Superbly crafted from tarnished brass, the automaton resembled a life-size speckled wooden butterfly, complete with white enamel spots inlaid along the edge of each delicate wing. The butterfly’s antennae twitched and wings undulated, readying to take flight with the aid of an intricate clockwork movement, the likes of which he’d never seen.
“My inventions have always been able to recognize otherclockmakers.” A male voice chuckled behind him, and the butterfly alighted, as if beckoned by the sound.
Theodore whirled round to find an elderly man with bright eyes topped by feathery brows of wizened white. The clockwork butterfly joined a flutter of others nestled in the man’s receding hair and unkempt mustache. A bemused grin creased the fellow’s face as he studied Theodore. “Who’d you apprentice for, lad?”
Tremors be hanged. He couldn’t afford to pass up interest from a potential employer. “I’ve trained under clockmakers in Switzerland, Austria, Germany, France, Italy, and even as far off as Egypt and India. None of my previous employers are notable beyond the borders of their respective countries, but each are skilled and talented craftsmen. I learned a great deal from them, one and all. Although I didn’t stay in any one place long enough to receive proper references, I give you my word that I’m a hard worker. Knowledgeable and willing to learn more still. I can prove as much, if you’re willing to give me a chance, sir.”
The man shuffled over, leaving open the door to what must be his workshop. He extended a hand, weathered but steady. “C. E. Drosselmeyer at your service.”
Accepting the handshake, Theodore smiled. “What’s the C. E. stand for?”
“An old family name with more letters than is decent. Folks just call me Drosselmeyer. Much simpler. Rolls off the tongue like that drivel called poetry. And you are?”
“Name’s Arthur.” He’d said it often enough, it almost felt true.
“Arthur ... what?”
“Just Arthur.” A name chosen at random, a name without shame or shadows. “Much simpler.” Theodore winked. Respond with minimal information and misdirection. Worked like a debutante’s charm ... if only it weren’t becoming sodratted hard to pull off. Five long years of stuffing traumatic memories and overwhelming emotion deep inside had stressed the hinges of the casing he’d built to confine them.
Drosselmeyer twirled his downy mustache. “From where do you hail, young man?”
“As my unwritten reference suggests, I’ve lived here, there, and everywhere in between.”
“No, son. I mean, where are you from? Where is home?”
Where, indeed. After years of searching, he’d yet to find such a thing. Theodore mustered a hearty chuckle that, on a good day, would’ve come naturally. “I don’t have any property to my name. Houses and land aren’t for the likes of me. Roads and rails, that’s where I live.”
“Again, you mistake my meaning. Home is neither house nor land.” Reaching into his wild mane, Drosselmeyer gathered three of the butterflies and arranged them in a row on one finger. “Home is your people. Generations, roots, family.”
“Family?” Pain snapped in Theodore’s chest, paralyzing breath like a broken rib.
“Aye, the ones you miss. The ones who miss you.”
The one I disappointed from birth.
The one who’d rather throw dirt on my grave than claim a broken failure as his son.
Theodore tightened the grip on his crutch to keep from swaying and fought to prevent his grin from slipping. Of all the questions to ask, why must the bloke fire off one that struck his weakest point? If he told the truth of his origins, the strained casing that held him together would crack wide open and scatter his broken movement across the floor for all to see. No, he couldn’t afford to fall apart when he was unworthy of seeking repair from the only Maker capable of reassembling a shattered soul.
“Dear, dear. Have you lost your family, lad?”
Breath resumed with laborious agony. One might say that... but he couldn’t. Theodore pointed to the walls of clocks as if noticing them for the first time. “Incredible work you’ve done here. Do you tinker alone, or is the son of Drosselmeyer and Son off in the backroom? ’Twould be an honor to shake his hand.”
The sunny glint in Drosselmeyer’s eyes faded as though obscured by a passing cloud. Gaze unblinking, he grasped the pocket of his waistcoat and stared at the wall of clocks, seeming to see straight through them.
Theodore knew that vacant look. Had felt the grief that dwelt within that void. This man was bereft of a son as surely as he was bereft of a father. Blast his idiot mouth! He’d never meant the diversion from his pain to awaken pain in another soul. He needed to fix this. Now.
He searched the room for possible sources of distraction and spotted the tardy clock, a wall-mounted mahogany lyre clock. That would have to do. “Mr. Drosselmeyer, I’d like to demonstrate my proficiency in clock repair in hopes that you might better consider making a place for me here.” He removed the clock from its nail. “If you’d be so kind as to indulge my forwardness?”
Drosselmeyer blinked into coherency, though his countenance remained shadowed. “Certainly, certainly. My tools are in the backroom.”
“Thank you, sir. But I won’t be needing them.” Setting the lyre clock on the sales counter, Theodore shed his overcoat and spread it beside the timepiece, revealing the hidden lining covered from seam to seam in mismatched, handsewn pockets weighted with the whole of his worldly goods and various bits, bobs, and tools he’d collected over the years. “As you can see, I’m equipped to tinker in a pinch.” He tossed the old chap a wink and was rewarded with a feeble smile.
Right-oh, now he was getting somewhere. “Are you prepared to time me, sir? For my aim is to disassemble and reassemblethis clock in just five minutes, beating my previous record of six minutes, five and forty seconds.”
Eyebrows hoisting his wrinkled forehead in astonishment, Drosselmeyer produced a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Ready, lad. On your mark. Go.”
Theodore’s hands took flight, alighting to the work that challenged mind and thrilled heart. Going beyond an artistically designed casement to the intricate workings within, where every cog and gear served a purpose, every pendulum and spring had a place to belong. Where brokenness that haunted with silence and stillness could always be mended and revived to tick-tick-tock once again. “Done!”
