The Gilded Sonnerie

The Gilded Sonnerie This is a fictional story about a clock maker's encounter with a ghost.

It was a carriage clock and quite magnificent. Huge for the type, it stood fully 10 inches tall. It was dated 1826, found engraved on the base. Typically French, it was of the highest horological art form, the levers and detentes of the movement pierced out and shaped in swirling, whirling patterns of aesthetic delight. It was what's called a grande sonnerie, or great strike. It would strike the hours on a bell, and then the quarter hours on a little gong. For instance, at quarter past seven, it would strike seven times on the bell, and then once on the gong. At half past, another seven and then twice on the gong and so on. It had a perpetual calendar, which I confess had given me considerable trouble, an alarm mechanism which was easy, and also it was a repeater. A little button at the top of the case could be depressed, which would act on a plate under the case and the previous hour and quarter would be struck. Repeaters, now, are anachronisms, merely fascinating adjuncts. These days, we have digital clocks that light up and can be seen when we roll over in bed at night, but in those old days, the repeater was very necessary. The case was gilt, with fluted columns, and wonderfully executed flowers and leaves surrounding them. The handle at the top was a circular wreath that folded when not in use. I'd removed the movement from the case very carefully, had serviced and cleaned it with proper concern for its condition. It belonged to a gentleman who possessed a fine clock collection, and this was his latest acquisition. He didn't actually tell me how much it cost, but he did say that the bidding had been fierce. He'd purchased it from one of the smaller houses in Paris, Artcurial, and ascertained in advance that the clock didn't work. It had probably sat on someone's shelf for a hundred years; all the oil hardening in the pivots and bearings. Now, though, it was back to its former glory - except for one silly little fault. It struck all the hours perfectly, except when it came to 12 o'clock. It struck 13 times! 1 to 11, no problem at all, then with the hands showing 12, that wretched count of thirteen. I was being paid handsomely for this restoration, and there was no hurry on the job, but it was just one of those silly little faults that nag at you. No-one had 'butchered' the movement, thank goodness, so nothing made sense. I pulled every trick in the book, and some that weren't, but to no avail. I spent a whole day trying to puzzle out the problem. There was an answer, there had to be, but for the moment it eluded me. I'd set my workshop in what had been the attached car port of the house. I decided to call it a night at about 9 o'clock, walked up the three steps into the kitchen and thence to the drawing room. I poured myself an excellent single malt and absently watched television in an effort to take my mind from the problem. The whiskey did its work, and I went to bed at about eleven. I slept fitfully for about an hour, then awoke and twisted and turned until around two in the morning. Something more than idle curiosity drew me to the shop. It was as though I had to go. I can't explain it, but I slipped on a shirt and trousers, made my way through the kitchen, reached the steps leading to the shop - and stopped dead. I shivered involuntarily. An ethereal green light drifted around the bench and the spectral figure of a man was standing behind it, holding the movement of the clock upon which I'd been working. He wore a smock and a shapeless beret. He raised his head and looked at me, a slow smile drifting across his face. "Je la fabrique, M'sieur," he said in a gentle voice. He was the maker of this masterpiece. I knew that instinctively. He placed the movement back on the bench with infinite tenderness, and suddenly I felt incredibly tired. Nothing mattered except sleep. I turned, shuffled off to bed and slept until 9 o'clock that morning. I leaped up, showered, shaved and went straight into the shop. There was the movement where he'd left it. I tried the strike. One, two, all the way around to eleven. Then the final test. Another thirteen? But no. Twelve o'clock. My nighttime visitor had come to repair his own. I'd always been happy in the shop, but now it held a sort of added comfort, as though the old clockmaker was still watching over me from beyond the veil. The Gilded Sonnerie