8.
 Jarlid drove on through the blinding snow. Thick flakes flew like fists toward the windshield. The wipers thumped back and forth. The heater sighed, faintly smelling of hot water, antifreeze, and machine oil. “I have to tell you the last little bit.”
“There’s more?” Arthur asked suspiciously.
“Yes, I have no choice. You see, there I was in the middle of the night, lugging this clock through the desert. The oasis from which I had just emerged was gone—vanished under the dunes and starlight. The clock was strangely light, as if it wanted me to carry it. I had no idea where I was going. The sky was so black, and so filled with stars, that I could not recognize any constellations to navigate by. Then, I heard a voice. Jarlid, a man’s voice addressed me quite clearly.
“I stopped and looked around. I put the clock down and wiped my brow. It was cold and dry, and there was a little piercing wind, but my sweat was more from guilt and fear at having stolen this clock. Jarlid, said a shadowy figure standing on a nearby drift of sand. I could tell it was a young man in a suit, like a New York stock broker, with short hair, no beard, and quite a nice pleasant Midwestern American accent (or the lack of an accent, therewith). I managed to say Who are you? But he stepped down beside me in a nonce, almost as if he’d shape-shifted in an instant, from one place to the other. He said: You have to sign for the clock.
“I must have guffawed, however one does that. I scoffed. What do you mean, sign for it? I had stolen it, and I thought he meant I must give it back. I already regretted my impulsive crime.
“Right over here, said he. Lo and behold, the air around us shimmered as if we were inside a chapel, or a bank. That’s right, on your left a bit. He waved his hand for me to follow the direction of his gesture. I walked to a marble table, which was embedded in a sand dune under an oddly amber and runny light, as if it were flowing liquid. The counter top was black, with white veins, and felt cool to the touch, so real did it seem. On its surface lay a kind of heavy ledger, with a contract of some sort clipped inside its gutter. Go on, he said, sign so we can get on with our business. He pointed to a gilded pen stuck in a holder, and an inkwell with an ornate golden lid. I lifted out the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and scratched my name on the parchment. He nodded approvingly, slammed the book shut, and stuck it under his arm. Thank you. Well done.
“So now what? I asked. You take your clock back and I get to go home, is that it?
“No quite. He grinned and stood with his fists on his hips. Haven’t you guessed? I am the djinni of this place. My poor owner was stuck with this thing until you took it. He was a thousand years old, and has seen more armies moving among these dunes, more kings and generals at war with each other, and more lost souls wandering under the stars—but he has gone to his reward now, a free man.
“Take your wretched clock, I said. If that’s the case, I want no part of it.
“He, however, said: You took it, you’ve signed for it, and the clock is now yours. Your fate and its fate are entwined. I am of the djinni who saved you when you lay dying at the edge of our twilight realm. Don’t be afraid, we have no intention of harming you.
“He then reached up into the silvered and ornately scrolled, shining clock face, twisted a lever, and from the center of its long case, he pulled off this watch I have given you to hold. He said: This clock can bring you either great joy or great sorrow. You have a pact with it, which you must honor to the last jot and the last tittle.
“How do I do that? I asked the djinni,” said Jarlid.
The djinni pointed to that vest pocket clock I still held, and said, This is the heart of the thing, that which beats and makes the time flow through its veins the way blood flows through yours, and the way magic desert sand flows through mine. Through his watch, the great clock gives you time enough to do what you must. When your time was just about over, you must pass it along to the next deserving soul, and then his time will be extended just as yours has been. But there is one thing: You are obliged to be totally honest with the next owner, as I have been with you. You must be honest, and always seek truth.
Arthur looked dubiously at the watch. “You mean I could still give this back and cancel our deal?”
Jarlid shook his head. “That’s not how it works. Once you have coveted this watch, and the great clock whose heart it is, she is yours for as long as there is not the next person who covets her.
“That could be forever!” Latchloose shrieked. “What am I getting into?”
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Copyright © 2014 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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