The Night the Morning Disappeared – Chapter 1: The Seventh Chime

When the bell struck for the seventh time, it was still night.

Lio stood on the ladder in front of the clockwork, a spanner held between his teeth. Below him, Master Deren snored in an armchair. Forty-three clocks ticked on the walls. None showed the same time. That was normal in the workshop. All forty-three stopping at once was not.

Lio took the spanner from his mouth. The pendulums hung motionless. A tooth in the great tower mechanism had bent. He touched it with his fingertip. Warm. Not the warmth of a hand. As warm as a cup you ought to leave alone a little longer.

“Master?”

Deren muttered something about the baker’s bill.

“It isn’t getting light.”

Now the old man opened his eyes.

You could see the sea through the workshop window. Usually a grey strip appeared above the low islands first. Then the roofs of Tiraven became visible, the gulls began quarrelling and the fishermen down in the harbour complained about the weather. Today the ships lay on the water like cut-out shadows. No grey strip. No gulls.

Deren stood up. He drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat, opened it and immediately closed it again. Lio had caught a glimpse of the dial. There had been no hands. Only a black circle.

“You stay here,” Deren said.

He went to the door. Before his hand reached the bolt, someone knocked from outside. Three quick knocks, one slow.

Deren looked at Lio. “Did you lock the back door?”

“Yes.”

“Then unlock it.”

The knocking came again. This time from the back door.

Lio climbed down the ladder. “Who is it?”

Deren put a hand on his arm. His grip was firm. “If you hear your name, don’t answer.”

Then he turned out the light.

In the darkness, the clocks started again. One tick. Another. Then a jumble of slow clacks and thin, frantic clicks. Lio could barely make out his master’s eyes.

“Too late,” Deren whispered.

Something slid under the front door. A narrow strip of paper with a blue shimmer.

Lio bent down.

“Don’t touch it.”

But he already had the paper between his fingers.

It was a map of Tiraven. He recognised the harbour, the Salt Steps and the square with the dry fountain. A street that did not exist ran through the middle of the city. It began here, at the workshop, and led out across the water. At the end was a single word: TOMORROW.

Below the map was a message. In his handwriting.

If the sun doesn’t come, go to the lighthouse. Trust the girl with the red sleeve. And don’t let Deren open the watch.

Lio looked up. His master already had the pocket watch in his hand again.

“How do you know about the map?” Lio asked.

Deren did not answer. His thumb rested on the catch. Light seeped from the case, fine as a thread. It ran across his fingers and vanished between the floorboards.

Outside, a voice said, “Lio?”

It was his mother’s voice. Lio had not heard it for three years.

His master flinched.

“It isn’t her.”

The voice again. Closer. “Open up. I’m cold.”

Lio looked towards the door. Water gleamed beneath the bolt. It gathered in a puddle, although no rain was falling outside. In its centre shone the reflection of a bright midday sun.

“What have you done?” he asked.

Deren pressed the pocket watch to his chest. “I wanted one day back.”

A horn sounded from the harbour. Not the short signal of the fishing boats. A deep note that reached into Lio’s teeth.

The map moved in his hand. A ship appeared on the drawn sea. It had no sails. A chain hung from its bow, and from the chain hung a small, dark sun.

“Listen to me,” Deren said. “The morning won’t come back on its own. If that ship leaves the harbour, this night will become a place. Then we won’t find our way out.”

The bolt rattled at the back door. An unfamiliar voice called, “If anyone’s alive in there: I’ve got about a minute’s patience left!”

Lio held the map beneath the last glowing indicator lamp on the clockwork. At the bottom was a date. The following day’s date. Beside his signature was a stain, dark red and already dry.

He slid back the bolt of the back door.

A girl in a yellow harbour coat stood before him. Her right sleeve was stained red. In her left hand she held a boat hook; in her right, the unscrewed lens of a lantern.

“Good,” she said. “You haven’t left yet.”

“Do we know each other?”

She looked at the map. Then at his hands.

“Not yet.”

Behind them, Deren’s pocket watch sprang open.

To be continued.

Not yet.

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