The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (8 page)

As he spoke, the clock’s
faster moving hand reached the vertical, and the clock began to chime.

Even though he had
watched the dwarf set the clock’s hands, Jehan had not bothered to wonder
whether the time that was being set was correct, or take any particular notice
of what it was.

The clock chimed seven
times, and with a barely-perceptible click the blank face of the copper plate
was replaced by a plaque bearing words. They were not inscribed in red but in
black, the letters having been engraved with loving care by a patient
short-fingered hand.

TIME, said the legend,
IS THE GREAT HEALER

Jehan let out his breath,
having been unaware of the fact that he was holding it. His grandmother could
hardly have objected to such an innocent adage. There was little enough piety
about it, but there was certainly no diabolism.

Jehan became aware then
that the clock was ticking as the pendulum swung back and forth, almost as if
the machine had a beating heart. He was not afraid, however, that he had
surrendered his soul to the mechanism while he worked to complete it. If he had
lost that, he had left it somewhere in Paris, smeared on the bloodstained
cobbles.

“It’s a masterpiece all
right,” the dwarf stated, his tone indicating that he was only half-satisfied,
as yet. “All that remains is to see how well it keeps time. I can compare it
against my watch, for now, but in order to prove that it can do far better I’ll
need to calibrate it against the movements of the zodiac stars.”

“A pity, then, that you
rebuilt the facade in a room that has no window,” Jehan observed.

“I can measure brief
intervals accurately enough,” the dwarf assured him. “The question is how well
the clock will measure days and weeks. Even so, the more rapidly information
can be conveyed between the clock and the observation-window, the better my
estimates will be. You may help me with this too, if you wish. I hope you will
— but if you would like to leave, to carry the secret of the pendulum to the
cities of the world, you may go with my blessing.”

“I’m in no hurry,” Jehan
assured him, “and I’m as interested as you are to see how accurately your clock
keeps time.”

What he had said was
true; Jehan Thun was momentarily glad to have the prospect of further work to
do — even work that could not possibly absorb his mind as the intricate labour
of delicate construction. Any hope that it might permit him to extend the quasi-mechanical
phase of his own existence was quickly dashed, however. Indeed, the work of
attempting to calibrate the clock against the movements of the stars was worse
than having nothing to do at all, for it involved a great deal of patient
waiting, which made the time weigh heavily upon his mind. Waiting called forth
daydreams, memories and questions, as well as the horrors of St Bartholomew’s
Eve and its hideous aftermath.

For weeks before his
arrival in Andernatt Jehan had been walking, not with any rhythmic regularity
but at least with grim determination, never laying himself down to sleep until
exhaustion had robbed him of any prospect of remembering his nightmares. For
days after his arrival at the château he had been able to focus his attention on
demanding tasks, which had likewise been devoid of any kind of rhythmic
regularity, but had nevertheless supplied him more than adequately with
opportunities for grim determination. Now that the clock was finished, though,
he could not use the time it mapped in any such vampiric fashion. Its demands
were different now, not suppressing thought but nourishing and demanding it,
forcing him to fill the darkness of his own consciousness with something more
than blind effort.

At first, there was a
certain fascination in scurrying back and forth between the dwarf’s observatory
and the room where the clock was entombed, to check the position of the hands
against the position of the stars. Perhaps — just perhaps — there might have
been enough activity in that to keep dark meditation at bay, if only the sky
had remained clear. But this was a mountainous region where the air was
turbulent, and the sky was often full of cloud. It was not always possible for
the dwarf to make the observations he needed to make, and although the dwarf
was philosophical about such difficulties, they preyed on Jehan Thun’s mind,
teasing and taunting him.

There was also a certain
interest, for a while, in discovering what was inscribed on the other plaques,
which had been hidden from Jehan while he worked on the completion of the clock
by their housing. He did not see them all within the first twelve hours of the
clock’s operation, nor even the second, but it only required two days for him
to see each of them at least once, and thus to reconstruct their order in his
mind. One o’clock brought forth the legend CARPE DIEM. Two o’clock supplied
TIME TEACHES ALL THINGS. Three o’clock suggested that TIME OVERTAKES ALL
THINGS. Four o’clock claimed that THERE IS TIME ENOUGH FOR EVERYTHING. Five o’clock
observed that TEMPUS FUGIT. Six o’clock warned that OUR COSTLIEST EXPENDITURE
IS TIME. Eight o’clock advised that THERE IS A TIME FOR EVERY PURPOSE. Nine o’clock
pointed out that FUTURE TIME IS ALL THERE IS. Ten o’clock stated that
EVERYTHING CHANGES WITH TIME. Eleven o’clock was marked by TIME MUST BE SPENT.
Midnight and noon alike, perhaps reflecting increasing desperation in the
expansion of the homiletic theme insisted that TIME NEVER WAITS.

All in all, Jehan Thun
concluded, while there was nothing among the legends to which a good man could
object, there was also nothing as adventurous or imaginative as the blasphemies
that his grandmother had seen . . . or imagined that she had seen.

He had not thought to
question the dwarf as to what he had read before discarding the allegedly
blasphemous ones, but now he did. “Was there really one that said:
Whoever
shall try to make himself the equal of God shall be damned for all eternity?”
Jehan
asked his host, while they were gathering apples in the orchard one day.

“I can’t remember the
exact wording,” the dwarf told him, “but I think not. The sayings were pithier
than that, and more enigmatic. Do you not approve of mine? I’m a clockmaker
after all — or would be, if I had not been cursed with the body and hands of a
clumsy clown. A clock ought to symbolize time, do you not agree? Common time,
that is, not the grand and immeasurable reach of eternity.”

“Even common time
reflects the time of the heavens,” Jehan observed. “The movements of Creation
spell out the day and the year, with all their strange eccentricities.”

“The stars are mere
backcloth,” the dwarf informed him, as he moved off up the slope with his
basket half-full. “The Earth’s rotation on its own axis specifies the day, and
its rotation about the sun defines the year. The eccentricity of the seasons is
a matter of the inclination of its axis.”

“So says Copernicus,”
Jehan agreed, “but how shall we ever be sure?”

“We shall be sure,” the
dwarf told him, “When we have better clocks, more cleverly employed. Calculation
will tell us which of the two systems makes better sense of all that we see.
Better mechanisms will give us more accurate calculations, and more accurate
calculations will enable us to make even better mechanisms.”

“And so
ad infinitum?”
Jehan suggested.

“I doubt that perfection
is quite so far away,” said the dwarf, smiling as he set his basket down by the
door. “And I doubt that mere humans will ever attain to perfection, even in
calculation — but there’s scope yet for further improvement. The milking-goat
is tethered on the far side, where the grazing is better. Will you come with me
to soothe her?”

Jehan agreed readily
enough, and they went around the ruins together, to the side that looked out
towards Évionnaz. They saw the platoon of soldiers as soon as they turned the
corner, for the approaching men were no more than a thousand paces away. The
men — a dozen in all — were heading directly for the château.

“That’s Genevan livery,”
the dwarf said bleakly. “Not that a party of men carrying half-pikes would be a
more reassuring sight if their colours were Savoyard or Bernese.”

“Their presence may have
nothing at all to do with the château, let alone the clock,” Jehan said,
although he could not believe it. He knew, as he watched the armed men coming
on, that he had spoken his name too often during his brief sojourn in the city.
He had stirred up old rumours and old memories that had been too shallowly
buried, even after all this time. Someone had begun asking questions, and
exercising an overheated imagination. The dwarf’s presence here might not be
widely known, but the little man had been to Évionnaz and other villages in the
vicinity; the suspicion that he had been joined at Andernatt by Aubert Thun’s
grandson had been the kind of seed that could grow into strange anxieties.

“They’re soldiers,” the
dwarf said, “not churchmen. They have lived with clocks all their lives. They
cannot be so very fearful.” But he too sounded like a man who could not believe
what he was saying. He had been a wanderer before settling here; he knew what
fears were abroad in a world torn apart by wars of religion. He knew, probably
better than any man of common stature ever could, how often people spoke of
witchcraft and the devil’s work, and what fear there was in their voices when
they did so. He knew that Geneva was a city under permanent siege, where all
kinds of anxiety seethed and bubbled, ever ready to overflow.

“We should run and hide,”
Jehan said. “They will not stay long, whatever they do while they are here.”

“No,” said the dwarf. “I
shall receive them as a polite host, and speak to them calmly. I shall persuade
them, if I can, that there is nothing here to be feared. What manner of man, do
you think, is the one who bears no arms and who seems to be guiding them?”

Jehan shaded his eyes
against the sunlight and squinted. The dwarf was presumably afraid that the man
walking with the captain at the head of the column might be a churchman, but he
was not. “I know him,” Jehan said. “He’s a colporteur by the name of Nicholas
Alther. Our paths crossed on the far side of Évionnaz, and he guessed where I
was bound. He told me he’d seen the ruins of the château on the horizon. That
may be why they brought him as a guide — but he didn’t seem to me to be a
fearful or a hateful man.”

This judgment proved not
unsound, for as the party came closer Jehan was able to read in Nicholas Alther’s
face that he was certainly not the leader of the expedition, and that he would
far rather be somewhere else, about his own business.

“I know him too,”
murmured the dwarf. “I’ve seen him in Évionnaz, and bargained with him for
needles and thread — and metal-working tools, alas.” Raising his voice, the
little
man added: “Ho, Master Alther! Welcome to my home. Where’s your
pack?”

Alther did not reply,
but thumped his chest to imply that he was out of breath in order to excuse his
rudeness. It was the captain who spoke, saying: “This is not your home; the
land belongs to the city of Geneva, and the ruins too. You have no right here.”

“I am doing no harm,
captain,” the dwarf replied. “I make no claim upon the land or the house; I
merely took shelter here when I was in need.”

“Is your name Pittonaccio?” the captain demanded.

“No,” said the dwarf. “It’s
Friedrich Spurzheim — and Spurzheim is a good Swiss family name, worn by many a
man in Geneva and even more in Bern. I’m a Christian, as you are, and I have my
own Bible.”

It was the first time
that Jehan had ever heard the dwarf’s surname — and he realized, as he heard
the little man’s forename spoken for the second time, that he had never
addressed him by it, or even thought of doing so, since he had first heard it
pronounced. He had always thought of his host as “the dwarf.”

The captain did not
repeat the name either. “Where is the Devil’s clock?” he demanded.

“I doubt that the Devil
possesses a clock, or needs one,” Friedrich retorted, boldly. “If he does, he
certainly does not keep it here. The only clock here is mine.”

Jehan was not in the
least displeased to be offered no credit for the restored Clock of Andernatt.
He had seen the expression on the captain’s face before. There had been
soldiers abroad on St Bartholomew’s Eve and the day that followed; there were
always soldiers abroad when there was killing to be done, for that was their
trade.

Jehan felt fingers
plucking at his sleeve, and allowed himself to be drawn aside by Nicholas
Alther.

“It was not I who
betrayed you,” the colporteur whispered, fearfully. “They do not know that I
met you on the road. For the love of God, don’t tell them. I could not refuse
to lead them here, for they knew that I knew the way, but
I mean you no harm. Say nothing, and they’ll let you alone — but
you must say nothing, else we’ll both be damned.” He stopped when he saw that
the captain was looking at him, and raised his voice to say: “This man only
took shelter in the chateau — he has nothing to do with the clock.”

The captain immediately
fixed his stare on Jehan’s face. “Are you Jehan Thun?” he demanded.

“I am,” Jehan replied,
knowing that it would do no good to lie.

“What business have you
here?”