time in a pocket

The aroma of a freshly made bouillon and a steaming hot sage tea quickly fly out the window of the aligning house. Allen frowns at the smell, knowing that that would be as close as he would get to it. It is another early morning and the mayor's family is already awake and getting ready for its typical feisty breakfast of vegetables, partridge, pigeons, and only God knows what else. The clinking of cutlery is soothing in a way and it is only to be interrupted by the roaring engine of the ice-cream truck that would, seconds later, pull over in front of the wooden gate and unload box after box of lemon sorbet – the mayor’s favorite. Ice-cream, yes – the next generation development. It’s the late 1600s and it is time for a change, and every change starts with a new taste and a new color.

For many, of course. Not for Allen. He can only see in black and white, and it’s the way of life he has chosen.

He squirms as he shuffles in his improvised bed and removes the pile of hay from under his shoulder. The wooden floor exposes him to the cold that has been lurking around all throughout the night. The tiny hut in the mayor’s backyard has never been much of a cozy dwelling, but he never expected more. At least what he has now, provides a roof over his head and for now, this should be enough.

Muscle ache is nothing unusual. The mornings have always been very gray and yet – Allen has never thought there was a better part of the day.

Slowly, he gets up and tucks in his half-torn cotton shirt deep into his trousers. They are plain and long, moth-eaten every here and there. His shoes, scattered carelessly across the narrow space, he puts on swiftly and then runs a hand through his hay-covered hair. He is good to go. 

Where to? The other end of the city.

Walking quickly through the backyard, Allen looks around to make sure there is no one in his way. The ‘masters’ were never too fond of him. He is an orphan, after all, and unlike all other children, he should be able to take care of himself while his peers go to school, play games and live a carefree childhood. “There is a reason God has made him different,” the mayor would explain every time a visitor would look out the window over the backyard and into the hut. “Not all people can be equal, some are simply better than others.” End of discussion.

Allen wouldn’t pay much attention to that. He has never lived in color like the kids his age. Instead, he lives in a place where he can only walk from one end of the grayscale to the other, and he seems to be happy with it. Many would not even bother to understand.

Sneaking out from under the wire netting going around the house, he is once more in a world that he can look at but never have. Or maybe, he doesn’t want to have it. His eyes go over the crowd, while the passers-by do the same, in an overtly critical way. Typical, but as usual, it makes him think. He will never wear any of those pure-white linen shirts with laced collars that all the noble men walk in; or these breeches tightly fastened at the waist and tucked into a brand new pair of knee-high boots. When will they ever replace his old must-reeking trousers? Seriously, when?!

Allen continues his way down the main street, zigzagging through the dense crowd of high- to very high-class people. He ignores the resentment – he has found out that this is the best way to go about the days. Also, he barely pays attention to the route anymore; his feet take him to the one place where he actually feels at home. Truth be told, he has never stepped into it but he has learned to feed his cravings by just looking from the outside. A ten-minute walk down the road and he can already see the crooked sign reading: “Th whels of tim” – the proud name of a clock-repairing shop, most of whose E-s, however, have not managed to withstand the tricks of time. Ironically enough.

“The wheels of time” is a place, one of its kind. Everyone knows about it, and so does Allen. Many people would even walk from a neighboring village and carry their massive clocks only to have them repaired at the best shop they have heard of.

The owner is a cranky little old man by the name of Herald III. Herald I. and Herald II. were never into precise craftsmanship. Both of them were quick-witted businessmen, whose skills brought the family fame and a lot of wealth. This is why, when Herald III. decided to pursue his dream of repairing clocks, his family cast him away. He wasn’t born a cranky man but his past has led him to become one.

Today, he has his own ways to go about life. Nobody is allowed to step over the threshold of his wheel palace, as long as they were not willing to pay him. Clock repairing has become the only purpose of his existence.

Every time Allen would try to get a closer look at the clocks in the shop, Herald III. would chase him away in seconds. So now, he knows what to do.

Several minutes before he reaches the shop, he goes out of his way, walks around the newly built fountain, and sits in the bushes across from “Th whels of tim.” From there, he can enjoy the view and be sure that no one would give him any skeptical looks or run after him.

Allen can’t risk to be chased away from the area. It is his dream to be an inventor. From an early age, he has been fascinated by the force of time and almost every day for three years, he would go out in the plain fields and observe the shadow that the sun leaves on the ground as it moves from east to west. Allen could tell time much earlier than most of his peers could.

And yet, he knows that he can do much more than that.

People shouldn’t need to look at the sun to know what time it is, he would think, or to be at home to look at the clock on the wall. People should be able to carry time with themselves. If he ever manages to bring his invention to life, he has decided to call it a ‘pocket watch.’ Simple and not too pompous. It would be a device that people can put in their ‘pocket’ and take out at any moment that they feel they want to ‘watch’ time.

Allen spends every day in front of the clock shop, absorbing terms like ‘center wheel jewel,’ ‘case screw,’ and ‘nickel motor barrel bridge.’ He can only guess what these are, but he knows that once he has them all at the same place, he would figure out how to work with them. Measuring time with a watch cannot be so much different from measuring it by looking at the sun; he is convinced. The key is to live in time and not through it, but only very few notice the difference. If any.

Many will say: Life is all about color. And in their own little world, they might even be right. But there will always be an Allen to tell them that they are too absorbed to look beyond. Because there will be no color without black and white; and there will be no black and white without light and darkness. There will be no light without the sun. The sun is a timekeeper, exactly like you. Just look in your pocket.