The Timekeeper | ONC 2021

Chapter 1 - New Elmswell

The mournful wail of the foghorn cut through the dim silence of the city, echoing through the brick buildings that lined the streets. A lone carriage trudged along, the clop clop clop of the horse's hooves fading back into the silence as it passed.

Winter was quiet. The snowstorms covered buildings with a powdery white blanket; quilts, heavy coats, and fur muffs were pulled out of the closets and boxes they were previously stored in; and a crackling fire, necessary for warmth, could be found at all times inside any residence. Curtains were pulled closed to keep the warm air inside, and they remained shut for weeks at a time. The sun was rarely out, and when it was, it wasn't more than a pitiful light incapable of melting any of the snowbanks that had piled up. The streetlights were kept on nearly all day, although each one was only bright enough to light up a yard or two around it, the warm yellow glow illuminating the snowflakes as they drifted to the ground. People were rarely seen loitering on street corners and storefronts as they did throughout the rest of the year, nor leaving the warmth of their homes. When they did step outside, either for their daily commute or to make the journey to the grocer's to purchase food, they didn't stop for a conversation with whoever they ran into on the street. You wouldn't recognize your neighbor, nor your own mother under the layers of clothing needed to keep from freezing. Even the factories that could be relied on to keep puffing out their acrid yellow smoke, no matter the circumstances, seemed subdued by the weather. Winter was cold, dark, miserable, and winter was silent.

I exhaled slowly, watching my breath turn to small clouds of condensation as I pulled open the heavy wooden door to the post office, immediately greeted with the warm air from within. A tinkling bell signaled my arrival, startling the mangy brown dog lying in the corner who raised his head, letting out a whimper.

If the dog had a name, no one knew it. Blind in one eye and missing a leg, he spent his days lying on old quilts and being fed treats that were available to purchase from the grocer next door, a handful for a penny. He remained inside in the winter, and in the summer, made his way to the front porch of the post office, where he sat amongst the men as they stood around gossiping and children pulled on his tail. I had never seen the dog stand up, let alone walk, and I had a sneaking suspicion that the only way he made the migration from inside to the outdoors was by someone carrying him. And while his fur was matted, always had a weird smell to it, and he likely had more fleas than one could count, the post office mutt was a staple of New Elmswell and had been stationed here for as long as anyone could remember.

"Bram! There you are!" the postmaster said, standing up from his spot behind the counter so suddenly he knocked over several piles of envelopes and papers. "Oh, hell. Do you mind grabbing that for me? That's a good boy. I have the package for you, it's in the back though, wait for just a second, will you?" He disappeared through a doorway into the back mailroom, the ends of his ridiculously long scarf trailing behind him. Legend has it that during one particularly warm spring several years, Mrs. Reuben Foster had gotten into knitting, but could only make scarves, which no one needed in the warm weather, and so, she had consolidated her time into only making a singular scarf. It ended up being twice her height and absurdly impractical, but her husband, the postmaster Mr. Reuben Foster, proudly wore its crooked stitches and mismatched stripes like a decorated war hero might wear his medals. Seeing Mr. Reuben Foster wearing his scarf was a sure sign that winter was coming, and just like his grimy post office mutt, Mr. Reuben Foster's scarf was a landmark of New Elmswell.

I kneeled down, scraping the papers into a small collection of piles on the dusty floor. They were mostly small envelopes and notes written in Mr. Foster's illegible handwriting, which was somehow more terrifyingly eccentric than his scarf.

"Oh, thank you, Bram," Mr. Foster said, returning from the back room armed with a stack of small packages wrapped in butcher paper. "This one is for you." He handed me one of the packages, along with a small cream envelope. The fringed end of his scarf knocked over the piles of letters I had made as he did so. "Ah, that's my bad."