This, he thought, would bear looking into. Putting the light in his pocket he carried the clock down the stairs to his second-floor bedroom. It looked strangely incongruous there, set on a draftsman's table hung with rules and T squares. Determinedly Peter began to pry open the back with a chisel, when it glided smoothly open without tooling. There was better construction in the old time-place than he had realized. The little hinges were still firm and in working order. He peered into the works and ticked his nail against one of the chimes. It sounded sweet and clear.
The young man took a pair of pliers. Lord knew where the key was, he thought, as he began to wind the clock. Slowly it got under way, ticking loudly. The thing had stopped at 12.59, That would be nearly one o'clock in any other timepiece; on this the minute hand crept slowly toward the enigmatic XIII.
Peter wound the striking mechanism carefully, and watched as a little whir sounded. The minute hand met the Roman numeral, and with a click the chimes sounded out in an eerie, jangling discord. Peter thought with sudden confusion that all was not as well with the clock as he had thought. The chimes grew louder, filling the little bedroom with their clang.
Horrified, the young man put his hands on the clock as though he could stop off the noise. As he shook the old cabinet the peals redoubled until they battered against the eardrums of the draftsman, ringing in his skull and resounding from the walls, making instruments dance and rattle on the drawing-board, Peter drew back, his hands to his ears. He was filled with nausea, his eyes bleared and smarting, As the terrible clock thundered out its din without end he reached the door feebly, the room swaying and spinning about him, nothing real but the suddenly glowing clock-dial and the clang and thunder of its chimes.
As he opened the door it ceased, and he closed his eyes in relief as his nausea passed. He looked up again, and his eyes widened with horror. Though it was noon outside a nightwind fanned his face, and though he was on the second-story landing of his Grandfather Packer's house dark trees rose about him, stretching as far as the eye could see.
For three hours—by his wristwatch's
luminous dial—Peter
had wandered, aimless and horrified,
waiting for dawn. The aura
of strangeness that hung over the
forest in which he walked was
bearable; it was the gnawing suspicion
that he had gone mad that
shook him to his very bones. The
trees were no ordinary things, of
that he was sure. For he had sat
under one forest giant and leaned
back against its bole only to rise with
a cry of terror. He had felt its
pulse beat slowly and regularly under
the bark. After that he did not
dare to rest, but he was a young
and normal male. Whether he would
or not he found himself blundering
into ditches and stones from sheer
exhaustion. Finally, sprawled on the
ground, he slept.
Peter woke stiff and sore from his nap on the bare ground, but he felt better for it. The sun was high in the heavens; he saw that it was about eleven o'clock. Remembering his terrors of the night he nearly laughed at himself. This was a forest, and there were any number of sane explanations how he got here. An attack of amnesia lasting
