy, ve haff a re…” there was a crash and a thump, more muttering — ‘verdammt hreindyr!” — then silence.
   “Are you all right?” Sarah-Jane called. Getting no reply, she ducked under the counter and peered around the curtain. Frau Z was lying on the floor, a long red cloak tangled around her ankles and a furry white thing around her head. Sarah-Jane stepped forward to help just as Frau Z freed her face.
   “Don’t come in,“ she cried, but it was too late. Sarah-Jane looked up along a corridor that seemed just to go on and on into the distance, and another, and another — they must extend right under the supermarket, she thought — and, on the walls, hopper after hopper after hopper.
   Sarah-Jane stood, awed, for a moment, then turned to the immediate task of unravelling Frau Z’s feet. She was less than half the woman’s height, so she couldn’t help her up but she fetched a wooden stool from the workbench and Frau Z used it to lever herself upright. She sat on the stool and composed herself, folding up the ermine-trimmed red cloak.
   “So, liebchen, you see our secret.”
   “N-not really,” stammered Sarah-Jane. “Surely those corridors can’t all be under the supermarket…”
   “Ach, nein, zese are the Corridors of Time. Every device ever made to measure time is connected here to these hoppers where units of time are dispensed, and recovered if they are not used. New timepieces get a certain allocation of time units and most are used up in the normal course of events but spare or unused units are caught by the bottom hopper to be recycled. Normally, when someone winds a clock or puts a new battery in, the bottom hopper automatically recharges the top one until the allocation is used up. Then the device stops and nothing will make it go unless we give it a fresh allocation of time units back here.
   “People think if their clock won’t go it is overwound. Nonsense. It simply has no more time units to dispense. If they bring it to us, we can recharge its hopper for a fee and the clock will once again work properly. Modern electronic clocks have much smaller allocations but, then, they are so ugly and so much less difficult to make and people get bored with them so quickly.
   “But this is not true of devices such as this watch. Here, these are its hoppers — one to dispense time units and one to catch any unused. See, the top one is nearly empty and the bottom one is quite full; that’s probably why there were some jammed in the mechanism.” Miraculously, she still had the tiny pail in her hand. She now tipped it up over the top hopper, then took the lower hopper and carefully shook its contents into the top one as well.
   “Errm, Mrs, errm, Frau Zitemister?” Sarah-Jane was still troubled by gender attributes in addressing Frau Z. “What is that Santa costume doing here. It isn’t even Christmas.”
   “Oh, zat. It is one of Grandfather’s part-time hobbies. Since I came to help in the shop he has been at a bit of a loose end. But it should have been hanging on the back of the door out of the way, not lying on the floor waiting to trip me. I will have to speak to him about it. Now, young lady, back into ze shop.”
   Sarah-Jane duly stepped back behind the curtain and under the counter. Following her, Frau Z handed her the watch and said,
   “Zis now works perfectly. I sink you understand you must tell no one of what you have seen here today.” No one would believe you anyway, she thought. “But to help you remember to keep silence, here is an extra gift.” Frau Z touched the watch. “The time units in this watch will count backwards for the joints of the person wearing it so if Grandfather keeps it with him his knees will gradually get better.”
   “Thank you so much, Frau Z. How can I repay you?”
   “Zere is no need for payment. Your silence and your good heart and your faith in ze older things is reward enough.”
   Turning away, Sarah-Jane thought she saw herself in the pendulum clock again — and realised she wasn’t tall enough to see her own reflection. Something had flashed there — but she didn’t have time to worry about it now.
   Back in the creche, she found she hadn’t been missed. In fact, it seemed hardly any time had passed at all, although she felt as if she had been gone for hours. She even had time to get bored with the stupid Punch-and-Judy show before Susan finally came to collect her. She was skipping happily home with a secret smile and Grandfather’s watch safely tucked away in her pocket when she felt a twinge in her knee.
   Three months later, Grandfather felt as if he had a new lease on life. His knees and back were much less creaky — a­nd he could wind his watch properly now the arthritis in his hands had gone into remission, so the iPhone was gathering dust in the sideboard draw with his trusty old screwdriver. He took out his watch and looked at it. It had been such a lovely birthday surprise when Sarah-Jane had returned his watch to him, working like new. Poor little scrap. She was in a miserable state, what with her little legs being so twisted and weak. And no one could say what was wrong. Doctors, specialists, homeopaths, ayurvedics, all threw up their hands in despair.
   In her room she was sleeping fitfully and muttering under her breath. He put a hand on her hot forehead. She stirred, looked up at him, murmured,
   “How are you, Grandfather? Did Mrs. Z make your knees young again? She promised…”
   When he told Susan about his, she said she too had heard Sarah-Jane speaking in her sleep of Mrs. Z or Frau Zit but had thought little of it.
   However, what the little girl had said had stirred a memory. He sat and stared at his watch long into the night. The following day, after Susan had left for work and Sarah-Jane was sitting up in weakly in bed, he asked her,
   “Sarah-Jane, Who is Mrs. Z?”
   Her face crumpled and she wailed,
   “I promised I wouldn’t tell, I promised!” He took her in his arms and tried to calm her.
   “You’re not in any trouble, sweetheart. Please don’t cry. But you were talking in your sleep and you said Mrs. Z had helped cure my knees. I just thought we could ask her if she could help you too.” Her wails had become sobs and now she sniffled and asked,
   “You won’t say I told on her, will you?”
   “How can I,” Grandfather replied. “You haven’t told me anything!”
   He stood in front of the shop, Sarah-Jane in his arms — she had been too weak to walk the whole way. He was as grateful to be able to carry her like this as he was aware he couldn’t have done it six months earlier.
   “A clockmaker?” he asked.
   “She fixed your watch and your knees…”
   He strode up to the door and pushed firmly with his shoulder. It didn’t budge. He took a step back and, standing on one leg, kicked it firmly just below the fingerplate. The door flew open, the bell jangling furiously, and banged against the stop. Grandfather staggered across the threshold into the empty shop, fielding the rebounding door with his shoulder, only concerned to keep Sarah-Jane safe.
   “What have you been up to, Sarah-Jane?” Frau Z had appeared from behind the curtain as if by magic.
   “I didn’t tell, Frau Z, I didn’t tell, honest!”
   “Plainly not,” said Frau Z, stepping around them and closing the door. “Otherwise this anonymous gentleman would not be able to be here trying to kick my house down.”
   “Uh, oh. I’m sorry. Frau Z, this is Grandfather. Grandfather, this is Frau Z.”
   “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she said. Grandfather seemed suddenly much calmer.
   “And I, you,” he returned, offering his hand, which wasn’t easy as he was still cradling Sarah-Jane. Frau Z took his hand and then suddenly had taken the girl, too, and was depositing her gently on the counter.
   And suddenly Grandfather was telling the tale of the knees and the watch. She listened intently, then asked,
   “Do you have the watch here?”
   He handed it over and she examined it as she had once before, with all her different lenses.
   “Hmm,” she said, “the watch is fine but something else appears to be awry. I must think. Would you excuse me while I wind my clocks?”
   Taking a key and a canister from beneath the counter, she stepped around them and flipped the ‘open’ sign on the door to ‘closed’ and slid the bolt over. Then she turned to the towering clock in the middle.
   “Good afternoon, Grandfather,” she said solemnly and opened the long case. Reaching in, she held the canister with one hand beneath the other as she pulled the weight firmly back down. Its sonorous tick continued then the minute hand reached twelve and it struck the hour. As she turned to the cuckoo clock, a tiny bird flew out of the top and called the hour as well.
   “You’re late again, Clarence,” she admonished, giving his minute hand a flick. She then repeated the performance with the canister and the cuckoo clock’s weight. Then she turned to the wall clock.
   She opened the glazed door, held the canister in front of the pendulum, and inserted the key into the face of the clock. She turned it a single click then withdrew it sharply and flicked it down towards the canister. A wail of discomfort, bafflement and rage was abruptly cut off as she clapped her other hand over the top.
   “Would you please unbolt and open the door?” As Grandfather complied she faced the door and chanted,

“Begone, boggart, begone,
Nor evermore darken my door,
this place to you now forbidden is
FOREVER, boggart, BEGONE.”
   

With the last word she stepped to the threshold and flung the canister into the alley. As it span through the air, a sheet of newspaper appeared to fly from it. And as the canister bounced on the cobblestones, the paper flew up on a gust into the sky and vanished.
   “But why did you let it go? Shouldn’t you have punished it?” Sarah-Jane, for all her precocity, still had a child’s grasp of wrong-doing and consequences. She was wrapped in the great ermine and scarlet cloak and they were sitting in the little room behind the curtain with cups of cocoa, the Corridors of Time corruscating all around them. She had wondered aloud why Grandfather was allowed to see them when she had had to promise to keep them secret but Frau Z had just smiled as Grandfather winked at her, and murmured something about ‘alte freunde’. Now she wasn’t going to be fobbed off about the boggart.
   “Punishment must have some end, liebchen,” said Frau Z, “ — reform or revenge. A boggart is a spirit of mischief. Punishing it for making mischief would be tantamount to punishing a tiger for having stripes. Or teeth.”
   “Bu-u-u” the word seemed to grow in the child’s mouth and turned into a huge yawn.
   “No more ‘buts’ now,” said Grandfather. “You’re on the mend, no doubt, but we need to get you home to bed. And imagine how pleased Susan will be to see you getting better.” But she was already asleep. He picked her up, still wrapped in the cloak, and walked to the door. Turning to Frau Z, he smiled.
   “Give my bests to Rudy,”he said. He stepped out into the alley and walked away. At the end, he turned to look back and was unsurprised to see shop, corner and lamppost were all gone. He nodded to himself. The Zeitmeisters were a law unto themselves and no on­e knew where or when they would appear again. That they would was certain, as was that they would do good. And a little bit more good in the universe couldn’t be a bad thing. He gently kissed Sarah-Jane’s forehead and set off home to try to do what little good there was left for him to do.

High above, the boggart floats in its newspaper form. There were few enough people in the clock shop to create mischief for but it is miffed it was so readily ejected. Thoughts of its previous home at the town hall warm it. Lots of people there, ‘politicians’ they called themselves, all too stupid or self-obsessed to notice how its mischief tangled their plans and trammelled their tread. Another such place would be much preferable. A story on its own front page tugs at its thoughts — somewhere called The House of Commons. In the manner of a creature with a nose (boggarts do not have noses), it lifts its supposed nose, sniffs the air, and sees it isn’t too far for a determined boggart to travel. And, now it senses the destination, it senses, too, more of its kind. It has not had company for many a year. Parliament, it thought, is going to be fun.

T H E    E N D

Time Doctor is copyright © 2014 Paul Brazier & Juliet Eyeions

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