Last fic of 2004 -- this one's for Sweeney Agonistes. 585
words that started out as a response to the
Dark
Is Rising Drabble Community's New
Year Challenge. It didn't turn out quite as I'd expected,
but it feels right to me.
Standard disclaimers apply. Merriman Lyon/Merlion, Gwion, and The
Dark Is Rising Sequence
are all property of the wonderful Susan Cooper.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Passing
By: Gramarye
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was late, yes, but he could not sleep, and the book he had
been reading earlier in the day
would surely be where he had left it, on the small round table in
the library.
One of the massive double doors was slightly ajar: it made no
noise when he pushed it open.
There was the table, and there was the book – and there was
Merlion, sitting in the chair beside
the table, as motionless as any piece of furniture.
Gwion slipped into the room, fully prepared to collect the
book and leave the Old One to continue
whatever private contemplation he was privately contemplating,
but before he could take two steps
Merlion quickly held up a hand and said:
‘Wait.’
And Gwion stopped, in mid-stride.
Merlion lowered his hand, but did not turn his head; he was
looking at something at the far end
of the room. Gwion turned to follow the other man’s gaze,
and blinked when he saw what the lion
was looking at.
It was a clock, of the tall wooden type that he had learned
was called a ‘grandfather’ clock. It was a
remarkably ugly specimen of its type, with dark worm-eaten wood
and overly ornate carvings and
Roman numerals picked out on the face in gilt paint. But what was
most remarkable about it was the
fact that it had not been there when he had been in the library
that afternoon.
It was there now, however, and the hands indicated that it was midnight, or would be within moments.
Gwion darted a quick glance at Merlion, but the Old One’s
expression was as unreadable as ever.
His gaze was fixed on the clock, and Gwion looked back at the
clock just in time to see the hands
come together, pointing straight up.
There was a soft whirring sound, barely audible, and then the clock began to chime.
First came the quarter-hour, then the half, then the
three-quarters, and finally the top of the hour.
The same four notes rearranged four times – a simple enough
pattern for a musician to detect –
with the faint echoes of each note weaving together to form an
odd little counterpoint.
A beat of silence, then, like a pause for breath. Just enough
time to let the echo evaporate into
nothing, and then the long slow strokes that tolled the hour.
Though the hands of the clock were plainly visible, Gwion
found himself counting all twelve
in his head. Only when the twelfth and final stroke had sounded
did he let out the breath he hadn't
realised he'd been holding.
He glanced over at Merlion, and their eyes met – only for
a moment, but it was long enough.
There was a defensive fierceness in the lion’s gaze, almost
as if he was challenging the harper
to ask why he was sitting alone in the library, staring a clock
that did not belong there, waiting
for an hour that would pass like any other.
But Gwion knew. Even in this land of eternal midsummer, there
were some things that could not
pass unnoticed...and, in a way, it was fitting that the only ones
present at the passing were the
Oldest of the Old Ones and a man who had once known what it was
like to be mortal.
'Happy New Year, Merlion,' he said quietly, and then turned on his heel and left the room.
It was late, after all. The book would be there in the morning, and for many mornings to come.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gramarye
gramarye@postmaster.co.uk
http://gramarye.freehosting.net
31 December 2004