The Grandfather Clock

Really, the house itself is quite unremarkable; old fashioned fireplaces, monotonous wooden floors, brownish rugs, all of it giving the feeling that the house belongs to your great-grandparent and is closed to exploring or making yourself comfortable. Nothing exciting, except for the clock.

Any time you are in the house at night, you'll hear the clock counting time from the dining room. The swinging of it's pendulum will echo through the dark halls and rooms of the two-story, ancient house and reach your ears wherever you are. And any time you see it, it's sure to catch your eye. A very curious clock--a grandfather clock--and one need only look at it, need only listen to it, to notice something about it. It's hard to put a finger on, but there is something about the grandfather clock counting time from the dining room; something... odd.

Perhaps it's the curvature of the wood, for though small parts of the wood are now splintered and shattered, its shape still remains. But that can't be it; at least, not all of it. The color of the paint? That blue--though I doubt it was always as light a shade as it is now--is a very strange color for a clock. Or maybe it's the tarnished pendulum, which looks like it must at one point have been engraved. It could be the sound it makes when the pendulum swings. You might even mistake that sound for a laugh.

There must be something that causes me, every time I look at the grandfather clock, or listen to it ticking, tocking, and laughing almost, to nearly hear it say:

"I know something you don't know."

It makes me wonder what kinds of secrets this clock holds. It makes me wonder whether this clock has seen something, or known something that, by now, is ages old. Some secret someone took to the grave long ago, not knowing there was a witness, or an object, that held his secret. It makes me wander back through time, imagining, envisioning whatever secret that might be.

I can almost see some enterprising businessman in a blue waistcoat hosting a dinner with his colleagues, smiling because his life's work has at last been accomplished. Never again will his family sink into poverty. At last, he's made it. He raises his glass to toast. Not once do his thoughts turn to an old grandfather clock, sitting in the corner of the room behind him, its blue, faded paint shining in the lamplight. I try to envision it then, try to see if this is its secret, but no. Even then, the clock is simply sitting there, smiling in a way, saying:

"I know something you don't know."

I imagine some group of patriotic Americans holding this house, fighting back a British assault. As pieces of wood fly around in frenzy, the noise quiets. For one moment, perhaps longer, the British hold back, or perhaps retreat. One of the soldiers inspects the damage on the house, finding that one of the bullets hit the old grandfather clock and splintered the wood on its side, scratching the blue paint, but other than that, it's fine. It still ticks and still tells time. Its tick even almost sounds like a laugh, perhaps a laugh of defiance? He turns to check everything else, and the grandfather clock behind his back wordlessly speaks:

"I know something you don't know."

Deeper into time my mind travels in its attempt to uncover this secret, back to an age of pirates, as a group of oddly dressed men are unloading a grandfather clock they just stole into their headquarters. The captain and his most trusted advisers are seated around a table discussing the voyage and its profits. The only people to have thought of the grandfather clock are the two men who unloaded it, and they quickly turn to leave the room. They don't take much notice of the clock itself, its paint now a royal blue, its wood now smooth, its shining pendulum now engraved with a wondrous design, swinging in its place, ticking, tocking, laughing. Even then, the grandfather clock still says the thing it has been saying for centuries:

"I know something you don't know."

Whatever secret that clock holds, it must have held that secret since the day it was crafted. Since the day a pair of skilled hands created the odd curves of the wood, since the day those skilled hands engraved on the pendulum, and for some reason painted the wood blue. Perhaps an old master created that clock using all of the secrets of his trade. Thus, the clock's words would be intended for the other craftsmen, telling of a secret they could never replicate. Perhaps it was crafted by an apprentice who, not realizing his work would inspire curiosity hundreds of years later, simply gave it to his master to sell. Thus, the clock's secret would be that an apprentice crafted it.

It seems more likely though, that the craftsman was holding a different kind of secret. Something he wasn't allowed to tell, but told that clock. Something that he kept saying as he crafted it, not knowing that the words he was saying were shaping his work. Some secret so enormous he couldn't think of anything else. Thus, the clock's secret would be much deeper.

With all of my speculating, I still could not say for sure what secret that clock held. What time it gained that secret. I stopped my efforts for a while and turned to face the clock.

"What happens when you fade? What happens when you are so far beyond repair that you can no longer hold your secret? What will become of that secret?"

The clock seemed to slow for just a moment, as if considering this possibility.

"You are made of wood and that wood is already rotten. The metal of your pendulum is already tarnished. You of all things should know the workings of time. You of all objects should know the never-ending, relentless pounding of that force. What secret do you have that you've never told? What small thing is so important? A treasure perhaps, hidden within your clockwork? A secret held by your creator?"

The pendulum mysteriously stopped swinging. For only a few moments, the pendulum just hung there. The clock just paused as if it was thinking. It seemed as if the inevitable doom of the words I had spoken had almost frozen the clock in time. And in a whisper, I promised,

"I will find your secret. I will uncover that word or trinket, or whatever it is you hold. I will not allow your secret to die."

The moment ended. The pendulum once more began to swing, as if pushed by some internal force; as if motivated by a spirit. The clock resumed its ticking. The silent laughter began again, the invisible smile returned, and the grandfather clock continued with its counting of time.

It took time and many disappointments, but motivated by a promise to an object that could not live, I traced the descendants of successful businessmen. I found one who had lived in the house that held the clock. The clock had been there before he moved in. I searched through volumes of books about the wars against Britain, and finally found a battle that occurred at the clock's home. The man who owned it at the time had bought it from elsewhere. I learned everything I could about pirates, and their hideouts, finding that one of the items stolen was a grandfather clock that they had placed inside their headquarters. Finally, I managed to trace the clock and the mystery back to the family that, four hundred years ago, gave the clock its secret. And they told it to me.

I found the reason for the grandfather clock's laughter. I found the intrigue and the tale that had created that clock. I found the secret.

I will not tell though, because it's better that if you ever see that clock, you'll see its smile. That if you ever smell that clock, you'll smell the faintest smell of the sea. That if you ever hear that clock, you'll hear it ticking, tocking, laughing, and telling the truth when it says,

"I know something you don't know."