Аврам Дэвидсон: The Cealess Stone

Avram Davidson

The Ceaseless Stone

The Clock—the Clock, in the old Clock Tower, the clock which was meant when anyone said, without other word of qualification, "So let us meet by the Clock"—this was the one. Annually the gold leaf of its numerals was renewed and refreshed, and the numerals were Roman, not as any deliberate archaicism, but because no other numerals were known thereabouts when it was made; the "Arabic" numbers, in their slow progression out of India through Persia into Turkey, had nowhere reached that part of Europe when the Clock was made; and furthermore, as a sign to us how our fathers' fathers lived without a need for graduations of haste, the great dial had but one hand to turn the hours.

The pulsebeat of the heart of Imperial Bella, capital of the Triune Monarchy of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania is no longer as perceptible round about the Old Town Hall as it once was: to be sure, on Saints Cosmo's and Damian's Day, the City Council still in full regalia comes for the formal ceremony of electing the Chief Burgomaster, but the rest of the year not much happens. Toiurists come to see the tower as part of the regular tour offered by Messrs. T. Cook, beggars and peddlers follow the tour as birds follow a boat, and country-folk—to whom the new Municipal Building, with its mansard roof, marble lobby, and typewriting machines, mean nearer to nothing than nothing at all—country-folk make the Clock Tower the center of their perambulations, as they have done for centuries. It is too old a joke to raise even a smile any more that some of them expect to see the Emperor emerge when the automata come out to strike the hours. It makes no difference if they have come up in those huge and huge-wheeled wagons stuffed with feathers, down, hams, cabbages, sour-crout, hides, nuts, eggs, fruit, and all whatever, from barrel-staves to beeswax; or if they have

come on foot behind a drove of beeves for the Ox Market; or if they have come up on the railroad. As soon as they can manage, they go to the old Clock Tower, as though to reassure themselves that it is still there, for all their directions start from there: Take the first lane facing the old Clock Tower and count two turnings but take the third, and so on. Unless they have paced the way thence to the spectacle-makers or the watchmakers or the thread-and-button shop or the gunsmith's or wherever it may be, nothing can persuade them that they may confidently trade with a spectacle-maker, a watchmaker, a thread-and-button shop, or a gunsmith. Who knows who they are? May not their merchandise turn to dust like so much fairy gold? Who could trust even to find them again? Whereas, should one have either dissatisfaction or satisfaction with the tradesmen whose way is known via the old Clock Tower, well, what could be easier—or, rather, as easy—but once again to make one's way to the old Clock Tower, and thence, as safe as by Great God His Compass, return to the same tradesman once again?

It is on a clear, dry day in later February, as near as any subsequent report affirmed, that a young man from the country—let us call him Hansli—finds his way to the very foot of the Old Clock and commences to look about him a bit nervously. A man sitting on a piece of faded rug on the step calls Hansli over, and, very kindly and soberly, inquires if he can assist him. Hansli is relieved.

"Honored Sir," he says, "it's the lane that leads to the lane as is where the goldsmiths are. What it is I'm looking for."

The man nods. "Was it for a wedding ring, perhaps?" he asks.

Hansli is astonished to the point where he does not even at first turn red. Then he reflects how clever the city people are. As for the man himself, the city man, he looks both clever and respectable. "Like a philosopher," he explains, afterwards. This description is clear to Hansli, and to Hansli's father and mother and his promised bride and her father and mother. Otherwise, it lacks precision, might mean anyone from the lay instructor of algebra at a seminary school to a civil engineer getting ready to plot out a canal. Equally, it might mean a perfect rogue selling a mixture of salt water and methylene blue as a cure for infertility in cattle or dropped stomach in children.

"Because," the man explains, "if it was for a wedding ring, I have a few for sale."

The man looks at him without a trace of a smile, and this is very

reassuring, for Hansli had feared—who knows what—they might laugh at him, at the goldsmiths, make rude jokes. This quiet gentleman is certainly doing nothing of the sort. "It's for Belinda," Hansli explains. The gentleman nods, takes out from a pocket a piece of cloth and unwraps it. Sure enough, a ring. Sure enough, it is gold. But wait. It looks like gold . . . sure enough. But—

He buys time. "What might the price be?" The price is half-a-ducat. This is also a relief, a great relief. Hansli can bargain an ox, a horse, a harness, with the best of them. As for rings, he has no idea. Still, still, "That seems very cheap," he declares. 7* it gold, real gold, pure gold? is what the wee voice is asking in his ear.

The gentleman nods, soberly. "It is cheap," he concedes. "A goldsmith must charge more, because he has to pay rent. And a very high rent, indeed. But I, here, I need pay no rent, for my place of business"—he gestures—"has for the landlord the Emperor himself, whom God bless and preserve for many years—"

"Amen, amen." Hansli takes off his hat and crosses himself.

"—charges me no rent. Do you see," he says. And he takes out of another pocket what some would call a jeweler's loupe, but which Hansli calls "a look-see," a term covering everything from a magnifying glass to a telescope, and he tenders it. Hansli peers through the glass at the ring, all round the ring. How bright it looks! How it shines in the clear winter air And then Hansli sees something. A triple-headed eagle, and the numerals LXI. This is good enough for Hansli. He takes out his purse and selects a half-a-ducat. The philosophical gentleman blesses him and he blesses the philosophical gentleman.

Back home, Hansli's father peers inside the ring. "Never seed no gold like this," he says. Then his clear eyes, which (they say locally) can spot a goat-kid three miles off in the dark woods, observe something. "Ah, th' Imper'al Eagle! So. 'Tis good gold, then, and, lets me see." He calculates slowly. "Ah, the sixty-first year o' the Reign, hm, twas made a year ago ... or so ..." He lifts the ring. It has passed the test. Hansli kneels. His father raises the ring and blesses him with it. Now all plans for the wedding may proceed. As soon as the sunny days are sure, Belinda will begin to bleach the linen.

Who knows how often this was all repeated? Not Lobats, the Commissioner of the Detective Police. Not De Hooft, the President of the Jewelers Association.

"It is always the same story," says De Hooft, a dapper Fleming with dyed hair and a waxed mustache. "Very soon the ring begins to bend, or sometimes it breaks, even if it is not too big or too small. They come to town, they look for this chap, this, ah, 'phil-os-o-pher," he parts the word sarcastically (and incorrectly); "they don't find him, they go to a respectable jeweler or goldsmith. The gold is tested, it proves pure, it is explained to them that it is in fact too pure, that it is too soft to take pressure. The idea that the good-wife will have to be bought another ring in order to testify that she is in fact married, this does not please them. Not at all. But what can one do, eh?" He shrugs.

Lobats is there, listening. He has heard it all before. Also there, and not having heard it all—or any of it—before, is Engelbert Esz-terhazy, Doctor of Medicine, Doctor of Philosophy, Doctor of Jurisprudence, Doctor of Science, and Doctor of Literature. Who now asks, "Any reports of stolen gold?"