"The Girl and the Clockmaker"

 

 

In the end, all there will be is imagination

 

In the end, all there will be is dancing

 

In the end,

 

all will join in the carnival of life

 

There's clockmaker in the village, who maneuvers through thistle and twine, birch cut from the forest black, he’s the craftsman, the keeper of the keys. In his little shop by the bell and tower, he governs his world.  Its lay upon the work bench, that broken down bit of nothing upon a table near some aged work boots. Yet it shines forth, illuminating a special secret world within. Oh but what a realm it is! Through gingerbread doors and sugared gates, whirl the ghosts beyond a shadowed veil. There, within the toy castle, lay a heap of wonder that any outsider may call to splendor. But who lay inside you may wonder?

 

Lords and governesses, little doll youths and miniature pets that snap and howl the porcelain moon. A billowing curtain no bigger than your thumb or mine lays a veil to the ballroom where they all take to dance. Beyond this upon the balcony overlooking the crystalline moon which glows with a phosperhant shine like beeswax and candy, two mechanized lovers swoon to the night. The lake lay below-no pool too deep nor puddle to shallow, it is emblazed with every color of a painters hand. Now then, we must wonder, who is that magic man that fashioned such a creation? Is he a sorcerer, a magician? A humble craftsman, or something more splendid?

 

Drosselimier he is called by the town folk. Yet who is this lad who finds himself with the magician? An assistant, an apprentice? Hans-he is called. Hans who is so awkward, yet governed by a saintly heart-making his way, both this way and that, carrying boxes to and fro, out and about whatever tasks he is may to lay on. Tell you his story, I shall.Young Hans, with hair of black and heart of gold, found himself in the hall of a mad tyrant. The princess of a shallow vein fallen ill by the claws of vermin, for nobody can find rest in the eyes of a lunatic. “Off with his head”, he declares in a fit of tyrannical rage only a despot would comprehend. Time is but a cruel mistress, and a clock ticks steadily, while solution is sought. Poor Hans and his uncle, for what is the heart of an artist in the face of the crazed? Yet fate may still whistle in the favor of the good soul if he lends an ear.

 

A solution was found. Hans and his uncle, clockmaker and nephew in splendor and pomp, making their way to the hall of the king. The maiden was ungrateful, a heart as vulgar as her face now restored, stepping back in fear, he felt the bite of something sharp to his young flash and fell to sleep. He did not hear. No, he did not hear. He was safe, or so it seemed. Safe from the cries of “isn’t is revolting”. He did no hear “You’re now banished from my realm”. He did not hear the cry for vengeance from the crimson eyes of the demon rodent with the misshapen crown. He did not feel the tears of his uncle upon his wooden cheek. Now then dear Hans, come awake. There was a crack, loud as the thunder of moors.

 

He lay awake, by the toll of a bell. The elegant halls of the manor house, where a glass chamber is his home. The face that greeted him was that of beauty, young and effervescent. She saw in him all the splendor only youth can see in the world. In no time, there was a call-that for blood. The beast before him, why his vengeful cry? “”Come to meet your fate”, and he taunted him and gathered forth his men at arms. Rats, hordes of them. Hideous and vile and they moved in upon the elegantly tiled floors of the tidy Christmas room. They thrust a sword into his hand. It was him and the king of the rats. “Doll prince!”, he teased, as the vermin let force obscene sneers. Making his way to the tannenbaum, sword in hand, a doll is forced to be a warrior, pursued by a mad rat king. He catches himself, if only for a second, in the reflection of an orb. His young features, his youthful face-is that of a doll. Horrified by what has come of him, he turns to see the rat king, by the height of the wyvern compared to him. He lunges forth. A light flashes-he plunges down, in the face of death.

 

Ascending the tree, the reluctant doll prince whipping his brow as the girl looks on in fear and fascination, amplified by her youthful whimsy. Drosselmier looms forth like a snake king from the distance, seemingly unmoved- the ever present puppet master of Christmastide. For what can know the heart of magic but youth itself?

The girl awoke. Was it a dream? A wild sensation of panic fills her. Making her way to the parlor, she seeks out the prince. Nowhere to be seen. Nary a coat on her back, she flees into the village to the heart of the square. For it is the after Christmas and the children are at play. She dodges the whirling jump ropes and ball and sticks to the home of the magical man in the ember shed. Knocking wildly she screams to see him. Now here, said the clockmaker in the coat of black, worry not my dear, for there is someone you may wish to meet. The girl, cheeks still wet from Christmas tears, looks to her back, as the village bells rings-appeared the boy she had seen in her dream.

 

The awkward boy with the heart of gold, was this the prince that she did hold? He makes his way to as she stood and froze, fallen ashen cheeks like rose. Hello, was all she could say. She smiled and gave her hand-as the roster crowed across the land. The lesson pilgrim is none to expire, for magic lives on-by the magician named Drosselmier.