The Irish Tales

In camera meeting : 3rd March


Present : The Calendarist, December, Tuesday.




As you may imagine, Friday's confession caused much consternation and condemnation amongst the regulators. The primary duty of a Day is to keep an absolutely accurate record of time spent on his watch and no excuse is accepted.

Despite a barrage of questioning, (some of it regarding his integrity) he could offer no explanation of how or why the records had been stolen and he was duly escorted away in chains by the Chronodogs, a kind of brutal enforcing agency used to punish transgressors.

He was, no doubt, taken to a small cell filled with time-pieces, all of which had stopped. A terrifying prospect for any chronologist.

The Calendarist then abruptly ended the meeting, leaving all of us in a state of confusion and bewilderment.
All except me.

I have been around long enough to know that nothing is ever accomplished by commitees and that anything worthwhile takes place behind the scenes and sub rosa.
So it was no surprise to receive a request from The Calendarist to meet with him privately in his quarters, not 20 minutes after the official meeting concluded.

Nor was it any surprise to find that Tuesday was also included.
As I may have said earlier, Tuesday was one of the few Days who seemed to have a brain and the desire to use it.
We three sat around the table, with a glass of 1825 French brandy, (one of the perks of being a Chrono) and we waited for the Calendarist to speak.

Like many notable people, the private man was entirely different from his public persona.
Without preamble, he raised his glass to us and swallowed it whole, before refilling it.
I joined him, noticing that Tuesday merely took a token sip. Interesting.
Eventually, he spoke.

“Eight days. 86,400 seconds in each. A total of 691,200 seconds.”
Here he paused and took another large swallow.

“Friends, this is not just a Discrepancy. It is Grand Larceny on a scale hitherto unknown.”
I re-filled my glass. Tuesday merely nodded.

The Calendarist seemed sunk in gloom for a moment, suddenly looking his age, which is pretty old.

“I have called you both here tonight because I need your help to solve possibly the greatest crisis I, or we, have ever faced. You, Tuesday, are here because you display an intelligence far beyond that of your fellow Days.

“You, December, are here because you display the cynical, pragmatic approach needed for such an investigation.”

Tuesday blinked and tossed her head. (Did I not mention that Tuesday was female ? How remiss of me, especially as she is the only female Chronologist, not to mention the very first.)

And the very last as well. For she was an experiment by the Time Lord at the Gregorian/Julian handover – oh yes, femanism is not a recent development – an experiment which he declined to carry any further.

Lord knows why, as women have been proved to be far more effective users of time than men. However, that, as they say, is a potato of a different temperature.
In truth, she deserved to be promoted to a Month, but that can only happen if a Month should die, which is very rare and usually self-induced.
(Living forever is vastly over-rated, you know.)

But let us return to the meeting.
The Calendarist reviewed what little facts we had to go on.

“1. Eight Fridays are missing. 2.Friday's audit is missing. 3. Um, there isn't a third.Thoughts ?”
Tuesday screwed up her face.

“Has anyone actually looked at the Second Hand market yet ?” she asked.
Cal, (I call him that for short) nodded.
“Yes, there are no obvious anomalies.”
Tuesday thought for a moment.
“Then,” she continued, “If they're not being sold, they're being stored. Or used.”

Cal looked startled. I remained impassive. I wanted to see where she was going with this.
“And if they're being used, there should be a ripple on the Pond, should there not ?”

Now then, this did suprise me. And Cal. Hardly anyone under the rank of Decadent knew about The Pond and I only knew because I'm a nosy bugger and have often wandered into areas where I shouldn't. That a Day of the Week should be aware of it was quite sensational.

Cal obviously shared my surprise. He raised his glass to his lips, unaware that it was empty.
Eventually, he said,"What do you know of the Pond ?"
She grinned. That was all.

Cal looked at me hopefully.When I merely shrugged, he put down his empty glass forcefully and glared at Tuesday.
"I ask you again, what do you know of The Pond, young lady ?"
This I had to admire ; authority combined with courtesy.

Nobody has adressed Tuesday as a "young lady" for many a century and I could tell it tickled her.
Not that you'd have known from her reply.

She fixed The Calendarist with her suddenly steel-cold eyes and repeated her question.
"Have there been any ripples on The Pond? Sir."

Cal bowed his head, as if the weight of decades rested upon his neck, which in a way, they did.
"Yes," he whispered.

"But not ripples."
And he raised his head and opened his haunted eyes.
"Waves......................."


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