Faithful Pebble
Part One Hundred and Ten

The wanderer pondered as he looked down at the sign. It was an understatement to say that the town had signs. It had more than that, much, much more. This town with its grey, cluttered buildings and humdrum aesthetics was swimming in signs, in signs upon signs, long signs, short signs, fat signs, more signs than he could count. A plethora cluttered his way to the hut, the largest of which displayed the town name. He passed that ten minutes ago. It had taken him about a half an hour to reach it, yet from the forest line, he could have sworn it looked closer - much, much closer. Even from the bottom of the hill, he could easily point it out. It was that large, though the color wasn't as conspicuous as others he'd known.

The wanderer shifted his weight, then licked his lips, and then he shuttered quietly, secretly, silently.

"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.
The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

The town sign was as drum grey as the rest of the buildings. Gray with white lettering outlined in dullish black ink. The font was strictly too formal and much too stuffy than he liked. The words "Brindel Bay: Population 15,000 (approximately)" seemed to stick in the back of his throat. They choked him like a rope hung about his neck or his neck hung about by rope.

He shook his head, the wanderer. He meandered, passed the sign for the Butcher and then the Baker and then he began thinking. Brindle Bay was such a queer name for a town, especially since there wasn't a bay to be seen for miles. There wasn't even a river or a small stream. Though, they did have an unusually large water fountain. He found it nestled smack dab in the middle of the market. He tried not to stare at it — well— tried not to stare at it too much as he passed its weeping statues of trees and fae and flowers. Instead his gaze sought out each sign that ringed it like charms a necklace. He found fifteen that advertised various merchants , thirty that reported the local news, five that pointed out what each connecting street was called and ten that detailed the general layout of the village.

"You are here," the wanderer wondered — well, read really. "Oh! What a clever idea. What a clever idea indeed." He smirked, the wanderer. He looked down at the map, noticed the outline of the village and the star indicating the estimated place he was standing. He smiled. He gaped. He'd never seen the like. Pleased, he inched closer. He peered through the various squares and lines on the wooden panel matching their locations symbols to the detailed legend at the bottom. He almost didn't notice his grin widening as he recognized all of the businesses advertised earlier represented. The map detailed exactly where they were. It even gave an estimated time of arrival, which he found expressly convenient. "Very clever," he marveled subtracting time, adding time, calculating it with precision. "Very, very, very..."

Tick

Tick

Tick

His eyes narrowed. He squinted as he scanned the list for a particular name - one he knew by heart and much fondness. He had just found it and was matching its symbol to the map above when he felt a giant shadow loom ponderously over his shoulder. Taking stock of the location and the worrisome path to it, the wander inched away just as the gentleman behind him took his spot. For a moment, the wanderer watched him, the gentlemen. He was substantially taller, but not as aged. He let his luminous gaze bury itself beneath the inky pools of lines and shapes, but he didn't smile, like the wanderer had. No, the gentleman frowned. He frowned and sputtered and panicked. It caused the wanderer to silently chuckle. He quickly tucked his chin into his tunic and attempted to stifle the rippling, gurgling sound. In time he turned and left, his grin plastered across his weary, time-crunched face. It didn't hide the fatigue behind his eyes. It didn't hide the way his feet began to quicken.

Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said," than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers."
"If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting it. It's Him."
"I don't know what you mean," said Alice.
"Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!"
"Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music."
"Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hater. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock."

He meandered, the wanderer, weaving away through families, dirty children and rushing business men down busy streets filled with carts and horses. The resulting din was soft and comforting even in the morning light. Yet it still caused him to frown when he turned a corner. There was a song building. He recognized it instantly, hidden clumsily in the rustling murmur. A gamble of school children whisked along singing as they went. The din didn't cover the words, their words, her words. "Jack and Jill went up a hill." The wanderer sighed. "Jack and Jill went up a hill, to catch, to catch, to catch a pail of water."

Unaware, his steps moved faster, quicker racing as he turned left then right then left again towards the forgotten edge of town, an edge that from the forest didn't seem as far as it was. It took traversing a maze to get there. Yet, he found it at last, the sign he was looking for. It was black as pitch with silver etched into its face depicting letters elegant as satin and sharp as steel: Bruce's Blacksmith Bar and Workshop.

For a moment, the wanderer paused. He pulled out his watch as his eyes fluttered about the empty street, up towards the forest hill which he descended an hour ago, down towards the fountain hidden in the village's center. Finding himself alone, he deftly broke off the lid. He stuffed the remaining pieces back into his pocket feeling it tick-tick-tick, tock-tock-tock its way back to a mended state. His heart began to race, the wanderer. Again, he actively, mindfully subtracted hours to a day he could easily feel coming. The silver began to stretch and melt and grow. The watch would be whole again by morning. He knew this and tried not to think about it. Instead, he headed for the shop's door. Instead, he flung it open and into its darkness whistled.

The laugh that met his lilting melody was dark and foreboding, yet joyful all the same. In the shadow of the shop's interior, it bubbled up like air in a tar pit accompanied by the sound of a whirling wind. It was a sound that brought a bright smile to the wanderer's tired face. "Jack,' it bellowed. "Jack's come a callin'. How quaint. How... unexpected."

- Calla