Quiet the Bells

It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen. The mouse ran down the clock and straight into the cat’s open maw. That’s what you get for having a schedule. They had put the world on a schedule. I’ve not yet met Them, but someday I hope I’ll be invited to brunch.

While the others in my sector dream their ordered dreams of gray, I peek behind the curtain at the former master of schedules. No longer are we dragged behind Apollo’s chariot wheels. His power had been greatly reduced by the electric light, but then They, our clock makers, finally left him on the side of the road. I may be one of the few left who knows the God of the Sun is still doing his job. The rest of the world keep their curtains closed and listen because only the chimes of the clock matter. Not the overworn path of the sun. The chimes tell you when to wake, when to eat, and tell the sleeping how long they have left to dream. I think, a long time ago, we called certain points day and others night. Maybe that was a story my parents made up. Now there is the waking, the working, the sleeping. Outside our covered windows, bright or dark, no longer matters. Just the ringing of the bells.

The abominable ringing. Pillows over my head, sheets in my ears, nothing blocks the pealing bells. Once, I came so close to stabbing my ears with a fork. But even the deaf cannot escape. The very air vibrates with each ring. It’s like we are all a still pond and with each chime They throw a rock to make us ripple. But I found the source of the rocks, and now I wait.

I wait for the sun to hide. I wait for the few stars strong enough to overcome the city lights. I wait for the chimes to build and call out eight, the time to wake. Then I will hear the world around me bustle and shuffle with near constant exhaustion, the schedule leading them by the neck to take showers and eat breakfast, then head off to work or school. But, today, when the time comes to leave, when they wait and wait for the chimes to count nine, there will only be eight again. Oh, I cannot wait! How confused they will be!

I wonder what they will do. Will they simply mill around in their day suits, looking for that last chime? Will they still go to work, hearing some phantom ninth? Or will it cause them to wake ever further and open the curtains to look at the stars they just broke their fast with?

Oh, the time is coming now. It’s begun. It will begin!

One. This will wake up the mice. Two. And set them to run. Three. The cats may be waiting. Four. But we will overstuff them. Five. And they will explode. Six. The grand schedule will fall apart. Seven. Time will be relative again. Eight. The sun will once again ascend.

Nine.

The sound of a thousand feet march down the halls as they did the nine before and they will do the next nine. As their sound fades, there is a large knock on my door, heavy, like a bear coming to invite me to a picnic. Perhaps I will have brunch with Them after all. I look out at the stars and think on how they, too, once set the pace of our lives. I fix them in my thoughts. Maybe one of the last who will look for their faded beauty.

I let the bears at the door escort me down the empty halls. I doubt I’ll hear the chimes call out ten, or anything else again. I’ve run down the clock and the cat is waiting. But past its open maw, deep down in the dark of its throat, I imagine my stars will be waiting for me. The quiet stars.