Chapter Two: Prospero

One Hundred Twenty Five Stories Ago, Nine to Midnight


Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The Clockwork Chamber of Prospero is arguably one of the most magnificent of the manifest marvels of Mysterious Paris. Born from the fictions of the latter 1800’s, Mysterious Paris is a formalized fractal figment. A fiction made real and preserved in the hearts of storytellers everywhere.

But I digress. As I was saying, the Clockwork Chamber was a marvel of mechanical precision, a work of distilled genius fueled by obsession. For Prospero was a master of moments. A maestro who orchestrated the harmonics of time to his every whim.

The clocks that festooned every wall of the Chamber came in various and wondrous shapes, colors, textures and tastes. From the fabled Spinning Heliotrope- a bloodstone that splintered time like a prism, the Cuckoo Egg which hatched into a flock of precisely twelve birds that foretold the events of twelve of the hours of the day, the Antiquity Arabesque- an infinitely spiraling non-Euclidean geometric pattern that revealed visions of the past at the cost of your sanity, the Simultaneous Bell which allowed the bearer to participate in more than one event at the same time for as long as it was ringing, the Epoch Savor- an unparalleled gastronomic delight, which upon consumption allowed one to travel to parallel timelines, all these and more were testaments to Prospero’s genius.

But perhaps his greatest creation was the Slice of Eternity. A minute hourglass, no larger than a child’s thumb which glowed in rosy hues of scarlet in the daylight, and deep indigo at night. If one were to hold it up and examine it closely so as to see the grains contained within, one would see that each multi-hued grain was unique from each other, as unique as one moment from the next to be precise. Ground from the powdered remains of a timeline that had slipped into obsolescence, Prospero bound an infinitesimal fragment of Eternity, a supercilious slice of sentient time was locked within the grains of sand. The hourglass murmurs softly as the grains fall down, speaking the secret language of time, that only the especially gifted or hopelessly insane have mastered. And it comes as no surprise that Prospero has been considered alternately one or the other by many of his friends and acquaintances. For to say that Prospero was obsessed with time and things temporal would be like saying that rain is wet, thunder loud, and the sun blinding. Such blatantly obvious things need not be spoken of.

There was however one other thing that occupied Prospero. Or to be more precise, there was one person that filled the only spare corner of his mind not filled with thoughts of time. Her name was Livinia and her beauty and quiet gentleness set off a storm in Prospero’s perfectly ordered world. Her slightest smile set the tick-tock rhythms of his clockwork world in disarray, much to his helpless delight and dismay.

Perhaps this would explain why he was less than receptive when the Master of the Marquee appeared at his Clockwork Chamber, precisely as predicted by the fourth bird from the Cuckoo Egg that day. Prospero had known the Master of the Marquee for some amount of time, more than would make them simple acquaintances, but not quite enough yet to be friends.

Unfortunately for the Master of the Marquee, his timing was less than auspicious. For on that very day, the lovely Livinia had agreed to go out on a picnic with Prospero. A momentous event for the lovesick man to be sure. So he was very much distracted by thoughts of his imminent tryst even as he politely offered the Master of the Marquee a glass of fine cider and some sharp aged cheddar soaked in wine, a snack which he had just prepared in anticipation of his visitor. “I also have chilled grapes if you wish.”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid this isn’t a simple social visit, and there are matters of some urgency we have to discuss.” The Master of the Marquee straightened the collar of his tunic which blazed a brilliant crimson in the sunlight that streamed through the window behind him.

“Is that so?” Prospero wondered if he should pack some of the chilled grapes for the picnic.

“Forgive me. I know this is rather sudden. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”

“Not so, but you had best hurry so we can be done. I have an appointment with a most extraordinary woman in precisely twenty seven hundred passes of the pendulum. Or thirty seven hundred revolutions of the water wheel if you wish”

“The long and short of it is that the war is about to begin again and I need you. I need your skills.”

“Your wars of light and dark are of no concern to me.” Prospero nibbled absently on a slice of cheese. “You should know my stand quite clearly by now. Time will flow, events move from one to the next regardless of which of you emerges victorious.”

“But there are other things-“

“More important than the flow of time? I suppose you think so, but I do not share your view.”

“There is considerable danger to you and your world. Surely you must realize this.”

“Perhaps. But I will deal with it in my own way. All in good time.” Prospero rubbed his perfectly trimmed goatee and smiled at his little jest.

“Consider then the ostrich.” The Master of the Marquee turned away from his host to look out the window at the cerulean skyline of Mysterious Paris. He took off his top hat and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“The flightless bird with a neck as long as a serpent? What of it?”

“It senses danger and reacts by burying its head in the sand. Where, one supposes, it feels that it has evaded danger when in fact it has merely deluded itself into a false sense of security without really removing the threat to itself at all.” The Master of the Marquee put his top hat back on. He reached into his pocket and produced a roll of tickets. He tore one off and handed it to Prospero. “I hope that you do not come to regret your indifference, sir. But should you have a change of heart, take this and I thank you for your time.”

“Very well.” Prospero frowned slightly. “Though I mislike your tone, I respect your candor” He pocketed the ticket and watched as the Master of the Marquee slowly grew blurred and indistinct, like a spool of film that had reached the end, until finally he was gone.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Prospero was mildly bothered by the words of the Master of the Marquee. But he soon forgot it in the rush to prepare for Livinia’s arrival. He wore his best velvet doublet and sprayed scented oils on his neck. He packed the food and carefully arranged the bouquet of roses he was going to present to her.

Then he opened the sandalwood box that held the Slice of Eternity and took the precious hourglass from its case. He wanted to have it ready in case he worked up the courage to ask her out again. He had been so surprised and ecstatic when Livinia first agreed to go out with him that he captured the moment with his hourglass and kept it for his continued enjoyment.

Prospero held the Slice of Eternity against his cheek until he felt the heady elation of that moment, not so long ago, when he asked her to go out and she smiled at him and said yes. He savored again the delicate pang of desire, then pocketed the hourglass. He would use it to imprint every moment he spent with her. Some joys were meant to be enjoyed more than once in a lifetime after all.

By the time Livinia arrived via horse-drawn carriage at his front step, he had all but forgotten about his previous visitor and the dire tidings they had spoken of. And by unfortunate happenstance, he also missed the tidings of the fifth bird that emerged from the Cuckoo egg, which pronounced an overabundance of sorrow and misfortune in the coming hour, just as Prospero closed the door behind him.

They arrived at their destination, the famous Wishwood tree of Mysterious Paris. The Wishwood tree was fabled for its ability to grant a single wish to those few lucky enough to be favored by the fickle spirits of the wood whose faces sometimes surfaced along the massive trunk. Though very few, if any, were ever actually favored in this way. Still the tree was an attraction of sorts that entertained many visitors.

They were pleased to find the area relatively deserted. Prospero rang the Simultaneous Bell, much to the delight of Livinia as he was able to take a walk with her and prepare their picnic site at the same time.

Beneath a canopy of green and brown, they laughed and did the foolish nothings that lovers do when love first blossoms, all the while a parade of birds twittered and flew around Livinia, for they too sensed the serenity and inner beauty that glowed from within her. She laughed as Prospero unleashed a horde of clockwork ants that clicked and whirred as they cleared away the remnants of their picnic.

He poured two cups of sweet wine, handed one to her and raised his cup. “To sweet beginnings, and bitter endings.” he didn’t know what drove him to such a dark toast, and the sweet wine soured quickly as it slid down his throat.

Livinia was far too polite to comment on the odd toast, so she simply downed her wine and smiled. A smile which froze on her lips as she was suddenly yanked up by the noose that appeared without warning around her neck, snapping it with one terrible crack and dangling her in the air like a rag doll.

Prospero screamed as he reached for the Slice of Eternity. But he was knocked down violently before he could even touch it.

“Worthless.”

The word struck him like a physical force.

“Obsessed.”

The second word made him dizzy, his thoughts became disjointed and he couldn’t think let alone act.

“Madman.”

Prospero began to weep, the voice continued to intone words. He was thoroughly unprepared for and helpless against the vitriolic barrage. His mind still recoiled at the sight of his beloved Livinia, her limp, lifeless body twisting in the wind.

“Impossibly obtuse crackpot.”

Prospero gasped and coughed up blood. He tried to stand but could barely find the strength to sit up. Laughter echoed from before and behind him, until the air itself seemed to sag with malicious mirth. And still the imprecations continued.

“Uncaring.” “Soulless.”

The two words were an enormous weight on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The irony of his situation did not escape him. Prospero, master of moments had run out of time. He struggled futilely as a lone figure dressed in black and white stepped out of the shadows to stand before him.

“Wh-who are you?”

“Who am I? Why, I am the cloud in your perfect sky.” A white-gloved hand tipped black fedora in mock salute.


Prospero was helpless, he realized what he was facing. The Master of the Marquee was right. Some wars come to you whether or not you wish to fight them. So he did the only thing he could under those conditions, he fled to the future. Or at least he tried to. Unfortunately, despite his considerable abilities, he was caught in an impossible trap. Looking around desperately, he saw his only hope behind him.

He closed his eyes and made a desperate wish. For an agonizing eternity that seemed to stretch forever, nothing happened. Then the leaves of the Wishwood tree rustled, faces formed and disappeared on the massive trunk. Prospero felt his power waxing with renewed hope.

His wish shimmered in the air before him.

For an instant the universe yawned, spinning motes of infinity spilled forth as the open maw swallowed Prospero from the timeline of Mysterious Paris, whisking him elsewhen.

Under the shadow of his black fedora, the Rumple Man smiled. “Tick-tock. Tick-tock, the mouse ran up the clock.”

He walked away from the shade of the Wishwood tree with the corpse of Livinia, still dangling in mid-air, trailing after him.