Clockworkers Read online

  Clockworkers

  by

  RAMSEY ISLER

  copyright Ramsey Isler. © 2013. All rights reserved.

  www.ramseyisler.com

  cover design copyright 2013 Ramsey Isler. Photograph by Five / Source: PHOTOCASE www.photocase.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 ··· Chapter 2 ··· Chapter 3

  Chapter 4 ··· Chapter 5 ··· Chapter 6

  Chapter 7 ··· Chapter 8 ··· Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 ··· Chapter 11 ··· Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 ··· Chapter 14 ··· Chapter 15

  Chapter 16 ··· Chapter 17 ··· Chapter 18

  Chapter 19 ··· Chapter 20 ··· Chapter 21

  Chapter 22 ··· Chapter 23 ··· Chapter 24

  Chapter 25 ··· Chapter 26 ··· Chapter 27

  Chapter 1

  There was frost on the forest grass.

  Samuel Chablon, a prudent but insatiably curious man, walked gingerly across the frozen glade. It was just before sunrise, the blue hour, and the only sounds in the forest were the whispers of the wind.

  Samuel was stalking his latest prey. He had waited for three nights to catch even a glimpse of it, but this morning his patience had paid off. His target made an appearance just a few moments ago. Sam saw the little fellow dance into a cave on the north shore of the lake.

  He continued his approach at a painfully slow pace. Each step took an eternity. He was careful not to let even a single blade of grass betray his presence. He barely breathed, and he willed his excited body to stay cool, lest his quarry catch a whiff of his sweat.

  He finally reached the entrance to the cave and a sweet, warm wind caressed his face, melting the ice crystals on the scraggly beard that had grown during his stay in these woods. There was a faint light in there—a white-green glow that made the rocky walls of the cave shine. With the care of a barefooted man walking on eggshells, he went inside.

  The cave was deep, and its ceiling was low for a man of Sam’s height. His middle-aged knees protested when he was forced to stoop down as he tiptoed further into the cavern. But the pain was worth it. This kind of opportunity rarely happens twice.

  Sam went deeper still, until the odor of the outside world was erased by a bittersweet perfume of jasmine and thyme and other fragrances he wished he knew the names of. The ghostly greenish light that he had seen earlier was now much brighter. The source was just around the bend. Sam paused. He held his breath, and carefully peered past the corner.

  He saw the one thing he had searched for since his childhood: the final proof that validated years of foraging, travel, and the eccentric research that had left him ostracized and ridiculed. There, in that cave, was his dream.

  An elf.

  The creature’s back was turned to him. Strands of his short black hair shone in the light like shards of obsidian. He faced a small lamp that emanated the eerie glow Sam had followed. A light tunic covered his narrow torso. It was brown and red and muted orange—the colors of fallen autumn leaves. Upon his head sat a fuzzy golden cap pulled down far enough to cover his ears.

  The elf was focused on something that Sam couldn’t see. The lad’s improvised table was a smooth slab of wood. There were many objects neatly placed on it—copper wiring, stacks of metal plates, a set of rusty springs tied together with a bit of twine. The elf paused, and held something up to the light. Sam knew what it was the instant he saw it—a brand new Zenith portable radio. He knew because it was his. He had bought it the year before, and just last night he left it in the path of tiny elven feet. The bait had proven effective.

  Sam lunged forward, and grabbed his prize.

  “I’ve caught you!” Sam shouted with glee. “I’ve caught you, I’ve caught you, I’ve...caught...you!”

  “So you did,” the impish character said. “What of it?” The elf wriggled out of Sam’s grasp like a wet fish and twirled away from him. The elf’s boyish brown face broke into a smile, and his big eyes reflected the light from his lamp like cat’s eyes would.

  “I think...I’m due for some praise,” Sam said breathlessly; his excitement was causing him to hyperventilate. “It’s not easy...catching one of you.”

  “True, that is,” the elf said, “You must be a very clever man.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, but thank you for the flattery.”

  “You are most welcome. Now, I must be going.”

  Sam thrust a hand in front of the elf. “Not so fast, my little friend. Do you think this clever man doesn’t know how The Game is played?”

  “Indeed I was hoping that you did,” the elf replied as his smile widened even more. “We do so love when the big people play our games. But your kind only play elf-games when you’re small. Maybe bigness makes you boring.”

  “Perhaps,” Sam said. “But some of us are still children at heart, and some of us still remember the old ways.”

  “So what would you like for your prize?” the elf asked. “Gold? Silver? Diamonds? What is it that the men of your time covet?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know,” Sam said. “I don’t care much for what goes on in the cities these days. I’ve stopped caring about most things, actually.”

  The elf clapped his hands and laughed. His high-pitched voice bounced off the stony walls of the cave and became magnified. “What fun!” the elf exclaimed. “A man without a care! You really are clever.”

  “Again,” Sam said as he shifted closer to the elf, “you’re far too kind,”

  The elf cocked his head quizzically. “Too kind? I’d say that would be undoable.”

  “It’s just an expression,” Sam said, “something that men say.”

  “Odd, odd, odd,” the elf said. “But that matters here nor there. What do you want for your prize?”

  Sam gazed directly into the pools of light that were the elf’s eyes, and said, “I want to know your name.”

  Chapter 2

  Spring in Michigan is a wonderful time. Nature shrugs off the icy shroud of winter, and the land blossoms in unparalleled beauty. The murky clouds that hid the sun for months finally retreat, letting warmth and light pour in. The once bitter winds from the frozen lakes and rivers become sweet breezes.

  The first warm day of the year is celebrated with a burst of activity and joy. Even the state’s cities, with their artificial structures of concrete and steel, suddenly feel alive and flourishing. A time-honored tradition begins—people from all walks of life escape their stuffy homes, and go off to revel in the glory of their surroundings. The air becomes fresh again, and all that is good and green returns.

  In the midst of all this beauty, the denizens of this land seek to adorn themselves with pretty ornaments. Spring, and love, are in the air, and the young and single often wear beautiful jewelry to make themselves appear more attractive. People from all walks of life participate in this ritual, but one particular trinket is a favorite among wealthy men seeking to inflate their egos and impress their suitors. A gentleman wears a watch.

  A wristwatch is often the closest thing to jewelry a modern man will wear. But fancy watches are more than mere timepieces; they are symbols of wealth, power, and class. These exotic, rare, and often antique devices inevitably require repair, but the craft of watchmaking has waned in modern times, and there are few artisans left who can handle such intricate and delicate machines.

  But there is a small local watch shop that serves as savior to many watch lovers. It’s an inauspicious spot in Birmingham, a fashionable suburb nestled between the rusted remnants of Detroit and the lush grounds of the expensive mansions in Bloomfield Hills. The watch shop has been around for 25 years, and it has always boasted a simple orange sign that proclaimed a slogan that served dual purposes as the name of the establishmen
t and also its philosophy—Better Timepieces.

  Today, there’s a brand-new Mercedes-Benz sedan parked in front of the Better shop. It was a long, intimidating car with a gleaming coat of custom pearly paint and a set of wheels that cost more than a year of schooling at the local university. A man stepped out of the vehicle. He was tall and broad, his wavy hair was varied shades of gray, and as he exited the car he donned a pair of dark sunglasses to shield his eyes from the beaming spring sun. He carried a small, velvet case in his hands as he approached the front door of Better Timepieces.

  A young lady with unruly brown hair and dusty coveralls watched the man walk into the shop with a bit of trepidation. She’d seen many of his type visit the shop, and although they’re always happy to pay for Better’s unique and impressive services, sometimes their attitudes are more trouble than they’re worth.

  “How’s it going?” the young woman said when the visitor entered. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Terry Hamilton,” the man said. “I made an appointment.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “Didn’t expect you so soon.”

  “I don’t like to waste time,” Hamilton said. He took in a deep breath and surveyed the plain tan building that housed all of the operations of Better Timepieces. “So this is where Sam Chablon works?” he asked.

  The young lady gave him a short nod. “Yup.”

  “I’ve been told this shop can fix any watch,” Hamilton said.

  “We’re the best in the state,” the woman said.

  “I have no doubt about that,” Mr. Hamilton muttered. “So, where is Sam?”

  “You’re looking at her.”

  Hamilton’s face twisted into a sour expression and he said, “You...are Samuel Chablon?”

  “Samantha Chablon,” the young lady said. “Samuel is my dad. I run things when he’s not around.”

  Hamilton’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. “Ah. That makes more sense. Should I call you Sam Jr.?”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to frown. “Only if you don’t want your watch fixed,” she said.

  Hamilton smiled. “Sam it is then.”

  “So what did you bring me?” Sam asked.

  “Something I’m sure you don’t get to see every day,” Hamilton said. He placed his black box on the display case Sam stood behind. Sam gently opened the case and gasped when she laid eyes on the beautiful timepiece inside. It had a perfectly preserved brown leather strap and a simply elegant body cast in gold. This was old craftsmanship. “Is that what I think it is?” she said.

  “That depends on what you think it is,” Hamilton said.

  “Rolex Chronograph model thirty-five twenty-nine,” Sam said. “Probably manufactured around 1939. Back then, this was the smallest wristwatch in the world. It’s still relatively tiny even by today’s standards. It uses a tricky seventeen jewel manual wind movement. Most of the models were stainless steel, but this case is eighteen karat gold. This is extremely rare.”

  Hamilton nodded. “You know your watches.”

  “And that’s why you’re here,” Sam said as she slowly caressed the watch’s square golden frame. “This must have cost you a fortune.”

  “I’ve done well,” Hamilton replied. “I’ve earned the right to spoil myself with a few expensive toys.”

  “Looks like it’s in great shape to me,” Sam said. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It won’t keep time,” Hamilton said. “I wind it, but it falls behind. By the end of the day it’s two minutes off. I’m a very punctual man, and when I look at my wrist in the afternoons I want to be sure that what I’m seeing is accurate.”

  Sam froze. Her eyes were wide. “You wear this?”

  “Yes,” Hamilton said.

  Sam cocked her head and scratched her chin. “Odd.”

  “What’s odd?” Hamilton asked.

  “Well, you don’t look crazy,” Sam said, “but you’d have to be downright insane to wear this every day.”

  Hamilton laughed and held up his hands defensively. “I only wear it once a week. After paying as much as I did for it, I think I’m entitled to that. And watches are meant to be worn, not hidden away in display cases.”

  Sam didn’t respond to that. She just shook her head and flipped the watch over. She grabbed a slender metal screwdriver and a tiny pair of sharp tweezers. With practiced ease she deftly removed the rear cover of the case, exposing a labyrinth of miniscule gears, screws and mechanical arms. The old watch’s innards were in impeccable condition, and nothing seemed obviously amiss.

  Sam blew a strand of hair out of her face and put her hands on her hips. “Well,” she said, “there aren’t a lot of models like this around, and it might not be easy to diagnose the problem. Hopefully none of the components are completely worn down. If so, that’s a bigger problem. I might be able to manufacture a replacement part, but if you want to keep the value as high as possible, you’ll want original parts. Those won’t be easy to find. In fact, it might be impossible.”

  “I’m told you’re the best at making impossible things possible,” Hamilton said casually. “At least, when it comes to watches.”

  “I’m not quite that much of a miracle worker,” Sam said. “But my dad is. Leave it here for a couple days. We’ll do our best.”

  “I know your father,” Hamilton said. “Did he happen to mention that?”

  “No,” Sam said.

  “I worked with him many years ago,” Hamilton continued. “We used to work in the R&D department. We did some amazing work for the company and I really thought we’d be partners for many years, but I had my eyes on climbing the corporate ladder, and your father took a leave of absence which turned out to be permanent. He was pretty damn sharp, but that was before he went a little weird. That always seems to happen to the real geniuses. It’s like their minds collapse under the weight of their own brilliance.”

  Sam gave him a blank glare. She didn’t say a word.

  Hamilton looked down at her, for she was far shorter, but he still took the tiniest step backwards. “Er...How is he? Your father.”

  “He’s seen better days,” Sam said.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “May I see him?”

  Sam shook her head. “He doesn’t meet with the customers much these days. That’s my job. But I’ll tell him you said hello.”

  “Thank you. How much is the repair going to cost me?”

  “Not sure yet,” Sam said. “If it can be repaired, which remains to be seen, it’ll take a lot of work to get everything to fit right. These hand-built models always need extra love, and like I said, you probably want to keep it as close to original as possible.”

  “Yes.”

  “So...yeah. I’m not sure yet. But it probably won’t be cheap.”

  “I expected as much,” Hamilton said. “But as long as it’s fair, I don’t mind.”

  “We’ll call you when it’s ready,” Sam said as she pointed to a hefty fellow at the far end of the workshop. “That’s Yusef. He’ll take care of the paperwork and all that.”

  “Thank you,” Hamilton said as he turned and made his way to Yusef.

  “Thank you,” Sam whispered as she lifted Hamilton’s watch and let the sunlight dance inside its complex innards. “This is going to be interesting.”

  * * *

  Later in the day, when the sun had retreated and the crickets started chirping, Sam was still in the workshop and hunched over the exposed guts of the Rolex 3529. She’d been in that position since Hamilton left. She spent most of that time just staring at the thing and trying to figure out what the hell she was going to do.

  Yusef sat on the floor a few yards away from her, busy with his laptop and a stack of papers. He chewed the end of his cheap plastic pen while he worked—something that annoyed Sam greatly. He would chew a pen until it was so mangled it looked like a diseased organ pulled out of a cow cadaver. Then he’d throw it away and start with a new one. Sam b
ought him a nice fountain pen for Christmas a couple years ago, but he refused to use it for work. He always fell back to munching on packs of black Bic pens. Sam hated his habit, but she dealt with it because he was so dedicated, and so damn good with numbers.

  “You know,” Yusef said, “I’ve never seen a new project get you down like this. Usually you’re all excited and stuff. Bubbly, even.”

  Sam glared at him. “Me? Bubbly? Are you serious?”

  “Okay, maybe not bubbly,” Yusef said. “Maybe ‘energized’ is a better word. You usually have some pep in your step when we get a new piece in. But you’ve been no fun at all today, and you’ve been staring at that Rolex like you have x-ray vision. I think you’re stumped. And you know what? That kinda scares the hell out of me. Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “I am not stumped,” Sam said. “I’m just...taking my time to understand all the factors involved.”

  “Ah,” Yusef said. “But you didn’t have much trouble with that Harry Winston model last month, and that was way more complicated than that Rolex.”

  “That was different,” Sam said. “Winstons I can fix—especially the recent ones. They’ve got user manuals and spec sheets and Internet forums. The stuff is complex, but the info is easy to find. But this is a whole different can of worms. It’s almost eighty years old, only a few were ever made, and it’s Swiss. I might have to take the whole damn thing apart just to figure out what the problem is, and if I do that, I’m not sure I’ll be able to put it back together again.”

  “We could always just tell the guy we can’t do it,” Yusef said.

  Sam sat straight up and pointed her screwdriver right at him. “This company has never failed a repair, restoration, or manufacture. Never. That’s not changing on my shift.”

  “O...kay then,” Yusef said. “Sounds like this might be a job for your dad’s magical little helper.”

  Sam sighed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t get started on that.”