The Clock King

For eighty-six long years the old man had fought the war against the Clock King. His arthritic hands, poor vision, and balding head were his scars from the many battles. For a time it seemed he had found a way to momentarily escape the evil king's domain, but the Clock King always collects his dues. The old man settled down on the lightly padded wooden bench and tested the pedals of the steel guitar with his feet and lightly plucked the strings with his fingers. This man was determined to fight to his last breath.

I stood silently at the fireplace in the old man's basement ignoring the searing heat at the back of my legs. My full attention was on the warrior. He leaned over and spit dark fluid in a rusted coffee can and wiped the left over dribble with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Then he reached behind him and flicked a switch on the wall. With a snap hiss an electric guitar amp announced it's awakening, the hand spun pickups crackled and popped, and the air seemed to leave the room. The ritual was almost complete. The warrior's battered fingers lightly danced across the metal strings of the guitar while the long metal bar shaped the sound to his choosing. The weapon was tuned, his courage was stoked, and the warrior's heart was hardened for the battle.

I felt myself slip to the edge of the King's domain. His guards were there to try and stop me. Responsibility tried to pull me back, there were things to do and it was urgent they were completed, but I resisted. Perception tried to convice me that what I was experiencing was not real, that the Clock King would collect his dues, but I continued listening. Maturity explained that daydreaming was for children and I was not a child any longer, with adulthood comes wisdom, but I craved to be a child again. The warrior and I broke through the barrier and we became lost in a world of our own making.

The music lifted us on waves of brilliant color in an emerald and crimson sea, with each note plucked a star burst into life in the evening sky, and a lavender sun was in a perpetual state of sunrise. For what seemed like days we enjoyed each other's company. Stories were told, tears were shed, and not a word was spoken. Suddenly the world started to vibrate and pulse. The stars fell from the sky, the sun descended past the horizon line, and darkness enveloped the world as my cell phone vibrated in the pocket of my jeans.

Unfortunately perception was correct and reality came crashing back as the warrior collapsed ontop of the guitar and the music ended. I ignored my phone, and rushed over from the fire place to feel the old man's pulse. It was weak and fluttery. I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs to his bedroom. As I laid him on the bed his eyes slightly opened and he motioned for me to lean down where he could whisper to me.

"My time is up... so much I wanted to show you and so little time. Remember me."

The old man passed away as I sat at his bedside. It was months before I returned to the basement of the warrior's house. Dust had settled on the amplifier and the bulb had blown in the ceiling light. A beam of sunlight shined in through a small window and illuminated the steel guitar in the surrounding darkness. I sat down on the small wooden bench and picked up the heavy steel slide and the finger picks. I pulled my fingers across the strings and found myself amazed that they were still in tune. The memory in my fingers took me to the first song the warrior taught me. The tune of "Amazing Grace" softly carried me to the timeless world of my imagination. I found my grandfather waiting for me.