The Cobalt Clock

Chapter One

It was night. The moon was a sliver off full, pouring light upon the streets like an albino sun. The dew of the morning sparkled like dazzling pearls on the immaculate lawn and leaves of carefully cultivated plants on organized gardens. In empty, embarrassing corners that owners had covered up in shame tiny mushroom families poked their heads out of the ground like curious children out of hidey-holes.

Amongst this world of delicacy and perfection, a ragamuffin house spread its wrecked body out on a large block of land, with a mansion on each side poking their noses into its pointy ears. Like a wreck underwater it was covered in plants and colourful growths, a home to many creatures and animals that crawled through its corpse.

The moonlight sparkled on shards of broken glass like glitter, glitter like a thick snail's trail that oozed down the stairs. Wisteria climbed through the empty window frame, and back out the neighbouring one. Fungus littered the scattered roof tiles like flour on a baker's board. And, like the bones of the multiplying undead rising from their graves, grasses conquered the twisted remnants of once impeccable rose gardens.

It looked like a recycling centre in the middle of an international garden show, a dump in a palace courtyard. Many people unnamed had presumed, (for the welfare of their better interests) that it was a dump, abandoning splitting plastic bags full of household wrappings and no-goods, piles of dirty, cracked or otherwise unwanted furniture, clothes and other nameless items that had either never had a name, or since their brutal treatment outside, had lost it. Inside was no better. Remnants of food rotted and reeked in the kitchen, mouse droppings befouled the beds, cupboards and carpet that remained, and soup of algae swirled in the still-full bath.

Wallpaper and paint peeled off the walls like a serpent shedding its skin. Spider's webs crept out of the shadowy corners, silver death traps with past victims still in its clutches, and in the west corner of the en suite bedroom a nest of wasps had taken up residence.

But below this decomposing wreck, something resembling order dwelled. A passageway lead from a park across the road, beneath the house and into a small, slightly crowded workspace.

The room itself was a three-metre high, wide and deep cube. A shabby, dark-wood desk, littered with notes written in black ink, lined the bottom third of the room. Note books, essay books, everything writing books lay on the desks in various states of order. Books of a great abundance of subjects stood straight on an overhead shelf that went all the way around three walls, the fourth mostly taken up by the doorway. The books were lined up neatly, as if the owner cared more for the books than the untidy desk space. A mug with the remnants of coffee sat in a corner of the desk like an unwanted friend and a black office chair faced the doorway expectantly.

The floor was made of nice, dark-wood, strong, solid material that let you know that you were standing on real ground. Scant pictures lined the wall, but there were none that seemed likely to be family. A breathtaking Buff-Breasted Paradise-Kingfisher gazing into the fishious water below from its perch, a determined Peregrine Falcon sweeping its steely gaze over the golden plains below, and a monsterrific picture of a Barn Owl, wings spread, talons out, concentration on her prey that had just slipped from the picture. A forty-centimetre long feather with a gentle curve lay elegantly on an exclusive shelf below the picture, giving the fanciful and nonsensical impression that this was the owl's prey.

All in all, the writing space, with its general air of casual untidiness, drew no attention other than a reflection unspoken on the slightly shabby furniture. But one thing, like a hidden diamond, or treasure in the hull of a wreck, would have changed every one's opinion of the room, and more importantly, the occupant. Above the normally shut but currently ajar door hung a beautiful clock.

The face itself was white, the border gold and the numbers an oceanly purple. That part of the clock was about as extraordinary as an unmarked piece of everyday office paper. The hands of the clock were a whole other story, a whole other book. Three cobalt blue feathers moved to the rhythm of human time, shining differently as the the light from the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling landed at different angles ( the occupant had been pleasantly thoughtful when they left the room, and forgot to flick the switch) . At every hour, bright light spread forth from the feathers like radiant light from angels. Thus, the timepiece was given the name the Cobalt Clock.