Two city blocks away was the city square. Typical of such places, the centre of the square was dominated by the impressively designed building which served as city hall and courthouse. The area surrounding the building forming a park was made up of grassy areas broken by paved walkways.
Spaced about the grounds, mostly along the path, were black painted wrought iron benches. These provided for rest, and observation of the comings and goings of the folk who chose to spend their day, or even a brief hour, in the park like environment.
This is where Elijah came to spend a good portion of every day of his featureless existence. Today he was late arriving. And because he was late arriving, someone else now occupied the bench which was his.
It was his because that was where he always chose to sit, and to watch the happenings around him. Even the pigeons which frequented the nearby ground knew him. And they offered no objection to his walking among them. Even though he never fed them.
But today was different. He had breakfasted differently. He had walked on different sidewalks. And he had bought differently. Thus if he had to choose another bench this day, it would just be one more thing which today he did differently.
One bench remained unoccupied. That is, it was unoccupied when he first espied it. Now a woman with a pram – apparently with a babe inside it – was wheeling toward the bench. Elijah hurried up his pace, for he must reach the bench before the woman reached it.
He did. He sat down in the centre of the bench, and he did not look in the direction of the approaching woman with the pram. He would not wish her to think that he had intentionally rushed to take the bench from her. He would rather it looked to be unintentional, and with no rudeness intended on his part.
“Beg pardon, Ma’am. I din’t see ye comin’ tard this bench.” That would have been his response to her had she challenged his rude act. But the lady simply turned the pram in the direction of another bench which had just now become vacant.
The flock of walking pigeons moved in, and gathered at his feet. With their clucking voices, and their bobbing heads, they moved to congregate about his feet. For surely, this gentleman would have pity on them, and some seeds, or even bread crumbs would be scattered among them.
No. Elijah Weatherspoon had no time for kindness for the feathered beggars. “Be off with ye!” as the toe of his shoe pushed the nearest ones away. The near ones yielded with some fluttering of wings. Then they returned. But now seeing nothing of an offering from him, they waddled away.
The pigeons had moved on. Their bobbing heads led them to better prospects further up the path. There on another bench, an elderly woman dressed in fur – real or not, he did not know, nor care – fed them scraps from a bag. But their feeding was no concern of his. Elijah had greater things to consider.
Now seated by himself, he began the task of unwrapping the treasure he had just purchased. The seller had wrapped it in several layers of wide white paper, and with much tape. He had taped all of the layers together. And Elijah was not careful about tearing the paper.
He had to see his prize. Crudely was the paper torn away. The paper pieces fell on the ground about his feet. The pigeons, having returned to the area of his bench, taking fright, fluttered their wings, and with heads bobbing, ran rather than flew away from him.
“Me own prize castle clock,” he whispered to himself in admiration of his purchase. It was all of brass, except for the clock face. And for the most part, it did resemble a castle, with tower and walls. “‘Tis beautiful,” he whispered to himself.
In the centre of the front was the clock face. A pearl looking face, with hands of brass. The whole piece was built into a round brass case on the front of the castle wall. A key was attached with a chain, and the glass front could be opened on a hinge to allow for winding the clock.
Now as he continued to examine it, he began to see it differently. On the whole, it was nothing spectacular. Decorative clocks were commonplace. Practically every mantel in every house boasted a clock on its top. Even where the design of the clock was different, the theme was the same.
It was simply an old clock. Whether the clock itself kept time, as of the moment, he did not know. It had run down, and was not running. Upon his returning to his home, he would use the key and wind it. And some of the brass was tarnished.
But he had dreamed. In that dream, he had seen that clock. And he was driven to have it. Or one like it. Were there more like this one? Or was this one of a kind? He did not know. He simply knew that this was the clock which had appeared in his dream. It would indeed grace the top of the mantel in his parlour.
With the clock now laying on his lap, from the inside pocket of his coat, he drew the worn and stained long stem pipe which never left his presence. Now the pipe bowl was packed, and lit, and the thin swirl of light coloured smoke rose about his head, and caught by the breeze, away from him it went.
He turned the clock over in his hands. He turned it top side down. He turned it left side to right. Front side to back. Now it did not look as magnificent as it had in his dream.
Now a cold feeling rose inside him. Fifty dollars, and it now looked more like a child’s windup toy. With a clock on the front.
He turned it over in his hands again. He was looking at the back side of it. There, on the back, near the bottom, he saw something he had not previously noticed. A small door. A very small door. Or simply a rectangular piece of brass over what was probably an opening into the clock.
Not more than two inches high. And about one inch wide. Certainly, a cover over the inner workings of the machinery, he thought. After all, it was a mechanical invention. And access to the inside must be accommodated.
But the door, or covering, if that was its purpose, had no knob nor latch, nor other device to take between the fingers to pull it open. It lay flat against the metal on the back. Lacking anything to suggest hinges, there was no revealed way to open it. Nor did it reveal what kept it closed.
He tried a fingernail under the edge of the little door. That did not pry it open. Then a stronger thumbnail. Neither did that force it open. Then he tried the well-worn blade of the pen knife from his pocket. He slipped the end of the blade between the door piece and the back of the case. Hard. And pried. The little door gave way and sprung open.
Peering inside, even in the light of day with the sun well up in the sky, he could see only darkness inside.
The inside seemed to go beyond just the thickness of the clock from back to front. It seemed to be a long tunnel of thick, swirling cloud like blackness.
He blinked. Then it was nothing but a hollow space in the lower back of the housing. He could now see the back side of the front wall of the part which represented a castle. There was nothing else inside to be seen.
He closed the tiny door. Without evidence of any latching mechanism, the door was shut tightly.
“It’s a strange house, would you say?” The comment came from the bench just across the path from his. And facing his.
Elijah looked up, surprised. He had seen no one sitting on that bench before now. But he had been looking at his clock, and paying no heed to anything or anyone around him.
A little man sat on the bench across from him. Sat, was not quite how he was, for he actually squatted, with his feet on the seat of the bench.
He was short of stature. Overall, small, seemingly no more than five feet tall, and proportionate in his smallness.
His dress was all in green and yellow plaid. Square plaid. The knickers he wore were of the same pattern, over socks of yellow. The shoes on his feet were brown, with a brass buckle on the top. The toes came to a point. An upward point. He wore a short waistcoat, also in plaid of the same colour. On his head, a pointed cap of the same pattern and colour as the rest of his attire.
His face was round, and freckled. Actually, his entire head was round. His hair was red. He presented a comic, and unbelievable image. He was in Elijah’s opinion, the image of a harlequin.
For a space of some seconds, Elijah sat and studied the man who looked to be, and actually was, out of place in his world. “Who might ye be, Sir?” he asked.
The strange man laughed. “Oh I am a friend. I owe you many thanks, my good Mr. Weatherspoon.”
“How’d ye ken me name? Have we e’er met?” Elijah asked.
“Only just now,” the plaid clad man answered. He hopped down from the bench seat. Now he sat properly, with both feet flat on the ground before him.
Both hands were on his knees. He turned his head and looked around him. “Ah, it feels good to be out of the house. It’s been a very long time. Would you believe how long I was in the house?”
“I hain’t the faintest idee what ye’re speakin’ of,” Elijah replied, now becoming irritated, and not a little impatient. “Ye’ve yet t’ tell me yer name.”
“Hmmm, let me think, Sir. What should I be called?” He appeared to be studying something in the air above him. His eyes swung to the left, and to the right.
“I know!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger at Elijah. “You name me. You’re the reason I’m out of the house, so you have the right to name me.”
Elijah’s insides turned cold. Who was this madman sitting across from him? Was the man possibly violent? He wrapped his arms tightly about his brass clock, holding it close to his breast.
“I ken not what ye speak o’, man. Are ye mad?” His voice trembled as he asked the question.
“Oh I am not mad, as you now fear, my friend.” His voice now took on a soothing quality. Elijah was not soothed.
“Where’d ye come from?” Elijah asked. “I din’t see ye walk up t’ that bench.”
“Did I walk here? Hmmm. Nay, I don’t believe I walked here. I just came out through the door. When you opened it for me.”
“Ye’re mad. That’s it. Ye’re a mad man.” Now he anticipated what might be his means of escape. Fear was beginning to fill him with cold.
But if he were to rise and run, he being old, and his antagonist being much younger, or appearing much younger, how was he to escape? No. That would not be to his advantage. He remained sitting.
“Where’d ye come from?” he asked again.
The other, sitting across from him, did not answer, but simply pointed one finger. He pointed at the castle clock in Elijah’s hands.
“What’d ye mean?” Elijah asked, now completely confused. He looked down at the object in his hands. “What’d ye mean? Ye pointed here at this clock.”
He nodded his head. “Aye. I came from there. You opened the door for me. Truly I thank you.”
Now Elijah’s knees began to tremble. Even where he sat. He struggled to keep them still. Was the man sitting across from him mad? He must be mad.
He looked up and… Something was wrong. Something had changed. No longer did the man’s hair look red. Now it was coal black. No longer was the cap on his head a plaid pointed one. Now it was a tall, black felt top hat.
“You do not believe that I came from that house,” and once again, he pointed at the castle clock.
“‘Tis not possible,” Elijah objected. “Ye’re too big t’ fit in it.”
“Ah, but that is not true,” the other one answered. Now his voice became tiny, but by shouting, Elijah heard him. And now he saw him. Now he was but inches tall. He stood upon the seat of the bench. “Do you now doubt my fitting into that thing?”
“‘Tis I who is mad,” Elijah said to himself.
“Examine the door once again,” the little man shouted.
Elijah turned the clock on its face and yes, even across the pathway, he judged the man, or whatever the thing looking like a man was, yes, he could easily enter or leave through that small doorway in the clock.
“So ye can fit in it,” Elijah countered. “What’s that to me? I still don’t know what ye means t’ me. An’ why’re ye talkin’ t’ me?”
It was no longer the little man he was speaking to. Sitting on the bench across from him was a well-mannered looking man of polite society. Tall. Looking to be taller than Elijah himself, the man was dressed in a suit and top coat in keeping with the likes of a lord of Parliament.
He had a clean and handsome face, with a thin trimmed black mustache. With handsome features under a silk bowler hat of black. A long black bumbershoot leaned against the seat of the bench by his side.
“‘Scuse me Sir,” Elijah began. “I din’t see ye come upon me. Another gentleman was just there. On that very same bench. Ye gave me a startle. Me pardon.”
“What is that to you?” the polished gentleman replied. “What indeed do I mean to you? That was your question, was it not?”
Elijah felt his breath quickening, and he could hear his pounding heartbeat in his ears. His face grew ashen.
“Why does your countenance grow so pale?” the other asked. Except that it was not the well-tailored gentleman who asked the question. But once again, the plaid clad harlequin who had first addressed him. The well-tailored gentleman was no longer there.
“What wants ye from me?” Elijah asked, now stiff with terror and pressing himself back against the back of his bench as hard as he could. As though by doing so, he could broaden the gap between himself and the thing, for it surely could not be a man, sitting across from him.
“Relax. Peace be on your nerves, my friend,” the other said in a soothing voice. “You have naught to fear from me.” Then he paused before continuing. “Or is that true? Do you have cause to fear me? Or do you not?
“You rendered me a great service, Sir,” he continued. “Do you not know that?”
“I don’t ken it,” Elijah replied. “What’d I do fer ye?”
“Well certainly you know,” the harlequin replied. “You freed me from my prison. You know that. You opened the door on the back. Remember?”
Elijah could say nothing. His manner was as one frozen with terror.
“Ought I to offer you three wishes, and then grant them?” the other asked. He then broke into laughter.
“I don’t understand yer meanin’, good Sir,” Elijah answered, his voice trembling.
“Have you not read of the lad who found the enchanted brass lamp? And he rubbed it. For it surely needed rubbing. Right? And out from the narrow spout, smoke, and from the smoke, came a genie. Is not such a story within your memory, Mr. Weatherspoon?”
“Aye. ‘Tis. ‘Tis, Sir,” Elijah answered, now somewhat regaining his composure. “But those be just stories,” he objected. “Fables. Sech things ere not true.”
“Are you certain of that?” the harlequin asked.
Elijah was certain of nothing right now. Least of all was he certain of his own sanity. If this man, if indeed it was a man, sitting across from him had removed himself from the inside of the clock, then he was very much like the genie of the fables. But that was not possible. He, Elijah Weatherspoon, must indeed be going insane.
“I nay longer ken what I’m certain of,” he answered. “I think ye’re a creatin’ o’ me own mind.”
The other one let out a prolonged sigh. “Ah, that I may be. I may be. I am not truly real. No man can change as you saw me change. Even in size.”
As he spoke, he began to fade. First as a transparency. For through him Elijah could see the ironwork of the back of the bench. Then he became pale, and Elijah could see little of him at all.
But just as quickly, he was again a solid being. He arose from the bench, and in a flash, he was across the distance between them. With a finger, he poked Elijah in the chest. Hard.
Elijah felt it, and the feeling remained after the finger was withdrawn. Then he was once again seated on the bench, and his arms and legs were both crossed.
“Am I but a vision? Or the result of an undigested bite of food?” He laughed again. “The old man Scrooge thought the spirit of his dead former partner to be just that. Is it thus with you, Mr. Weatherspoon?”
“I ken not what it is,” Elijah answered with a whimper. “I’m at a loss to ‘splain. Or t’ understand. What wants ye with me?”
“Oh, but I owe you,” the other answered. “You freed me from my imprisonment, Sir. Do you know how long I was trapped inside the walls of that clock?”
“Nay. That I don’t,” Elijah answered.
“I was! I was!” the other insisted.
At that moment, Elijah heard a clink sound. Looking, he saw that the tiny door on the back of the clock housing had fallen off, and now lay on the pavement at his feet.
A small puff of smoke appeared about the opening, and then it was as though it was sucked into the opening where the door had been.
From within, the tiny voice which he had heard before called to him. “As easily as I came out. I can go back in. But you cannot shut me in, for the door is gone.”
And once more the little puff of smoke. This time it drifted outward from the opening. The garish attired figure was once more sitting on the bench before him.
“You never answered my question. How long was I trapped in my prison?” he asked.
“Aye. I did answer. I said I din’t ken how long ye’re in there. That’s an answer,” Elijah answered, with irritation in his voice.
“Ah, I suppose that was an answer,” the other one sighed. “I will not tell you exactly, but it was for many years. Do you know how old that clock is?” Elijah did not know.
“More than your lifetime. Years more. I was imprisoned in its first year.”
That struck Elijah’s curiosity, and he wondered how the being he was speaking with came to be imprisoned inside. “What fell fortune caused ye t’ be locked inside? If I may ask.” And he did ask.
“I am not free to tell you,” the other one answered. “But I am now grateful to be free. I owe you a gratitude for my release.”
For a space of some seconds, he looked straight at Elijah while saying nothing. Then a strange grin began, and it grew on his round face. Then he spoke.
“I know. You believe that I owe you three wishes in return for your setting me free. Well? Is that not the law of the genie? Pray tell, your three wishes, Sir.”
Elijah briefly opened his mouth to speak, but no thoughts came to him to speak. Surely the old fables and stories were not true.
Genies were the product of the story tellers, and nothing more. The thing he held on his lap was a clock. It was not a magic lamp.
It was not even a lamp. Surely it was not magic. It was merely a clock. A clock in the shape of a castle. And it was not made of precious materials. Rather it was simply brass. And common brass at that.