Kristin E. Andersen's Word Studio

Mr. Clutterbuck and a Matter of Time, sample chapter

CHAPTER 1

Mr. Clutterbuck first noticed something unusual on his way in from his walk that morning. Call it an inkling, if you will, or even a premonition but it was almost as if there was something in the air. And then the village clock struck the hour, which would hardly be notable any other morning. Except this morning it was late. By more than a minute.

“Unheard of,” harrumphed Mr. Clutterbuck, gathering his mail from his mailbox before going inside. “I shall write to the mayor at once.”

“Poona?” he called, shutting the door to his cottage behind him. “Poona! I think there’s something wrong with the village clock.”

But Poona was far too busy to bother about clocks.

Mr. Clutterbuck caught a glimpse of his black-and-white ringed tail disappearing through the doorway at the end of the hall. Just like Poona to go flitting off like a busy bee, he thought.

Mr. Clutterbuck glided down the hall towards his study, like a stately sailing ship.

“Did you hear that, Poona?” he said, going to his desk for paper and pen. “I think the village clock is in need of repair.”

Mr. Clutterbuck was already composing a letter to the mayor in his head and that may be why he didn’t notice Poona brandishing the broom like a sword.

“Shoo! Shoo!” cried Poona.

Mr. Clutterbuck was dipping his pen in the inkwell before it dawned on him.

“I say, Poona, would you please stop waving that broom around. You might break something.”

“Shoo!” cried Poona, ignoring him and scrambling, now, onto the back of the settee.

“Really, Poona,” sighed Mr. Clutterbuck, “how many times have I asked you not to jump on the furniture?”

“Ai!” He leaped from the settee to the floor lamp, shinnied down to earth and made for the door.

“Shoo!” he shouted, with another jab or two of the broom and disappeared again.

Only then did Mr. Clutterbuck notice there was a book following him.

Well, not so much following him as chasing him.

Mr. Clutterbuck finally caught up with them in the dining room. Poona was on one side of the table, his foe on the other.

“It’s only a book,” said Mr. Clutterbuck.

“Very strange book,” said Poona, the gray fur on his back bristling like the spines of a sea urchin. “Not like other books.”

“Well, that’s true,” said Mr. Clutterbuck. There were plenty of books in the house but they were all behaving themselves, sitting on shelves like good books should, not flying through the air, like this one.

“Shoo!” Poona jabbed at it again and set the chandelier jingling.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it,” said Mr. Clutterbuck, as the book chased Poona around the table several times.

“No explain – make go away!”

“I think it might be trying to tell us something.”

“Books not talk.”

“Well, of course they do, in a manner of speaking. Books tell us everything we need to know and a great deal more besides. But I agree this one is more persistent than most.”

“Poona tell book something – shoo!” He tossed the broom across the table and galloped into the parlor. The book followed him like a balloon on a string.

Mr. Clutterbuck eventually spotted a pair of bright eyes blinking nervously from the shadows under the chaise lounge.

“Come out from there, or you’ll get dusty,” he said, more amused than annoyed. Lemurs were nothing if not amusing.

“Book go?” Poona asked nervously.

“No, it’s still here. Come out from under there and let’s see what it’s about.”

“Poona not leave.”

“You can’t hide under there forever, you know.”

“Poona can if Poona wants.”

“Yes, but what about lunch?”

Poona’s stomach could be heard growling at the mention of it.

“You know what a terrible cook I am,” said Mr. Clutterbuck.

Poona’s tail flicked out as if to agree but he still wouldn’t budge.

“Suit yourself,” said Mr. Clutterbuck. He gave a little whistle and the book snapped to attention. “Stay there as long as you like, Poona, but I’ll be in the study solving a mystery.”

Mr. Clutterbuck glided out with the book following him obediently.

As he left, a furry nose poked out from under the chaise.

“Mystery?”

“Of course, the Oracle can’t send a message by snail mail and more’s the pity,” explained Mr. Clutterbuck. He’d gone to his reading corner, which was in his study by the big picture window, where Poona soon joined him. “It’s hard to believe but not everyone uses the Shelldonia Post.”

“Please cover your mouth when you yawn, Poona,” said Mr. Clutterbuck. Snail mail was the best, the greatest, the only way to mail and Mr. Clutterbuck could drone on about it for hours, if given the chance. Personally, Poona preferred smoke signals.

Mr. Clutterbuck switched on his reading lamp and whistled for the book, which was hovering nearby. “Now, let’s see what the Oracle has to say.”

“Oracle who?” asked Poona.

“An old friend of mine. She consults me on matters of grave importance now and then – usually by special delivery. Do you know, I had a message in a bottle from her once.”

Now it may sound surprising that as wise and knowledgeable a personage as the Oracle would consult Mr. Clutterbuck on occasion. But Diogenes Wordsworth Clutterbuck, esq., 110 Fungi Lane, Shelldonia, was well known in learned circles. The fact that he happened to be a snail, albeit a giant snail – helix pomatia var. giganticus to be exact – really didn’t figure. Brains is brains, as someone of mere ordinary intelligence might say.

The book floated over to Mr. Clutterbuck and he spoke a command – something on the order of “open sesame.” The book opened to the first page.

“What is? What is?” asked Poona.

“Patience,” said Mr. Clutterbuck.

Poona and patience mixed about as well as oil and water. He hopped from one foot to the other while Mr. Clutterbuck read silently to himself.

Poona, of course, was dying to know what was in the book, so he climbed up on Mr. Clutterbuck’s shell to have a closer look.

“Poona, it’s not polite to read over someone’s shoulder,” said Mr. Clutterbuck.

“Foo.” Poona slid back down to the floor. It didn’t matter anyway. The markings on the pages looked like so much gibberish to him.

When Mr. Clutterbuck was finally finished, he sighed and looked out the window.

“Well, it’s a riddle,” he said.

“Riddle? Tell Poona. Poona good at riddles.”

“I was speaking metaphorically. It’s more complicated than you’re used to, old friend.”

“Puzzle? Poona solve puzzles best.”

“If only it were that simple.”

Poona frowned. “Poona no understand.”

“I’m not sure I completely under – ” Mr. Clutterbuck stopped. He was staring so hard at the clock on the mantel, Poona stared at it, too. Of course, it didn’t mean a thing to him.

“So, it’s not just the village clock,” said Mr. Clutterbuck, after a long pause. “Well, the Oracle’s letter predicted as much.”

Poona was so confused, he threw up his hands and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“Poona go to bed. Everything crazy, must be dreaming.”

“Come here and I’ll explain. At least, I’ll try.”

While Poona made himself comfortable on the rug, Mr. Clutterbuck began, “The Oracle’s messages are always subject to interpretation, but I believe what she’s saying is we’re experiencing an unprecedented chronological anomaly.”

“Huh?”

“Horologically speaking, a detectable scrimption in temporal measuring units has occurred.”

Poona shook his head. “You got other words? These, they not work so good.”

It was Mr. Clutterbuck’s turn to frown.

“Well, harrumph, that is, you see – ” it took several more clearings of the throat, another “you see,” a “put simply” or two but finally Mr. Clutterbuck found a way to boil the Oracle’s message down to words of just a few syllables. “It’s about time.”

“You got that right,” said Poona. “Poona ready now. Shoot.”

“No, I mean the problem. The Oracle’s message – it’s about time.”

“No kidding. Can’t wait to hear. Tell Poona everything.”

“No, Poona. What I’m saying is, the Oracle has written to say there’s a problem and the problem is with time. Put simply, `the time is out of joint.’”

“Oh,” Poona exclaimed, jumping up and slapping Mr. Clutterbuck on the back. “Just get new joint. Problem solved.” He dusted off his hands.

“No, Poona. `The time is out of joint’ is a quote from Shakespeare, a famous writer of plays. It means something has gone terribly wrong in the world. It’s not the fault of our clocks and it’s no accident, apparently. If somebody doesn’t do something soon it’s only going to get worse.”

“Somebody who?” asked Poona.

Mr. Clutterbuck didn’t answer. He switched off the light and started for the door. “Don’t forget the toothbrushes.”

“We go?” said Poona.

“Of course. Don’t look at me like that, Poona. You are going with me. We must speak to the Oracle at once.”

Poona planted his feet and shook his head. “Poona not go. Poona stay home where it warm and only strange thing is flying books now and then.”

“Come, come, Poona. I thought you liked mysteries.”

“Well –”

“It’s settled then. Pack us a lunch and dinner, too. Oh, and the leftover slime pie. Who knows how long we’ll be gone. I only hope we’re not too late.”

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