Fast Away the Old Year Passes

BY ICY SEDGWICK

“Does anyone know what time it is?” asked Serena Secondus.

On cue, the grandfather clock by the door chimed the hour. Another clock sat amid the stray tinsel on the mantelpiece. On the stroke of the hour, a dragon popped out of a tiny door above the clock face and snorted flames.

“What marvellous timing! It would appear to be one hour before midnight,” replied Father Time. “Therefore I propose a short break.”

The old man stood bent over a large vat in the centre of the room. He straightened up, his spine popping. He cracked his knuckles before rubbing his eyes. Father Time ran his thin fingers through his white beard. He grimaced when he found a tangle.

“I’ve finished cataloguing everything up until June,” said Serena.

She laid down her quill and stretched back in her chair. The sylph launched into an intricate set of exercises to coax life back into her arms and legs. Serena finished her routine by unfurling her wings. The candlelight shone through the gossamer membrane, throwing coloured patterns across the stone floor.

“Watch what you’re doing there, Serena! You’ll get sylph dust in the sand,” said Mademoiselle Minuten. The elf used her long silver braid to sweep away the dust from Serena’s wings.

“Now now, Mademoiselle. No need to use that tone. Serena knows we cannot contaminate the sand. I am sure she did not mean to do so,” said Father Time.

“Sorry, Father Time,” mumbled the Mademoiselle.

“Right, now are we all stretched? Ready to get back to work?” asked Father Time.

“Not quite, I’ve still got a kink in my left wing,” replied Serena. She tugged at her left wing, attempting to straighten the tendons.

“As much as I wish I could sympathise with your plight, we do need to get up until June finished before Lady Nostalgia comes to collect the first half of the year,” said Father Time.

“I wonder how much one of these is worth,” said the Mademoiselle.

She lifted a jar from the shelf beside her. The sand inside shifted, its many colours forming rainbow bands against the glass. Her spiky handwriting on the label described the contents as “Jar 346: The memories of Easter, 2010, Scotland”.

“I do not know, nor wish to care, how much Lady Nostalgia charges for the humans to regain these memories. It is my job to distil the time, and yours to catalogue it. It is hers, and hers alone, to dispense it,” said Father Time.

“I bet she charges a fortune,” said Serena. “I know I would, if I were in her shoes.”

“I know a nymph who does Lady Nostalgia’s admin, I could ask her,” said the Mademoiselle.

“Ladies! Enough idle chit-chat! Neither of you are to enquire as to the value of these jars, do you understand me? It is likely that only the Lady herself will know, and she is most unlikely to divulge the information,” said Father Time.

Serena hunched over her desk once more. She dipped her quill into the inkwell and scrawled an entry in the ledger. The sylph scowled at Father Time.

“It seems to me that we’re incredibly lucky. You know, when you really stop to think about it, and all that,” said the Mademoiselle. She scribbled another label for the next jar in line.

“How so?” asked Serena.

“We get to have incredible memories, don’t we? We don’t forget anything, and we don’t have to spend ages just trying to remember trivial things. We don’t have to sift through years of memories just to find one, only to find it’s either missing or not what we remembered. I think we should be a bit more grateful about that,” replied the Mademoiselle.

“That is a very worthy observation, Mademoiselle,” said Father Time. He swept his funnel through the rainbow-coloured sand churning in the vat. He directed the funnel into an empty jar. The sand trickled down the funnel, hissing its story as the grains filled the jar.

“Thank you,” replied the elf. She beamed.

“In many ways, I pity the humans. I may only grant them a short time upon the earth, and they are simply not equipped to understand or experience everything we have made available to them,” said Father Time. “If only they could remember it all! Alas, no. Nostalgia withholds their memories, often only dispensing those which have cracked or faded. The humans must waste their precious lives wiping clean the rose-tinted glasses of memory. No, I do not envy them one jot.”

“And then, after all that palaver, they have to face her, don’t they? Oh I don’t envy them that at all,” said Serena. The sylph shuddered at the thought of the One of Many Names.

“We’re certainly lucky in that,” said the Mademoiselle. “Immortality has its perks if it means we don’t need to meet up with her.”

“Oh, do not be so harsh upon her. She is simply performing the task for which she was intended. She’s actually perfectly pleasant once you get to know her, though naturally few do,” said Father Time.

“I’ve heard some real horror stories about her. Everyone down my way calls her The Cold One. They say her sister is Lady Winter, and that she freezes souls to hang in her Eternal Garden,” said Serena. “She doesn’t care if you’re young or old, sick or healthy – if your name’s on her list, she’ll just come and take you. Snuff you right out! Really creepy, that one. And – she’s behind me, isn’t she?”

Serena stared at the Mademoiselle’s pale face. The elf gazed at a point over Serena’s left shoulder, fear and awe burning in her green eyes. Father Time broke into a wide grin, and hobbled across the room to greet the visitor. Serena turned around, each passing inch feeling like a mile.

A young woman stood behind her, her white skin contrasting with her black cloak. Hair darker than midnight tumbled around her shoulders. Her purple lips formed a smile in reply to Father Time. Serena baulked at the black gums and pale grey teeth on display.

“Serena, Mademoiselle, may I introduce you to Death?” asked Father Time. He took one of Death’s white hands and planted a kiss on her frozen skin.

“I – I – I’ve heard a lot about you,” stammered Serena.

“So it would seem!” replied Death. Decay rasped around the edges of her cold voice.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, my Lady?” asked the Mademoiselle. She knelt on the floor at Death’s feet.

“I always pop over to visit Father Time at this time of year,” replied Death. “So don’t worry, I’m not here for you. You can get up now.”

The Mademoiselle scrambled to her feet, eager to avoid eye contact with Death. The elf tried to pull on her shawl without drawing attention to herself. Death laughed, a sound that buzzed with the song of a thousand flies.

“I know, I know, I tend to suck the warmth out of a room, don’t I? Put your shawl on, Mademoiselle Elf, if it’ll make you more comfortable. I don’t mind. Honestly, I won’t be offended,” said Death.

The Mademoiselle risked a look at the Cold One. Death grinned at her, and the smile was not without kindness. The elf couldn’t resist returning the smile.

“And you? Mistress Sylph? Are you also cold?” asked Death. She turned her gaze to Serena.

“No, no I’m fine,” replied Serena. She looked into Death’s eyes. Instead of seeing oblivion, she saw peace. Stars glittered in the depths of those black eyes.

“Glad to hear it. Now I can get down to business. Time, my old friend, are things ready?” asked Death.

“I think you should be able to find it by now,” said Father Time. He gestured to the vat of sand in the middle of the room.

Death crossed to the vat, and rolled up the sleeve of her cloak. She plunged a white arm into the sand. She stuck out her black tongue in concentration as she fished around inside the vat.

“What’s she looking for?” whispered Serena. Father Time held his finger to his lips to shush her.

Death yelped in triumph, and withdrew her arm from the swirling sand. She walked over to Serena and the Mademoiselle. Death opened her fingers to show them what she’d removed from the vat. A single grain of black sand lay in her white palm.

“The end of the year. I come by to claim this, the death of the old year,” said Death. “So now I’ve got this, I’ll be off. See you next year, Time. Ladies, it was lovely to meet you.”

The grandfather clock chimed in the midnight of a new year. Death disappeared in a puff of black smoke, leaving only a small smear of stardust on the stone floor.

“Come on, ladies, back to work, this sand won’t catalogue itself,” said Father Time.

Part office manager, part writer and part trainee supervillain, Icy dreams of Dickensian London. She writes all kinds of nonsense about telepathic parrots, Cavalier ghosts and steampunk automatons. Find her ebooks, free weekly fiction and other shenanigans at Icy’s Blunt Pencil.

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