Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (59 page)

“Just read it,
Pocket.”

“Fine. Here begins
the Diary of the Watchmaker’s Doll.”

“To the One Who Will Awaken Me:

The Collected Diary of the Watchmaker's Doll”

Hello and thank
you to the one who kindly now reads these words – please forgive my penmanship,
as I am unsure of its quality. I am writing these pages I know not to whom,
perhaps to no one. Maybe that is okay. But maybe they will prove to be
important in some way, should I later deem myself worthy to burden a reader
with them and then upon reading them the reader determines that they were
worthy of being read.

Please excuse my
wordiness.

Tonight I spoke to
the tea lady, who lent me this pen. It is at her insistence that I now write
these words. There seemed implied somehow in her voice that there was some sort
of greater importance in my writing. I don't know if that is true.

I shall start from
the very beginning. My earliest dreams.

The first thing
that was not darkness was sound. So many, some little, some big, but the ones I
liked best were the comfortable ones. They made me feel better before I knew
what it was to be afraid. Quiet, low sounds like the hum of big machinery, lots
of sighs, but always nice sounds. Later I will call these sounds Father.

More sounds were
threaded through Father's sounds. They were higher, like a bird's. Slowly,
patterns emerged in the sounds. Words. Vi-o-let-ta, my Father said to the bird.

Sometime later.
Minutes, years, I know not. Father and the bird woman are laughing together. I
must know more words now, but I don't remember how I learned them. “A drink, if
you please, to celebrate the government's best new employee?” she chirped.
Father promises her they will go sailing the world, and he will retire young.
These must be good things.

Then something
strange, something like a touch but different. I suppose I should call her
Violetta. She said: “Stop playing with that thing! Come have a drink with me!”

Another time I
remember: Father is with me. Somehow I know this though he is not making
sounds. When Violetta comes in her voice is not like the last time, she wants
Father to leave me. “Come to bed, you're going to make yourself sick over this
obsessive little hobby of yours!” He tells her that obsessing is his job, that
the King is demanding everything fast, great, and amazing.

“What
is
that, anyway?” she said. “It looks like a skull, it's ghastly.”

Father laughs.
“Perhaps I should give it a face, would that please you?”

“Well, it would
definitely make it look more doll-like.” She chokes on the end of her sentence
and begins to cough. Father leaves me and says he is going to get her a drink.

One day suddenly a
dream with shapes happens. There is a rectangle shape, maybe a door, and in
that shape is a new set of sounds. A man, very large, forms in the rectangle.
Another shape, tall and thin, holds my father's sounds. It seems my dreams are
moving farther from my mind now. Now it seems like shapes are something that
appear in my eyes, but then, I'm not sure. It is hard to remember.

Father is begging
the man in the doorway to reconsider something. The strong man refuses and
reminds Father that not cooperating would be treason.

Father's sounds
are not comfortable now. He is loud with the man and tells him to leave. The
man tells Father that Violetta's treatments will be cut off. Father begs him to
let Violetta have her medicine and they go someplace else together to “talk.”

I think a long
time passed before the next dream. I remember Father's shape sobbing on the
floor. He was saying that word: “Vi-o-let-ta.” Again and again. “Violetta,
Violetta.” I don't like it. Any of it. I go back into the sleepy darkness.

The next few
dreams are different. My sensations are beginning to occur in a larger area.
Father speaks to me now. His voice is faster and there is more air in his words
but they are still comfortable somehow.

And then, one day,
shapes were everywhere. And they were beautiful.

I remember
Father's shape the best. I think he was the first real shape. He has grey hairs
like a kitty's whiskers and I remember that he said “Finally! Welcome to the
world!” the first time I saw him. He looked funny and I think I giggled at him.
He told me that we would be living “below the floor” for awhile. I didn't know
that there was any other place so I didn't mind.

He said, “You are
so beautiful, so much better than I imagined!”

He said, “I was
worried the gears would show too much through your eyes, but they're hardly
noticeable at all!”

He touched my
cheek and said, “You look so much like her.” His eyes look like water.

I don't remember
when, but I started standing up. Father showed me mirrors. I remember how
magical it was, to think about seeing yourself! “What are these?” I couldn't
stop playing with the little wires coming out of my hair.

“Those are your
ears, they let you hear what I say.”

“Hmm.” When I
touch them, I hear noises. Loud, scratching sounds.

“Your pigtails
hide them, see? So no one will be able to see them, you'll seem normal that
way.”

Some time later I
remember Father making food. He would break eggs and beautiful yellow things
would come out of them and sometimes he would put water into a noisy pot that
would tell you when it didn't want to be cooked anymore. Father said, “You
won't ever have to worry about doing things like this.” I didn't understand why
I wouldn't want to.

Father taught me
how to read and how to write. It is so delightful, how words look, with their
curves and loops. When I write, Father tells me to try to make the letters
straighter but I think they're so much nicer the way I make them. Like little
vines. Father doesn't mind if I look at things, as long as I don't go above the
ceiling and as long as I don't break anything, so I find a box full of books
and read them. He says they belong to her but I don't mind. The books tell me
about places that aren't below the floor and about being in love and about
animals and that everyone has a Father like me but also a Mother but I don't
think I have one of those.

Father liked to
make things, I think. Sometimes making things made him angry, but he would do
it anyway. I liked to watch him when he did this. He would say things about
gears and parts and he would pick up tools and sometimes he would ask me for a
tiny spring or where his piston had got to and sometimes I would find things
after they disappeared and then new things would be made.

At bedtime Father
would tell me to go to sleep and then it was like before there were shapes I
could see with my eyes and sometimes I don't remember anything at all until
Father wakes me up. And then one day at bedtime Father kissed my forehead and
said “Go to sleep” and then I don't remember anything for a long time.

The next time I
wasn't asleep I was in a big glass case. Father looks different now and he
doesn't have as many kitty whiskers on his head and there are a lot more things
below the floor with us. He is busy and moving around a lot but he isn't making
anything. I want to get out of the case and I tell him so.

“Ha,” he says.
“Now who would believe I have a secret little girl beneath the clock man's
shop? You're my little secret.” He halfway smiles at me.

“I hate it in
here. Please let me out.” Father stops pacing and looks at me through the
glass. Close, so that the glass gets foggy.

“Hate? Haha! And
how would you know what that is, little one?” he said. “What odd placement of
gear against gear made your insides turn in such a way to give you words like
'hate?' No, you've been reading too many books.” He moves away and digs through
a box.

“I don't like
waking up in the case. I want to wake up outside, like before.”

Father stops
moving in the box. “Oh, so now she remembers things! And just what is this
thing that I have made? My little miracle! Or my blasphemous curse?” He pauses.
“You need to go back to sleep now.”

“Please, no,” I
told him, but the darkness was too difficult to resist and sleep came to me
again.

When I wake up I
am still in the case and Father is different and he is more still. He is
looking at a book. “I'm sorry you had to sleep so much,” he said, “but
unfortunately it has to happen every two weeks.”

“I don't like
sleeping. And when the dreams don't happen, I don't like it even more.”

“You don't have
dreams,” Father said. He doesn't look at me.

“Yes I do, but
sometimes I don't.”

“You've been
reading too many storybooks.”

“But dreams are
when stories happen in your sleep, right?”

“Something like
that.”

“Then I have
dreams.” Father looks at me. “I had a dream that you were talking to a bird
lady.”

“A bird lady?”

“Yes, she said you
were going to go sailing. Around the world!”

Father pauses. The
book is open but he is not looking at it. He slams it shut and digs through a
box fast. He pulls out a lock and puts it on my case. He pushes the case and I
start moving and then I am in the corner and there are boxes everywhere. Father
stacks boxes in front of my case and then he is gone. I yell but nothing
happens.

I feel like Father
in my dream from so long ago, sobbing, saying “Violetta.” Dizzy. That word.
“Violetta...Violetta,” I sob, but water doesn't come out. “VIOLETTA!” I scream,
but still nothing.

Maybe I really am
just a machine.

I learn to make
sleep come. But I don't let the dreams happen. I don't want them anymore.

When I am awake
again there is a loud noise and then I see Father. He is searching through a
box in front of my case and when I open my eyes he sees me.

“Dolly, my love,
I'm so sorry! I've been awfully rude. Please, let me help you out of this case.
Silly, silly me. See?” He tries at the lock, and when it won't open, breaks it
with a hammer. It takes some time and he is grunting.

“I've kept you
hidden so long! Here,” he opens the door and takes my hand and helps me step
out of the case, “you are not to be hidden! You! You are my wonderful gift!”

He hugs me for the
first time. Father smiles and looks at my face and then his smile starts to
disappear. “Gift. The King. No, this won't work. Consciousness. Such a common
gift!” He spins me around like the ballerina on top of a jewelry box I found
and wasn't allowed to touch. “Consciousness! Everyone has one! Ha ha!”

He pulls me close
after the spin. He says, “A little miracle only.”

I push him away. I
hate him. I hate his things. I grab the nearest device. He made this. It is
beautiful and it is covered in cobwebs and I throw it at his face.

He ducks, but the
device shatters. It helps me. I want more.

“How
dare you!
You are the cruelest Father ever!”

His eyes widen
when I call him this. I don't know if I've said it aloud before. I want to
break everything.

“Father,” he says.
“Yes. I'm sorry, my love.” I am holding something brassy I don't recognize,
ready to throw it. “Please. Come to me.”

He speaks softly
now. My arm feels tense but I let it drop.

“Come here.”

I do. He hugs me
again. “Don't be angry. Look. I have something for you.”

My face is buried
in his arm. The water still won't come out. “We're going sailing! Remember?” He
gestures toward what looks like the bow of a huge ship. It looks like something
from a book I read. “We won't be imprisoned much longer! You and I, we'll
escape from this world of wind-up nightmares!  We'll finally be happy!
Don't you see?” I look at the ship. On it are words that read:

THE LADY VIOLETTA:

TO WORLDS UNKNOWN

“We don't need
them and their obsessive little march to progress, see? We don't need any of
them! The King, all of them, they'll use anyone however they see fit. But not
us!”

The next night I
am happy and sitting on the floor, finally with my books again, when Father
runs in screaming “They know, they know! They'll come!” and I am not sure what
he means but I am upset that that he has interrupted my story. He is running
around in circles and when he sees me he stops and walks slowly toward me. “I'm
going to need to make some adjustments to you, darling.” I don't know what this
means but I don't like it. I'm not sure why. “When your two weeks is up this
time, it will be done.”

At the end of my
two weeks Father puts me to bed again in the dreadful case. “Don't worry, it's
only for your safety,” he says. “See? I won't even put the lock on this time.
But you won't be safe if you leave your case, and we wouldn't want that, would
we?” I shook my head. I'm not sure why.

“I have a present
for you. It's very special.” He places my turnkey into my hands. “This is what
I use to wake you up, see?” He points to the words “Two Weeks” engraved into
the metal. “Two weeks. Never forget.”

“But you have to
keep it! How will I wake up?” I try to give it back to him but he pushes it
back to me.

“Shhh, don't
worry, it's all part of the plan, you'll see.”

I don't know why
but this makes me sad. “Well, then please be careful with my surgery.”

“Of course.” He
pets my hair and then slowly closes the door to my case.

I go to sleep and
then it is like my earliest dreams yet again for a long time, but something is
different this time. I cannot move at all but I can still see the shapes around
me. I am not sure if my eyes are open or not. The shapes are different than
before, they are more detailed, or maybe I just understand what they are meant
to represent now. When I dream this way it is hard for me to remember
everything, and time moves quickly.

I remember feeling
Father's surgery. It didn't hurt at all, even though I read in a book that it
usually does. I was disappointed about that.