The Clock That Ran Backwards

In the harbour clock shop, a brass clock arrives without a name or note, ticking steadily backward through the afternoon. Señor Tiempo keeps it anyway, content to watch what the maker knew.

The harbour at three fifteen was the best version of itself.

The fishing boats were in. The nets were spread and drying. The café had put its chairs on the outside tables and gone quiet. The square above the beach was empty except for a cat conducting a thorough investigation of the fountain’s shadow. Three pigeons had decided the arrangement was acceptable. The whole place had exhaled. This happens when everyone inside agrees to stop for an hour and means it.

Prince Freddie liked the siesta harbour. He had got into the habit of walking down when his afternoon patrol brought him that way. The light was good. The heat had reached its full weight. There was nothing that urgently required a corgi.

Tiempo Honesto had its door open. This meant Señor Tiempo was in and between customers. At three fifteen, that placed him there for the rest of the afternoon. Freddie went in.

Señor Tiempo was at his workbench with a clock Freddie had not seen before. It was about the size of a small radio. It was brass-cased with a cream dial and plain numerals. It had arrived that morning, Señor Tiempo said. It had no name attached and no note. It was left outside the door before he had opened the shutters.

“Left for repair?” Freddie said.

“That’s the thing,” Señor Tiempo said. “It doesn’t need repair.”

Freddie looked at the clock. It was ticking steadily. The second hand was moving. But to the left.

He looked at it for a long moment.

“It runs backwards,” he said.

“Perfectly,” Señor Tiempo said. His tone was that of a clockmaker confronting something that broke all his instruments. It did nothing technically wrong. “The mechanism is correct. The spring is properly wound. Every gear is engaged as it should be. It is correctly incorrect. I have been sitting here for four hours. I cannot find a flaw.”

Freddie sat down beside the workbench. The clock ticked on to the left, past twelve, down through eleven, ten, nine, with complete composure.

“Why would someone want a clock that runs backwards?” he said.

“I have been asking myself this,” Señor Tiempo said. He picked up his coffee. It had been cold for some time. He set the clock on the edge of the workbench. They could each see it without craning. The afternoon sun was moving around to the west. The light came through the shop window at an angle. It caught its brass case and held it.

They sat with it for a while.

“There is another possibility,” Señor Tiempo said. “The person who made this was very good. They were also very strange. They did not feel they needed to explain themselves.”

Freddie’s tail moved once. “Those are often the best clocks.”

“This is true,” Señor Tiempo said. They were quiet again. The clock ticked steadily backward through the afternoon.

At some point a woman came in asking about a battery replacement. Señor Tiempo attended to her. Freddie watched the dial. The woman left. The shop was quiet again. The backwards clock had passed nine o’clock. It was working its way toward eight with no intention of stopping or explaining itself.

“What will you do with it?” Freddie said.

“Keep it,” Señor Tiempo said, without hesitation. “Someone will come for it. Or they won’t and it will stay. Either way, I would like to keep watching it. I have had sixty years of clocks that go the same direction. I find I am not tired of seeing one go the other way.”

He set it on the shelf above the workbench. It was between a carriage clock and a small barometer. It looked completely ordinary there. It ticked in the company of things that told time differently. Its second hand swung left with great dignity.

Freddie left as the harbour was coming back to life. Chairs were being put down outside the café. A man wheeled a bicycle. The boats’ rigging was beginning to chime as the sea breeze picked up. He walked home along the high path above the beach. He could see the full sweep of the coast. The lighthouse was at one end and the fishing boats at the other. The water was that particular flat blue of late afternoon in the good season.

The cottage was at the end of the path. His human’s bicycle was against the wall. The kitchen window was open. Freddie went in. He drank a long drink of water. He went to the bed.

He circled once, twice, three times. Lay down with his back against the warmth of the wall. One ear folded forward. One folded back. His breathing slowed almost immediately.

In the harbour, in Tiempo Honesto, a small brass clock ticked backward. It had passed seven o’clock. It was making its way toward six. It would reach six in exactly sixty minutes.

The End

Sleep well, Prince Freddie. In the harbour, the backwards clock has reached seven. It is making its way to six.