Winter 2022 Issue

The Timekeeper

AVERY MULTER

I tell the trees my story. I tell the mountains and the rivers all that I have seen. I tell them

of everything, endlessly, until I claim them too as my own. They are old, but I am older. I have

seen more.

I was there when this earth sprang into life in a waltz of color, the wind carving patterns

and the sky painting itself into existence with a flourish of wondrous cobalt and silver and every

other shade imaginable.

I was there when the first creature slid from the water and became terrestrial. I watched

as it struggled onto land and I watched as it grew and changed. Time is the sole facilitator for

evolution, so I watched as every creature, known and unknown, had their turn.

I was there when the first stories were told. I recall the wind whispering to the birds,

telling them of the wonders of flight and inviting them into the currents. The concept of stories

did not yet exist in my mind and I listened, rapt, to the songs of the wind.

I was there to watch the progression of men. This new race sparked much conflict within

my being. And one may think that Time cannot feel, but Time is the culmination of everything

and I know this to be a lie. So when men came, I marveled as they themselves discovered the art

of storytelling.

First through pictures, crude paintings in the essence of the natural world scribbled upon

ancient rocks. Later, words were created, and the stories grew more elaborate, more complex. Yet

before language, there was song. Men observed birds, the wind, the sea, and the melodies they

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wove together in replica were what truly made me begin to love their species. Song was the

purest form of storytelling before words could cloud the tales. Those stories were simple and

beautiful. They told of the sky, of the rivers, of the forest, of the ant that carries food home to its

colony and the mouse that drinks the morning dew from a flower. I loved listening to those

stories, and for a brief moment, I loved humanity.

My story is too long to tell, so rather, I will share with you three things: a chance

encounter, a revelation, and a wish.

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

On an early autumn’s day, I found myself within the hollow of a rotting log, tucked into

the cool of the dark. This was my body, of course; my consciousness was ever floating about.

As I lay there amongst the cobwebs and termites, I could not tell you if one moment passed or a

million. What I can say is that sooner or later, something brushed the edges of my consciousness,

gently pulling my mind back to my body. This new thing was closer to me, and in my little

corner of quiet, I hadn’t felt the shimmer of new in only I knew how long.

I slowly uncurled from my snail’s shell, cobwebs ripping softly at their seams as they

dislodged from my carapace. My eyes strained in the shadows, and for an odd moment I couldn’t

remember what it felt like to use the sight of an actual body. It had been so very long since I had

been corporeal. But this new thing continued to call me, so I made my way out of the old wood

and into the sunlight.

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I saw up there a familiar world; the rusted orange and tawny gold of autumn, beautiful

while it lasted, but I knew it was only a matter of time before that fleeting beauty would

disappear. One thing, however, was not so familiar. Just beyond the boughs of the willow which

sheltered my log, in the cool amber sunlight that shattered the uniformity of the earth, stood a

man.

A REVELATION

I observed him for a moment, knowing myself to be perfectly concealed amongst the

other real snails on the rotting wood. He was an older fellow, the majority of his face obscured

by a wild, red beard streaked with the grey of many years. He was weathered, fine wrinkles like

spiderwebs drawing out the corners of his eyes into the ghost of a smile. I knew I had seen him

before, as I am present throughout the lives of all. But I can’t be expected to remember every

face, and so to me, the man was unfamiliar.

As I looked on, he walked carefully toward my log and I thought for a brief moment that

perhaps he had spotted me. Man is not meant to see Time. Oh, he knew I was there and that I

existed, of that I had no doubt. My anxieties abated somewhat as he instead crouched several feet

away from me, peering attentively into the moss and fallen leaves. Curiosity got the better of my

suspicion, and I slowly edged in his direction to watch what he would do.

The man reached an old, wrinkled hand down into the scrub of the forest floor, gently

scooping something into his palm. I observed the mindfulness with which he picked the thing up

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and it startled me, if only for a moment. It had been so long since I had witnessed that kind of

care from a human.

He slowly stood and moved to sit on the far end of my log. His footsteps were carefully

calculated, perfectly precise, not a fern or wild flower crushed beneath the leather of his boot. As

he sat, he calmly uncurled his fingers, and I felt my heart plummet.

Within his grasp sat a robin’s chick, hardly feathered and dwarfed within the unfamiliar

hand. I sensed that chick’s fear and I knew how it felt to seem small, not for the first time in my

long life. I thought immediately that I would have to step in and claim this man’s life for Death.

Better a man dies than the pure soul of a bird who had barely begun to live, I thought, grasping

for Time’s power as it lingered beneath the surface of my being. But I did not yet know it would

be unnecessary.

The next moment is the one I never wish to forget. As the chick quivered within his palm,

the man leant his face forward and began to sing. As I listened to his melody, I heard a story. The

man sang of nothing and of everything. His voice told of all that he had seen, all that he had

experienced, all that he wished to share. In that brief moment, I envied him. He had lived for a

fraction of the time that I had, yet he seemed to have more to share with the world than I.

Lost in the harmony of his story, I watched through hazy eyes as the man brushed his

fingers over the chick’s wing. Despite my better judgment to be wary of his actions, to step in

and save the bird, I found myself simply watching what he would do. I was transfixed with the

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gentle way he bound the wing to the chick’s feathered side, and I realized perhaps too late that

the wing was broken.

Many things fell into place at the same time in my mind. This man had no hostile

intentions. He was helping this creature, not harming it. The bird had stopped shaking in fear and

instead curled up contentedly in the warm hand. The man’s eyes were warm as amber sunlight,

kind as a doe. And perhaps most importantly, I realized that maybe, just maybe, not all of

humanity was bad.

A WISH

The song continued, words fading away and replaced with a gentle whistle. I noted that

the birds in the trees had begun to sing with him. His voice mixed with that of the birds and the

wind, the three soon indistinguishable from one another. He set the chick down softly upon the

moss and waited for a moment, kneeling amongst the leaves. Very soon, a robin flew

down and perched upon the log, affectionately singing to her chick and to the man. She looked

up with a tilted head and locked eyes with the him, whistling her thanks. The man smiled.

Then, he turned his head my way and looked at me. He saw Time. But what I felt then

was not fear; it was hope. He saw me, and I saw him, and the bridge between us was one of

mutual respect and understanding, built of the golden rays of the sun as it set, built of the

humming of the man and the woods.

Humanity isn’t so bad, I thought then. Humanity has the capacity to do so much good, to

heal the world and help those with less power. They know what it is to tell stories, to imagine

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and to create, perhaps more than any species before or after their time. Humanity can weave

beauty into the fabric of the world.

This is my wish.