Attica - By Garry Kilworth Page 0,108

ones, gold ones, black ones, white ones, every other colour you could think of. In the burnished light from a distant window they glinted, they flashed, they glimmered, they burned. Snakeskin straps, golden chains, expanding silver bracelets. There were those which proudly announced they had ‘17 Jewels’ on the face. Others were ‘Waterproof’. There were watches with Roman numerals and there were watches with Arabic numerals. Some of the makes he knew to be very expensive, others quite cheap, and a thousand he had never heard of before. Some pocket-watches had their face-covers open, others had them closed. One or two had perspex cases and you could see the brass-toothed wheels turning, the flysprings quivering inside.

He thought of something.

‘No digital watches?’

The look on her face told him she had the same opinion of digital watches as he did.

‘How do you wind them all up? There are at least a thousand here,’ he gasped. ‘Do you do it all yourself?’

‘I spend two hours every day winding those that are running down.’

A thousand second hands sweeping, a thousand minute hands ticking, a thousand hour hands crawling.

‘Wonderful,’ Alex breathed, stalling for the hour, which was fast coming up. ‘Any of them chime?’

‘A few,’ she said. ‘This one, and this one, and others. Do you like chiming watches?’

‘I love ’em.’

Finally watch fingers flicked at the hour. Of course the chimes didn’t all come at once. Some came and went before others even got started. Some just tinkled tunelessly, a few had a definite melody. But nowhere, nowhere among those several chiming watches could Alex detect Frère Jacques. Perhaps Mr Grantham’s watch was there but the chiming mechanism had long since given up the ghost? It was a very old watch, it was true. Perhaps the chimes had seized? How rotten, to get so close and not be able to identify it. In any case, even if it could chime out its little French air, finding it among its peers would be the devil’s own job. It was like looking for a single ant in a nest of ants.

Alex went for broke. ‘Did – did you ever have a watch that chimed the tune of Frère Jacques?’

A frown appeared on the board-comber’s face.

‘Frère Jacques. No, never.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I would know, wouldn’t I?’ she exclaimed hotly.

‘Yes, sorry.’ He was morose. ‘All this way for nothing.’

At that moment the owl’s head swivelled backwards.

‘Eeerch!’ it screeched. ‘Eeerch, eeerch.’

The board-comber began running back towards the wall of pianos, not staying to blindfold Alex again.

‘Attack!’ she was crying. ‘Big assault on the border!’

‘Oh, right,’ replied Alex, having no idea what was going on, but following her anyway.

‘Here’s a chance to earn your spurs,’ she told him as he caught up to her. ‘Help me fight the Organist’s Music Makers.’

‘Music Makers?’

‘The enemy. You’ll see. Quick, grab these.’

Alex was handed a sword and shield, the kind knights carry into battle or at tourneys. The girl armed herself likewise. Then she leapt in a very agile manner up on to a piano, urging Alex to do the same. Indeed, he found he had to clamber up, but he joined her nonetheless. The pair of them stood side by side, armed and ready for conflict, staring out into the darkness. Naturally, the owl was with them, staring hard too. It kept making chattering sounds in the back of its throat, as if it were keeping the board-comber appraised of what was happening out there in the beyond.

‘Are you sure there’s an enemy coming?’ asked Alex, putting on Makishi to protect his face. ‘It’s awfully quiet out there in the dark interior. Who are these Music Makers anyway?’

As if in answer to his question an arrow came hurtling out of the inky blackness beyond and struck Alex’s shield. Except that once it fell away from him, Alex could see it wasn’t an arrow at all. It was a violin bow. Then another, a larger one, swished by his ear: a cello bow.

Now came a horrible sound: the kind of noise cats might make if burned alive. Alex was startled and not a little terrified to see giant spiders coming out of the darkness, racing towards him, with riders on their backs. The riders were mercenaries, village children. And these hostiles, hired by the Organist, weren’t riding spiders, but mechanised bagpipes.

The pipes of these long-legged steeds raced the riders towards the border of pianos. The riders on their inflated tartan bags were archers using violins, violas and bass viols to shoot their arrows. Violins had become bows,