On Halloween, Nela and Olek come across a puzzling invitation to the old Clock House. The door demands an answer: what is the name of time? As the Pixel disappears behind the wicket, the clues start running. Just before midnight, something unexpected
In Topolany, autumn smelled of fireplace smoke and baked apples. Klonowa Street, usually sleepy, was now twinkling with pumpkin lanterns: some smiled broadly, others squinted their eyes, and one, the smallest, had a star shape cut out in the middle. The wind carried colourful leaves like confetti, and the moon hung low over the rooftops, round and very curious.
Nela, dressed as a witch astronomer, wore a black cloak sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars and an old compass from her grandfather hung around her neck. On her hat sat a felt owl that hopped with every step. Pixel, their brindle cat, got an orange collar with a tiny bell. When he walked with his tail held high, he buzzed like a very confident bee.
There were houses on Klonowa Street that everyone knew: Mrs Wandzi's with its balconies full of hanging herbs, Mr Grochowski's with his collection of pinwheels, and the last one, at the very end of the street, about which it was not proper to speak aloud. The stone façade was overgrown with ivy, and a thin turret with a tin cockerel stood over the door. It used to be called the Clock House because a clockmaker lived here and ticking clocks hung everywhere, apparently even in the bathroom. Now the windows were covered and the wicket was draped in cobwebs like a lace tablecloth.
'We're not going to that house,' said Nela half-jokingly, but her voice sounded serious. - Let's establish that right away.
'Well, sure,' waved his hand at Olek, although he looked at the turret a little too long. - They've only got old dust there anyway.
They started with Mrs Wandzi, who gave them caramels wrapped in paper with butterflies on them, and then with Mr Grochowski, who gave them each a miniature chocolate watch. - 'Watch out for the Clock House,' he mumbled, pressing an extra two sweets into Olek's hand 'to boost your courage'. - At night, it is rumoured that something inside there... moves.
When they stopped under the lamppost to add up the sweets (Olek already had three jelly dinosaurs and a bar, Nela two caramels and a chocolate), a thin, round piece of paper slid out of Nela's bag, like the face of a clock cut out of yellowed paper. She didn't remember putting it in.
On the dial, instead of numbers, there were tiny letters written in pen. The ink shone blue, as if it had just dried. Nela held the sheet of paper with a compass so the wind wouldn't carry it away, and read aloud: "If you want to hear the thirteenth sound, come before midnight. The door will ask you the name of the time."
Thirteenth? - Olek snorted. - The clocks strike twelve.
'Unless someone forgot to count,' muttered Nela, although she felt it wasn't a joke. The sweeping letters had something old and familiar about them. The compass around her neck trembled as if it felt a draught, although the air stood still.
The pixie nudged the card with her paw and suddenly splashed between bushels of fireflies. The bell on her collar chimed once, a second time ... and fell silent. The cat ran straight towards the Clock House.
The wicket, which usually wouldn't budge even in summer, this time swung open slightly, as if waiting. The ivy moved in whispered letters, although there was no wind. On the fence posts stood pumpkins cut into Roman numerals: I, II, III... all the way to XII. Instead of candles, small green lights burned in them, as if someone had put skylights inside.
Gravel crunched underfoot and formed a narrow path like a compass pointer. In front of the door was a wooden box with a painted owl wearing glasses. A doormat with an embroidered riddle lay on the threshold: "Only he who knows the name of time will enter".
What does "the name of time" mean? - Olek scratched his head through the cardboard. - Spring? Winter? Mrs. from History?
Maybe he means "yesterday" or "tomorrow" - wondered Nela aloud. She felt a thrill of excitement in her stomach, the same one that took her when she found something in the books that didn't fit, but wanted to fit.
The door had a brass knocker in the shape of an owl's head. Instead of eyes, two tiny, dusty lenses had been inserted. When Nela reached out to touch the knocker, the lenses flashed green. A quiet, even sound came from inside: tick-tock, tick-tock, as if the house was breathing with a clock.
'OK, I'll knock,' decided Olek, making the face of a hero. Before he had time, however, the knocker moved of its own accord and struck once, twice, three times... Each knock echoed through the garden, and the green lights in the pumpkins flickered. Somewhere on the turret, a rooster turned slowly, as if to look them straight in the face.
'This house is calling us,' whispered Nela, not knowing herself where the words came from. The compass under her fingers warmed pleasantly, like a pebble lying long in the sun.
Or the Pixel is calling us," Olek corrected. A quiet meow came from the door, protracted and a little impatient. - He's inside!
The lock rattled. A narrow brass drawer slid out at eye level. In its bottom appeared an inscription that had not been there a moment before: "Name the time". The letters stacked, scattered and stacked again, like grains of sand in an hourglass.
Nela tried to remember the story of her watchmaker grandfather, who knew how to fix an alarm clock with one swipe of his tweezers. 'Time is like a map,' he used to say, 'but it's also like a screw: it holds everything together. It has its names, but it carries the most important ones each in its pocket." She didn't understand then, and she doesn't quite now either, but a light went on in her head.
Maybe it's a "moment"? - she muttered, more to herself. - Or "a second..."
A second is not enough - Olek shook his head. - A minute? An hour? A half-hour? Super time?
'Super-time doesn't exist,' snorted Nela, although she smiled despite her nerves. - How about... - she hesitated. The doormat twitched under her shoe, as if to applaud the thought.
Suddenly there was a sound from the turret. One. Two. Three. With a whip of silence the bell cut through the air. Four. Five. The sounds were fat like drops of honey falling into a jar. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. And then there was a long pause, the kind where you can hear your own breathing and the rustling of leaves under your sole.
Nela's compass whirred. The lenses in the owl's eyes brightened. The brass drawer slid out a little further, as if making room for a word. Something seemed to tap inside the house - not threateningly, rather kindly, in the heartbeat of someone very patient.
And then, at that exact moment, as her tongue touched her palate to utter the first vowel, another deep and metallic sound rang out over the Topolans, the thirteenth, and the owl-shaped knocker moved of its own accord, swinging the door open a hand's width....