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10. THE FOURTH HOUR
Arthur sat in the plush chair, looking around. He held his palms against the arm rests, as if holding himself and the chair together. His hands felt clammy, and his heart was beating faster. His breath came in short, painful rasps.
"Relax," Cuphandle said, still sitting opposite him. "You're perfectly fine, except that you are scared to death."
"I feel just as I did before, except for this terrible feeling that a weight has descended on me."
"That is the weight of terror, Mr. Latchloose. It's nothing to worry about."
Arthur saw his pale reflection in the parlor mirror, and gripped the seat with both fists. He said through gritted teeth: "I don't want to feel this way."
"It will go away of its own accord, if you can just relax. Focus your mind on what you have to do now. You have less than half a day now in which to decide whether or not you wish to live out your old life, or start an entirely new one. I think a new one sounds rather exciting, don't you?"
Arthur licked his dry lips. In an instant, the djinni made a glass of water appear in his hand, and Arthur drank the fresh liquid. It made his mouth feel less dry, and his throat less raspy. In fact, it seemed to drench his entire being in a kind of calm, cool state. It reminded him of the stillness of a pool in sunlight.
Cuphandle rose and walked to the clock. "Come here, Mr. Latchloose." Arthur rose and stepped beside him. "Reach out and take down the little watch." Arthur looked up at the silvery clock face with its gilded accents. He looked at its complex of tiny, whirring dials and the large, ornate black minute and hour hands. He looked at the steadily ticking red second-sweep, whose hypnotic rhythm drew him in until he was almost frozen. "Reach out," Cuphandle urged. "Don't let anything stop you from your purpose. Push on, Mr. Latchloose. Forge ahead. Take the time piece. It is yours, after all."
"I don't think the clock wants me to take it," Arthur said looking at the clock looming over him, which seemed to cling to its inset timepiece.
"Of course it can't bear to be separated from its heart, which is that ticking trainman's watch. But the clock is your property, your slave as it were, and you have the right to treat your chattels as you wish. Take the watch, Mr. Latchloose."
With trembling fingers, Arthur fumbled about the edges of the watch, until his fingernails caught on a faint ledge there. He dug his nails in and pulled. With a faintly audible sigh or a sucking sound, the vest pocket watch came free. It nearly fell on the ground, and both Arthur and Cuphandle lurched to catch it. Arthur caught it in mid-fall.
Cuphandle said: "Small as it is, it is the master of the larger clock. It is also the master of your time during these twelve hours. See the time on it? It is no longer tracking whatever time it is in the world around us. It is tracking your personal time now."
Arthur noted that it read 3:30, and tucked it safely in to his pants pocket. "How did the time fly by so fast? Where do the hours go? Is there a heaven for bygone hours?"
"There you go," Cuphandle said from across the room, applauding. "You have become the philosopher you need to be." He stopped clapping. "Come, let me show you something."
Arthur followed him from room to room, and Cuphandle did something strange. He lingered here, there, in many places, running a fingertip idly along a counter top, or tracing the edge of a glass-paned, wood-edged cupboard door. "You notice anything?"
"No. Should I?"
"It's not what's there, but what's not there."
"I don't get it."
"Pictures. Photos. Mementos of your past life. They are disappearing one by one. Fading. And along with them, both the happy and painful memories."
"Good riddance to all of it," Arthur said, thinking of the new start he'd make.
"Feeling a twinge of regret?"
"No," Arthur said stubbornly. "Yes," he admitted.
"Seems only natural. You'll get through it."
"I'm not feeling the terror anymore either."
"Good for you. That's a good sign. Come, I want to take you for a ride. Got your watch?"
"Right here." Arthur patted the warm bulge in his pocket. The thick, heavy metal case felt solid to the touch, and smooth.
They went outside, down the porch, down the walk, and to Cuphandle's truck. Only it wasn't a truck anymore, but a solidly built, handsome dark gray limousine. Cuphandle drove, while Arthur sat in the back seat. It was plush and comfortable. The interior was done in white leather. The door lights were glowing milk-glass sconces engraved with lilies, and hung with small tokens of Christmas-red and white striped candy canes, green holly leaves with red berries, and even a few miniature, glossy red and silver ball ornaments. Cuphandle flicked on the radio, and carols began playing softly. Arthur listened absently for a few minutes while the dark city skyline fled past outside. Every half minute his face would briefly light up under a street lamp and then grow dark again. While a choir hummed in the background, a lady sang Silent Night in a rich soprano voice thick as fine linen. "Turn that off!" Arthur said. "I'm sick of Christmas carols. Haven't listened to one in years!"
"Sure," Cuphandle said quietly, and the music stopped. Arthur heard only the faint whistle of air outside, the hum of the engine, and the whisper of the car heater. "Recognize this building?" Cuphandle said, pointing to a rather boxy old brick structure that looked like a bank.
Arthur leaned forward as the car crawled to a stop across the street. Arthur stared at the building, thinking it had some significance, but he couldn't remember quite what. "No, I'm afraid I have no idea."
"The process is working then," Cuphandle said.
"Am I getting younger already?"
"No. That will happen during the stroke of one o'clock at the end the twelfth hour, should you not have changed your mind about this?"
"Why would I change my mind?" Arthur said. "I'm happy to think about being young again and starting over."
Cuphandle turned and put a finger over his lips. "Hear that sound?" As Arthur shook his head, Cuphandle lowered the automatic rear window. Arthur felt a wave of cold air come in, and blinked as his hair ruffled and snowy grit struck his cheeks. He heard, clearly, three clappers bonging on their respective bells. It was a labored, clattering sound not as pleasant as the ringing of his new clock, but there was something familiar about the clock tower's slow delivery. "Hear that?" Cuphandle said. "That's the sound of the hour being rung. Look at your watch." Arthur didn't have to look to know that another hour had passed, and he was within seven hours of irrevocably leaving his old life behind.
The window rolled up, and Arthur sat back filled with mixed emotions. Cuphandle drove on for a while. The streets were dark and quiet, but colorful Christmas lights winked here and there. Many doors had dark green pine wreaths on them, and some had lights burning in them to simulate candles. On one corner stood a group of carolers holding candles, and Arthur stared at them as the limo slowly cruised by. "What on earth are they so happy about?" he said softly to nobody in particular.
The limousine pulled up at a brightly lit shopping mall thronged with happy pedestrians carrying packages of all sizes. Arthur rubbed his eyes. "This can't be happening. It's the middle of the night."
Cuphandle looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Time has no meaning in your zone, my friend. This is where you get out. Oh." He fumbled about his pockets as if he'd had an afterthought. He handed Arthur a wad of fresh dollar bills. "There's a grand, on the house. Don't spend it all in one place."
Arthur sat numbly looking at the money, then at Cuphandle, and then out at the bustling shopping scene. The door opened by itself, and Arthur felt a ghostly wave of cold (almost an apparition of Cuphandle, who remained in the driver's seat, but whose eyes had a strange light in them for a moment) that almost physically pulled him from the car. "Goodbye until we meet again," Cuphandle said. "Good luck, and please, make the decision that's right for you." So saying, he pulled away. The door closed by itself, and a stunned Arthur Latchloose stood forlorn on the curb. Hearing music and bright laughter behind him, he turned to figure out his next step.
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