Sunday, 21 April 2013

I once heard ... About the time healer

I once heard about a remote town in Switzerland that was home to a clock maker.
He had a small shop neighbouring the newsagent, and two doors down from the local butcher.

It was said that this clock maker was different.
He was not frequented for his meticulous clock faces, or for his dexterity at oiling clock gears.
His intricate cuckoo clocks were beautiful and delicate, it was said, but people came to him for something else.

He was an oldish man, with round spectacles that shielded his small eyes, and a face that could tell you a lot more than he ever did.
His hair was silver and wiry and scarce on the top of his head.
His suspenders were worn out red, with brass clips that were monogramed. 

I once heard that this clock maker, clock mender, could heal the bent, the broken, and the shattered with time as a cure.

"Time heals all wounds" was a science he had perfected and managed to master. Some say it was more a witch craft, others say it was a blessing, a gift, but no matter what anyone thought, everyone found themselves walking across that cobble stone street and opening that red wooden door with the circular window at one point or another in their life.

They say there was a different watch for everyone that came to him. The broken hearted wanted nothing but to forget their lost love, the mourning wanted nothing more than to forget the pain of loss, and the damaged wanted to forget their fears.

One by one they would come to him, and he would silently listen, and silently turn to the walls of his small shop looking at all the ticking clocks in all their shapes and sizes and colours. He would silently find the right one, go up to it and turn the hands of the clock around and around. There was never a specific number of turns anyone could figure out. Or any specific clock.

He knew which and how many.
And he would make the time it took to heal what hurt pass with a swift circular movement. Silently.

But as the days went by, it was said the time healer realised that his "customers" were repeating.
The same woman, from a few months ago would come back again to mend her re-broken heart with the passage of time, her pain being worse. The same man would come back again to mend his damaged pride, having fallen just as badly.
It is said he realised he was not really helping these people. But harming them.
While it was painful for them to go through what they were going through, in doing so they built a layer of armour against whatever else will inevitably come their way. They were learning from what they had been through, having become slightly bruised, or even scarred with the experience.  They were healing themselves with immunity and knowledge.

I heard how he realised he was not a healer. Silently.
And sadly.

Then there was a night a racket had been heard in the street. But no one had paid much attention.
It was said that the day after, the door to his shop was ominously ajar.

Upon entering, the townsfolk found all the clock faces broken, shattered, some even bloodied.
the cuckoo clocks had their little wooden birds hanging out of their little doors.

On the floor was a pool of blood. Nothing else.
He was gone.

I once heard about the little shop and it's time healer, and how he disappeared in a stain of red.

Some say he was murdered, some say it was an accident.
Others say he could not take the repeating pain anymore. That he could not take harming by healing anymore.

But everyone agreed on one thing:
Only time would tell. 


Ymn said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Ymn said...

Beautifully written as always!

Unknown said...

I really like your sharing. I hope you have a good day