Clock City

by Rebekah Dodson

  It wasn’t my first rodeo running from the cops. I had developed a few skills hiding behind dumpsters, finding empty doors I could enter, and knowing which warehouses were always abandoned.

  But this time, my feet pounded the pavement in a different direction. I headed downtown. If he called his friends at the station, I could lose them between buildings. It was better than being caught in an open field.

  I ran past the back door of the baker pulling steaming pastries out of the oven, even this late in the day. The aroma of berries and cinnamon palpable on the roof of my mouth, but I couldn’t stop. I ran to the deserted corner playground, this one more pathetic than the one by my house, as the rain continued to pound around me. Puddles and muddy rivers formed around me, splashing my ripped jeans as I let me legs carry me wherever they wanted.

  I ran past the church, while the bell struck eight, the loud clangs echoed off the crumbling gravestones on the side. I reached the end of the road and scurried down the path to the left, disappearing into the thick woods.

  Finally, I could be safe from him, he would never find me out here. But what would I do when I ran out of food this time? I should have never gone home. What was I thinking?

  The rain was relentless, soaking my shirt and the cover of my journal. I held the book tighter to my chest. It was my most precious thing, and I couldn’t lose it. Not only did it hold my hopes and dreams, but my nightmares. And I was most certainly certifiable for the latter.

  I examined the remnants of the little tree house where Francis and I used to play as kids. It had been our secret play place, abandoned long ago by other children just like us. Once it had four walls, but now there were just two and some rotted board for a make-shift roof.

  Bits of tattered blankets scattered the forest floor, a reminder of our early elementary days when we found this place. A few ancient dolls, now drenched, lay propped against an old log, their faded, striped hair wet and musty from the rain. Here and there were pieces of G.I. Joe’s from Francis’s precious collection.

  Against one wall was my waterproof storage, another stolen item from my past. I peeked into the old cooler with the cracked lid. Once upon a time it held stolen treats but was long since empty. I had hoped to restock it, but today was no different than most days.

  The rain was easing, the wind a little less violent now. I huddled in the corner with a damp blanket pulled over me. Running from the store, running here, my energy was gone. My arms stung and my head pounded. Sleep. That was what I needed. Just a little sleep.

  They never left me, even in my dreams. They were leaning over me, watching me sleep, while they cooed and cawed over me. I was so skinny, they’d say. They knew I’d go sometime, the way I was withering away like that. Mrs. Smithe and her gaggle of soccer moms, they knew what was right for me. My mother had hated them, all of them. Prancing ponies, she’s called them, who can’t see end of their nose. She was old fashioned sometimes, and I don’t think she fit in any more than I did.

  In this nightmare, Mrs. Smithe would run her long fake nails down my cheek, scratching me just enough to bring a burning sensation to my skin, though not as bad as my father’s belt. You poor, dear soul, she’d whisper, and this time, only I could hear it clear as day. Her lips dripped burning venom, silently landing on the starched white sheet beside me.

  I jolted awake. I could still feel her nails on my skin, her voice in my ear. Cold wracked my body, but heat rose to my cheeks that such a person could scare me more than my monster of a parent. So, I hid from her, from everyone. I became a nobody. An invisible loser. Not even Francis knew who I was anymore, I would bet.

  I blinked, and my torn lawn chair creaked, bringing me back to reality. I sighed. The plastic strips from the weathered woven neon seat whipped in the rain drizzled wind like spider web strands. The ripped cardboard box hung from the tree above my seat, the only cover from the rain that splattered between the broken boards above me.

  Even this late in the summer the sun was starting to set. Why wouldn’t it stop raining? The thunder and lightning had gone, but it was still sprinkling. Despite that, I didn’t want the sun to come out. The sun offered hope. False hope I couldn’t risk feeling. I wanted the darkness to swallow me and eat me whole. That way I didn’t have to feel anymore.

  I groaned as small tendrils of light, the last of the sunset, shone slowly through the forest, illuminating the glistening raindrops on the leaves, under brush, and on the moss. It was an anomaly, these woods in the middle of Texas, but here we were.

  And despite the rain, I took out my journal and the ballpoint tucked in the pages. One end I’d chewed to death, but the other wrote just fine, even on damp pages.

  Sunshine

  Not like rain.

  No.

  Rain cleanses,

  Washes away the pain.

  Sunshine sets the inner pain on fire

  Where others can see.

  Nothing hides under the sun,

  Deeds are known,

  Sins of the father,

  Regrets of thy mother.

  My mother. I would never know why she had been on that road so late at night, when the oncoming truck had dealt the fatal blow—just down the road from my hiding place. Here I felt closest to her, even if she was gone.

  As if my dark thoughts had willed it to stop, the drizzle ceased. I scribbled furiously across the page. More suns and stars, blood droplets and decaying flowers. I could feel the tears hit my cheek.

  I miss you, Mom.

  Why did you have to go and leave me with him?

  My own father, a drunken, abusive asshole. I used to hate her because she was never there, and now I missed her terribly. I never knew her, not really.

  She was gone all the time with her job, and I rarely saw her. How could she subject me to this torture my entire life? How did she not know?

  After she died, I couldn’t hide the bruises anymore. Without her to chide him, the drinking had gotten out of control.

  Falling behind in my studies, I eventually dropped out of school. I knew there wasn’t any money for college. Besides, I’d just be stuck here forever anyway. Doomed, like my mother, to die in despair without anyone to care.

  I looked up, seeking inspiration from the nature around me. Surely, there was healing to be found in the plush leaves, the bending bark?

  A blinding glint caught my eye a few feet away. The clouds moved across the sun, dancing the reflection among the leaves, the red hues of the fading light basked the green foliage in a dismal crimson. Prismatic hues splayed against the trees. The glint again. What was it? A rainbow? At ground level?

  I sat my journal on the cooler and crept to where I’d seen the glimmer.

  A large log marked the boundary of my fortress. It was covered in moss, no doubt a remnant from a tree fallen ages ago. The sun was quickly disappearing behind my back. For once, I wished it would stay.

  It didn’t even gross me out when I reached behind the log. What would I find, anyways? Probably garbage, or something that had fallen out of someone’s truck from the highway. No one was ever in these woods.

  I wasn’t expecting to find something priceless.

  Sticking out from the thick, thorny underbrush on the south side of the trunk was a portion of a shiny blade.

  A blade?

  Not a knife. Not at all! An honest to God dagger!

  It would be worth a fortune, maybe. Enough to get me ticket to, well, anywhere but here. I yanked hard and pulled out a short, curved blade. There were bits of leather clinging to its edges. I cleaned them away.

  How had I not noticed this before? Had it been here the whole time? How was I blind to it?

  I held it up into the last glimpse of the sun, which was quickly being taken over by heavy gray clouds once more. It shone brighter than anything I had ever seen. I could see reds, oranges, purples, and blues.

  The blade flashed rainbows from its cool steel. The hilt was something else, with woven leather, and was that a tiny wheel? A sp
ring? I squinted at it again, covering my eyes with my arm.

  I blinked once, twice. There was no glint off the dagger, and it just looked like a dull, gray weapon again.

  Was that rust on the edge?

  Or blood?

  Then the strangest thing happened. The more I focused, the more I felt like it pulled me away. Not away, exactly, but inside myself. Like I was a spinning wheel and I was being sucked down a rabbit hole.

  A rabbit hole? No, more like a hole with a tornado on the other end, landing me somewhere very far from home.

  I wasn’t in Texas anymore.

  Chapter Two: The City Gates

  SILENCE.

  Complete, utter silence.

  Texas wasn’t silent, not at all.

  There were always bustling noises from the highway, the honk of impatient commuters, and the blow of semi-trucks, the whir of speeding cars. And it was flat, very flat. A few trees with rolling brown fields and dead, dry tumbleweed.

  Definitely not Texas.

  Even the woods were gone. I stood in the middle of a field now, surrounded by rolling green hills. It wasn’t twilight anymore. Bright purple sunflowers, six feet tall, bent toward the harsh midday sun.

  The Texas—that is, the not Texas—sun was shining—but it was pink.

  I spun, the dagger in one hand, my other fist clenched and pressed to my mouth. Gone, it’s all gone! Panic rushed through me and I felt faint. My chair, dented cooler, boxes, they were all gone; only hills surrounded me.

  There wasn’t a tree in sight, even on the sparse horizon. On a small rock next to me sat my journal, but it had changed. The plastic cover was now leather, and the spine was not glued, but woven with leather thongs.

  The pen next to it was unlike any pen I’d seen before. The ballpoint had changed to a sharp point and had a peacock feather jutting from the other end. At least, I thought it was a peacock feather. Yellow and green, it was like nothing I had seen in any book before.

  My surge of panic was so bad I could barely breathe. My stomach heaved, and I wondered if I really would puke this time. I glanced down at my tattered jeans and faded yellow crop top. My clothes hadn’t changed. I started to wonder if I’d hit my head. If I’d reached for the dagger and tumbled over the log and smashed my temple somehow.

  Yes, that was it. I was just dreaming.

  My dreams were filled with so much horror anyway; I could believe it. I pinched myself, but the world around me stayed the same. I reached behind me for my journal, my safety net.

  “Ouch!”

  Something pricked me. A thorn? No, bit me. Out here? What in the world?

  I jerked my hand back.

  A three-fingered claw pulled back as well.

  I was reminded of Mrs. Smithe and pulled away, panicked, then stepped forward. What kind of creature could this be?

  A small creature, no taller than my knee, stared at me intently, with solid black eyes that reminded me of the chihuahua puppy I had had when I was small. The pink sun reflected against his dark indigo skin. He reminded me sharply of a character I’d seen in a movie once and I wanted to throw a sock at it.

  But then I realized, I’d seen him somewhere before.

  I’d drawn him.

  “Who the? What the ... are you?”

  He smiled; his mouth filled with dozens of sharp, pointy teeth. They were all so tiny, but I didn’t dare try to count how many. A cloth loin flap was secured around his waist and a belt across his flat chest held a small leather pouch. Tucked into his belt was a small dagger which only looked big enough to be a table knife.

  “Hi!” His voice was shrill and squeaky, like a mouse from a cartoon.

  I barely resisted a giggle. What was wrong with me? He could be dangerous.

  Still, I drew him. I reached for my journal and flipped it open with one hand. “You’re ... you’re him!” I waved it at him.

  The little monster peered at my crude drawing. “That is indeed a very nasty picture of Dinga, son of Dingarel.” Three elongated fingers ending in pointed nails pointed at his bare chest, which of course, sported four nipples.

  “Dinga?” I blinked at him. “You’re Dinga? What kind of name is that?”

  Grinning, it squeaked at me again. “Dinga’s name is very important where he comes from. He has had it for a couple hundred years, so he should know.”

  I shook my head. Un-freaking-believable. “Where am I?” I demanded.

  It laughed, a weird, wheezing sound. “I should think the queen would know her own country!”

  “I’m sorry, what? Did you just say queen? Queen of what?”

  He splayed his scrawny arm out, gesturing around us. “Elestra,” he grinned broadly. “And the capital, Clock City.” He pointed behind me.

  I spun around, following where he pointed, and could barely make out the tips of gray stone, like a castle on the horizon from an old painting. Not stone, but a wall that spread across the horizon in a thin line. That was a city? I couldn’t remember seeing a city that huge in my life.

  A black monstrosity, a huge circle against the pink sky, rose and fell near the center of the stone wall. The clang of many machine parts echoed across the fields.

  “Your palace is there, my queen.” The monster curtsied.

  I shook my head. “That’s impossible. I can’t be a queen. I’m only seventeen. Not to mention I’m no one of any importance.”

  The monster thing, Dinga, tilted his head from side to side slowly, his eyes squinting. “Hmm. From the drawings Dinga has seen, you are rather young, but I thought it was a trick of the scarlish ink.”

  I clutched my journal to my chest. “Seriously, what is this place? Can you help me get home? Back to Texas?”

  “I don’t know how you got here, and I know not where this land called Texas is,” his head tilted to the right. “May Dinga escort queen to Clock City? It would be Dinga’s deep honor.”

  I thought about that.

  Someone there could help me find my way home, I was sure of it. I didn’t know what was here. Dinga may not be able to protect me, but he could at least show me the way. Many things could kill me, and maybe it was best to stick together. I nodded. My mother had still taught me manners. “I’d be honored if you would show me the way.”

  He happily nodded and led the way.

  The world spun toward me in a blur of pink, purple, and teeth. Yellowed grass rushed toward me, and I felt myself falling.

  I genuinely hoped I didn’t crush the little being who stood in front of me.

  Why he thought an uncoordinated klutz like me could ever be royalty was a dream indeed.

  I FELT NAILS GRIP MY arm. I bolted up with a gasp. Mrs. Smithe?

  “My queen?” He squeaked

  The strange purple creature was inches away from my face. Three distinct rows of pointy teeth crowded his mouth I hadn’t noticed before. His teeth were tiny, sharp, and serrated.

  He smiled and helped me up. Again.

  “I’m okay,” I spoke slowly, and the world spun in a different direction. Crimson light shone all around us. I wrapped my hands over my upper arms to stop shaking.

  Three fingers gingerly gripped my arm and lightly squeezed. “Queen, perchance you are famished? I will fetch you mootas.”

  I blinked at him. “What are those?”

  “You know we only eat brackish things, like mootas and ishies.” His purple eyebrows furrowed together as if he had a question. The world still spun, so I shook my head to gather some clarity.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “My Queen, Dinga is sorry but Dinga was thinking while you were sleeping, why is your sword missing? Why are you so far from Clock City and in disguise?” He looked down suddenly.

  “Uh,” I wasn’t sure how to respond. I looked a little past him to think of answers to questions I didn’t know the answers to. That damn dagger. Was it the reason I was here? A glint caught my eye behind a pile of rocks. “I was, uh, looking for peacock feathers? Like this?” I brandished my p
en lightly at him.

  His frown deepened, and he shook his head. “Queen, did you hit your head harder than Dinga thought? Dinga does not know peacocks, but you have a whole flock of sunbirds at home. Why would you need to be out here?”

  “Yes, yes! I remember now. The sunbirds have bigger feathers out here.” I tried not to sound curious as I questioned what a sunbird was. But he seemed to accept it and instead held out my journal.

  “Anyways,” I continued, taking the journal from him, and continuing to grasp at straws in this new place. “I was so tired from the sun, and I wanted to take a nap. An animal must have dragged my special dagger away. Can you help me find it?”

  By the time I picked myself up and dusted off the back of my pants, Dinga nimbly raced to the rocks. He held up the dagger in both hands, but it appeared he would fall over at any minute from its weight. He dragged it over to me, as he panted from the exertion.

  “My queen, is this it?” He wheezed.

  I took the dagger from him and noticed it had changed, too. Its once rusty side and cracked hilt were replaced with shining steel shining in the light. Now, bright golden jewels were embedded in the handle, and what looked like little silver parts of machinery set into the hilt—silver cogs, springs, and screws stood out against the gold.

  The change was so remarkable, so drastic, I again felt trapped in a dream. I closed my eyes and held it up just as I had back in the woods. Maybe this was how I activated it? “My Queen, Dinga is sorry, but the skyball will soon set. We have to get back to the city.”

  Damn, it didn’t work! I must find another way. The city was my only option. Maybe the dagger needed an action word, or repair, or something, so I could get back home. I had no choice but to travel to the city. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He laughed again and clapped his claws. “Dinga cannot wait to tell Eisha I have met the Queen and get to go to the city! She will be excited for me.”

  “Eisha?”

  “She is one of my offspring’s mothers. Eisha is my favorite. I tell all my secrets to her only.”

  “You have a colony?” My mother was never there, but she always told me to treat others nicely.