The King of Time: A Christmas short story
Once upon a time, in a small town, in a small home filled with small children, the Clock was King.
And a rather good king too, as he saw it. The people in his home rushed about this way and that according to his commands. He made sure they got to music lessons and doctor appointments, and that they went to bed at a reasonable time. Whenever they rushed past his position on the fireplace mantel, they would look up at his face framed in rich mahogany and he would see either fear or relief wash into their eyes.
Without him, what would they be? Little more than savages. Yes, it was a difficult job, keeping this rabble in line. But he had to admit, he loved it.
Because his influence did not stop with these minúte, day to day troubles. No, his real power was in the smaller circles on either side of his face, that marked the passing of weeks, months, and even years. With these, he could enact great joy, or great sorrow, in the lives of his subjects.
With a few months, he had eased the pain of the father, when he had lost a job. With a few years, he had made the mother of the house look at him, then into the mirror, and cry.
His newest subjects however, five year old Margaret and two year old John, were very frustrating. They didn’t take him seriously at all. Like he didn’t have the power to crush their spirits. They seemed to think they were immune to his rules. Ah well, they would find out soon enough. He was the ultimate power in this house, and no one escaped him.
One particular day in December, the Clock King was being especially demanding. His best servant, Mother, was rushing around obeying his orders, making Christmas goodies to deliver to neighbors, shopping for and wrapping Christmas presents for Margaret and John, while also attempting to cook and clean and send out cards to family and friends.
John however, in his usual way, was trying his very best to stop Mother from obeying him. Ugh. He would resort to any tactic it seemed, including crying and screaming, which made the Clock King want to push the minutes faster until the tantrum was over.
Margaret on the other hand seemed content to sit at the table with some paper and pencils, sketching calmly. She still wasn’t afraid of him as he liked people to be, but at least she wasn’t distracting Mother from her frenzy.
Soon the sun began to set, upon his command of course, and perfectly on cue, father arrived home through the door. He loved the way Father obeyed even when he wasn’t in the house. That was a well-trained subject. Father strode toward mother with a jolly smile on his face, and kissed her soundly, despite Mother being up to her elbows in dishwater.
Then he kissed Margaret on the top of her head, and strode over to John, scooping him up off the floor and spinning him around in the air.
“Merry Christmas!” he yelled to the house. Though that was incorrect. Christmas day would not arrive for another 3 days, 7 hours and 43 minutes. Father would know this if he would study the Clock King’s face more.
The entire house seemed happier and lighter with Father’s cheer, such that even the Clock King acknowledged it, and pulled the seconds to a slow. He could be a gracious king, after all. Mother abandoned the rest of the dirty dishes, and after a small meal, the small family sat together around the fireplace, to bask in his gracious gift -- a glorious evening together.
“Margaret,” Father asked, “Do you know why we celebrate Christmas?”
“Presents!!” Margaret replied.
“Presents are fun,” Mother said, “But that is not why we celebrate Christmas,”
“Santa Claus?” Margaret tried again.
“Santa Claus is also wonderful, but he is not the reason either,”
“Then why?” the little girl said, and stuck her lower lip out in a pout.
“Because of a King,” Father replied. “Who was born as a tiny baby, years and years ago,”
“Is he still the King?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, he is always the King. Because this baby,” Father explained, “Grew up to be the greatest man of all time. He lived in a desert land, and when he was grown, he died and came back to life. He conquered death, so that we can live forever,”
The Clock King, from his place over the mantel, froze. There was… another King? One whom time did not effect? If this man from the desert marched in and made his people live forever, then time did not matter anymore. He did not matter anymore. Why would you rush to appointments if you had an eon to get there? Why would you fear age, if there was no death waiting for you at the end? All of his power would be lost.
This. Could NOT be.
In a moment, he brought time back up to speed, and then some. Mother glanced at his face.
“Good heavens! It’s getting late—we had better put these munchkins off to bed,”
Father sighed. “I just wish we had more time,”
Mother leaned in and lay her head on his chest. “We have all the time, darling. Because of the King, we have eternity.”
WHAT. He felt the rage boiling up in his gears. Even Mother? He was losing them so quickly. Well, they would have this last night to sleep, and then he would show them what power he REALLY had. The family went off to bed then, not knowing what terrors awaited them in the morning.
Part 2
Your Holidays will FLY BY. He raged, as they all woke and rushed to school, and to work, and to charity events.
You will never have a moment’s peace! He rang each hour ever louder and louder. You will only have enough moments to see what others have and you do not, then BACK to the rush. He made the movements of his minute hand extra sharp and precise, as the family marched to the beat of his will once again.
If they were always running, always working, always following his orders, then they wouldn’t have time to think about the man from the desert. There would be no more evenings like last night, where they talked about this new King.
Fortunately, his plan worked. Christmas day came and went, and there was hardly more than a mention of the man from the desert again.
One thing had caught his attention however, in all the Holiday hubbub. Margaret had slowed down even further, than her normal calm self. Mother had to put in much more effort to get Margaret to school, and Margaret cried if she tried to take her to gymnastics. She slept for most of the day, when she was able, and looked like the living dead when she could not.
A few days after Christmas, Mother finally paused long enough to look critically at Margaret.
“We need a doctor’s appointment,” she said, and called the doctor’s office, while glancing at the clock.
The next day, a doctor came to the house. From the other room, the Clock King heard the doctor say that Margaret didn’t have much time.
His hands froze in place.
Margaret?
She was supposed to have many years. He…he had planned to make them wonderful for her. Despite how she disregarded him now…he hadn’t meant this. He felt sick, that he had wasted moments for this little, little girl, whom he loved.
He pulled back on his gears, and attempted now to rectify what he had done. He would slow time. Margaret would lose nothing.
But to his horror, his gears kept on rolling.
He used all of his might, to try to freeze his hands in place, but they ticked on, as constant as they ever had been.
He…couldn’t stop them. He realized with a start that he had never been able to stop them, or slow anything for any amount of time.
As he sat on the fireplace, thinking this, the family also seemed to float around the house in disbelief. Mother and Father both cried, and the doctor appointments became the only items on Mother’s to do list. They were doing what they could on their own, to give Margaret more time, but she did not seem to improve.
The Clock was not the King of time. He was nothing. Just a wooden box of mechanical gears. And in the end, he could not help Margaret to be there to see the smaller circles on his face change.
But as he gloomed, a bright thought beamed through the clouds. He remembered what Father had said earlier, those days before Christmas. The man from the desert. If the family became his subjects, they would live forever, wouldn’t they?
He became excited as he thought. That King truly did have power over time. Surely if they lived by his rules, he would save them.
But how to tell his people to look to this new King?
An idea came to him then.
“Cuckoo bird,” he said to the creature in his head.
“Yes, your majesty?”
“How hard can you jump?”
“Very hard. We have just been wound up!”
“I want you to jump your hardest today.”
Then, with a Herculean effort, and help from the cuckoo bird springing outward, he dropped off the edge of the mantel. And shattered.
Mother rounded the corner quickly at the sound of the crash, and gasped when she saw him.
“My Grandfather’s clock!” She picked up the pieces. His mahogany frame was scratched, a corner had been chipped off, and his beautiful face was spread wide across the floor.
Gingerly, she carried him over to the table in the small kitchen, and the family entered around her. She sat for a long moment, holding his pieces.
“I can’t help but feel,” Mother said, “That this clock is trying to teach us a lesson,”
Yes, the clock thought faintly. He groaned as Mother gently pressed one of his hands back into place.
“Our lives have shattered too. We thought…” She began to tear up again. “We thought we were going to have more time.”
The family pulled close around her then, holding each other tight, as tears sprung into each of their eyes.
“But the time never mattered.” She grabbed their hands. “We will all be together forever, because of Christ.”
“The King,” Margaret whispered.
Then carefully, over several days, between bouts of crying and doctor appointments, Mother and Margaret began to glue him back together.
They laughed, as they did so. Mother placed glue carefully on his cracked edges, and Margaret placed brightly colored stickers over the scratches on his body.
When they were finished, small holes let air blow in among his gears, and the edges of the cracked glass did not fit perfectly together. In several spots, glitter glue had been used, and oozed down the surface of his body.
But he had never felt so whole.
He was placed back in his position above the fireplace, only this time, he was a reminder to the family of something entirely different than he had been before. To make moments your own. To treasure them, and each other
So it was, that like the King of old, the man of the desert, he was now lowly of appearance. His hands still counted the minutes, the seconds. But he now stood for so much more.
He was not a ruthless ruler, or generous prince. He could not control the passing of minutes, or seconds. But the clock was honored now to be a worthy subject and reminder to the family, of the true King of Time
Margaret lived, and the family remembered this Christmas and the lessons they learned for the rest of their lives.
