The Army of Time

I saw them marching past our village one day; the clockwork army of time, their arms swinging back and forth like pendulums as their goose-stepping legs kicked the air jerkily like the ticking hands of a clock.

It wasn’t an invasion. It was just a remembrance parade; a New Year’s Eve Parade, at the front rode General January First and behind him marched his 12 regiments, the months  and within them the red uniformed men of days.

I thought it all looked very impressive but my grandfather scowled at them, he didn’t like them.

“Where ever they go”, he whispered, “They bring death and the tyranny of change. This whole village used to be different till time invaded it and now the old village is gone”.

“Is that true?”, I asked, running alongside one of the slow marching men, “Do you bring death and tyranny wherever you march?”.

The robotic man swivelled his eyes round to look at me whilst keeping his head faced forwards, continuing to twirl his hourglass baton, his irises and pupils like glowing characters upon a digital clock.

“Time marches on, lad”, he said, gruffly, “Progress can’t be stopped. That’s just the way it is. We didn’t set the wheels of time in motion; we just move with them”.

But then, out of the pages of a nearby bible leapt a superstition; a large dark cloud like creature with snarling fang filled jaws and clawing hands, hissing bible verses.

The regiment took aim with their rifles of enlightenment and, bright bullets blazing from their barrels, the superstition, turning tail, fled back into the pages of the black, leather bound book.

“They look like they do a good job to me, Grampa”, I said to the old man as he clutched hold of my small soft hand in his large wrinkled one.

“You’re only seeing one side of them”, he said, “Wait till you see the other side. Then you won’t like them so much”.

Poor Grampa, I suppose I should have listened to him; after all, he’d seen a lot of time. That night, the soldiers came for him. I don’t know how they got into his room. I didn’t hear the grinding of their clockwork motors or their mechanical footsteps but, the next morning, Grampa was lying still in his bed; his heart, no longer beating.

We buried him outside in the garden, digging up the snow and I remember feeling really angry at the time, my heart nipping with sadness till it smarted like my fingers with the cold.

But then the Spring came and there were snow drops and daises and blue bells where we’d buried Grampa, the whole world was wearing green and birds were singing in the blossom covered tree that over looked his grave and it was hard to think that the armies of time could be all bad if they had left him those flowers.

Now my own hands are covered in loose skin and wrinkles and I’ve had a lot of time to think about time. Some people dread the sound of its approaching army; others line the streets and cheer.

I don’t think, like Grampa did, that the smiling face of time is just a mask to conceal the face of some dark grim reaper. Time brings the Spring and Summer; it brings happy new infants into the world, time teaches and heals, sets things free and makes them grow.

And yet just like Grampa I cannot help but feel a slight shudder as, listening to the clock, I hear the distant army of time marching closer, knowing that one day, they’ll be coming for me.