The Clockmaker Rabbit and the Thirteenth Chime

Friday’s Forest Fable

The Clockmaker Rabbit and the Thirteenth Chime

There were twelve clocks in the Clockmaker Rabbit’s workshop.

Well, technically there were forty-seven.

But only twelve were supposed to chime.

The others ticked, whirred, clicked, rattled, occasionally coughed, and in the case of a particularly troublesome cuckoo clock, shouted CUCKOO! whenever anyone mentioned the word “Tuesday”.

Nobody knew why.

Least of all the Clockmaker Rabbit.

He had stopped trying to fix that one in March.

It was the evening before Halloween.

Down Whimsy Way had dressed itself for the occasion.

Pumpkins glowed on cottage steps.

Orange leaves swirled along the cobbled lanes.

The Moss Witch had hung bundles of dried herbs above her doorway, and Mr Tea Toad had introduced a special pumpkin-spiced tea that tasted suspiciously like his ordinary tea with a little cinnamon added.

The three Crow Sisters were particularly excited.

They had spent the entire afternoon decorating their favourite fence with cobwebs.

Real cobwebs.

Which they’d borrowed from a rather irritated spider.

“Borrowed?” the spider had asked.

“Temporarily.”

“When will I get them back?”

“November.”

“Which November?”

The sisters had pretended not to hear.

At precisely eleven o’clock that evening, something very strange happened.

The old grandfather clock in the Clockmaker Rabbit’s workshop began to chime.

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

The Rabbit looked up from his workbench.

Eleven o’clock.

Perfectly normal.

He continued polishing a tiny brass cog.

But the clock didn’t stop.

Dong.

Dong.

He frowned.

Twelve.

Then…

DONG.

Thirteen.

The Clockmaker Rabbit dropped his polishing cloth.

“Oh dear.”

The following morning, the Crow Sisters arrived at the workshop before breakfast.

All three pressed their faces against the window.

“Is it true?”

The Clockmaker Rabbit opened the door.

“Is what true?”

“The clock!”

“What about it?”

“It struck thirteen!”

“Yes.”

The sisters gasped.

“Thirteen!”

“Yes.”

“On Halloween!”

“Technically, the night before.”

“That’s worse!”

The Rabbit adjusted his spectacles.

“I don’t see why.”

One sister leaned closer.

“Everybody knows what happens when a clock strikes thirteen.”

The Rabbit waited.

“What?”

The sisters looked at one another.

Nobody knew.

But they were quite certain it couldn’t be good.

By nine o’clock, the entire village had heard.

Mr Bramble arrived carrying a parcel and looking worried.

“I hear there’s something wrong with time.”

“Only with a clock,” said the Rabbit.

“Is that different?”

“Very.”

“Are you sure?”

“Reasonably.”

Mr Bramble looked unconvinced.

At ten, the Moss Witch appeared.

She examined the grandfather clock carefully.

“Could it be enchanted?”

“No.”

“Cursed?”

“No.”

“Haunted?”

“No.”

“Have you checked?”

The Rabbit sighed.

“It’s a clock.”

The Moss Witch folded her arms.

“So you haven’t checked.”

By lunchtime, the rumours had become rather extraordinary.

The Crow Sisters were telling everyone that midnight might arrive twice.

Mr Bramble had begun delivering his afternoon post early, just in case tomorrow never came.

Mr Tea Toad was considering whether to serve breakfast for dinner.

And Bartholomew Snailsworth had announced that if time really was behaving strangely, he intended to remain exactly where he was until it sorted itself out.

“Very sensible,” said the Key Keeper.

“Thank you,” replied Bartholomew.

He took another sip of tea.

“Also, I’m halfway through an excellent book.”

That evening, the village gathered outside the Clockmaker Rabbit’s workshop.

Nobody wanted to miss what happened next.

Lantern Fox had lit every lantern along the street.

The Moss Witch carried a bundle of protective herbs.

Mr Tea Toad brought a large flask of tea.

The Crow Sisters wore their most dramatic hats.

And Mr Bramble had brought a notebook.

“For recording events,” he explained.

“What sort of events?” asked Bartholomew.

“Unusual ones.”

“Such as?”

Mr Bramble looked around.

“I’ll know when they happen.”

At five minutes to midnight, the Clockmaker Rabbit opened his workshop door.

“Right,” he announced.

“Everyone, please remain calm.”

Nobody had been particularly uncalm.

Until he said that.

“What do you mean, remain calm?” whispered one Crow Sister.

“Why would we need to remain calm?” asked another.

“Something’s going to happen!” declared the third.

The Rabbit rubbed his forehead.

“I only meant—”

But it was too late.

The entire village was now staring at the grandfather clock.

The hands moved slowly.

One minute to midnight.

Thirty seconds.

Ten.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

DONG.

The first chime echoed through the workshop.

Then another.

And another.

Everyone counted.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

The village held its breath.

Then…

DONG.

Thirteen.

The Crow Sisters shrieked.

Mr Bramble dropped his notebook.

The Moss Witch threw her protective herbs into the air.

Mr Tea Toad spilled his tea.

And Bartholomew, who had remained remarkably composed throughout the entire affair, quietly said:

“Oh, bother.”

Then…

Nothing happened.

The lanterns continued glowing.

The moon remained in the sky.

The cobbled street stayed exactly where it was.

And somewhere in the distance, a fox sneezed.

The village waited.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Finally, Mr Bramble cleared his throat.

“Is that it?”

The Clockmaker Rabbit stared at the clock.

Then at the villagers.

Then back at the clock.

“Apparently.”

The Crow Sisters looked disappointed.

“No ghosts?”

“No.”

“No mysterious visitors?”

“No.”

“No sudden disappearance of time?”

“Clearly not.”

One sister sighed.

“Well, that’s rather anticlimactic.”

The Rabbit approached the grandfather clock.

He opened the wooden case.

Removed a small brass panel.

And peered inside.

Then he began to laugh.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not a small amused sound.

A proper, helpless laugh.

The sort that makes your shoulders shake.

The village stared.

“What?” asked the Key Keeper.

The Rabbit held up a tiny brass spring.

It had become caught beneath the striking mechanism.

“That’s it?” asked Mr Bramble.

“That’s it.”

“A spring?”

“A spring.”

“Not a curse?”

“No.”

“Not an enchantment?”

“No.”

“Not a warning from the spirit world?”

The Rabbit looked at the Crow Sisters.

“Definitely not.”

The sisters looked offended.

“Well, you can’t blame us for being thorough.”

The Clockmaker Rabbit replaced the spring.

Closed the wooden panel.

And carefully wound the clock.

“There,” he said.

“Good as new.”

The village began to disperse.

Mr Bramble collected his notebook.

The Moss Witch gathered what remained of her herbs.

Mr Tea Toad offered everyone a final cup of tea.

And the Crow Sisters started discussing whether they should tell the village about the mysterious thirteenth chime.

“You already have,” said Bartholomew.

“Yes, but we could tell it better.”

“Please don’t.”

As everyone wandered home, the Key Keeper remained beside the workshop.

“You know,” she said, “it’s funny how frightened everyone became.”

The Clockmaker Rabbit nodded.

“All because something happened that wasn’t supposed to.”

“Even though nobody knew what it meant.”

“Especially because nobody knew what it meant.”

They stood quietly for a moment.

The lanterns flickered in the cool October breeze.

Then the Rabbit said something rather thoughtful.

“Perhaps the problem wasn’t the thirteenth chime.”

“What was it?”

“The stories everyone told themselves about it.”

Later that night, when the village was asleep, the Clockmaker Rabbit sat alone in his workshop.

The grandfather clock ticked peacefully beside him.

He thought about how quickly the villagers had become frightened.

How one unexpected sound had turned into a hundred imagined disasters.

And how none of those disasters had actually happened.

He smiled.

Then he reached for his notebook and wrote:

Not everything unfamiliar is something to fear.

He considered this.

Then added:

And sometimes a clock is simply broken.

He was particularly pleased with the second sentence.

It’s funny how our minds work.

Something changes.

Something unexpected happens.

A plan doesn’t go the way we thought it would.

Someone behaves differently.

A door closes.

A familiar routine disappears.

And before we know it, our minds have written an entire story about what might happen next.

We imagine the worst.

We fill in the gaps.

We mistake uncertainty for danger.

And sometimes we become so frightened of what might happen that we forget to look at what actually is happening.

But not every unexpected turn is a warning.

Not every change is a disaster.

Not every unfamiliar feeling means something has gone wrong.

Sometimes life simply does something we didn’t expect.

And we get to decide what story we tell ourselves about it.

We can imagine everything falling apart.

Or we can allow ourselves to wonder whether something different might be unfolding.

We don’t have to pretend that uncertainty is always comfortable.

And we don’t have to know exactly what comes next.

But perhaps we can leave a little space between what happens…

and the frightening stories our minds sometimes create around it.

Because sometimes the thirteenth chime isn’t a sign that something terrible is coming.

Sometimes it’s simply a reminder that not everything has to go exactly as expected for everything to be all right.

And if you happen to hear thirteen chimes on Halloween night…

Well.

Perhaps check the clock first.

Before you alert the Crow Sisters.

Until next Friday’s Forest Fable…

May you find courage when life surprises you, calm when things feel uncertain, and the wisdom to remember that not every unexpected turn is something to fear.

With warm wishes,

Becky
The Key Keeper
Down Whimsy Way