The Island With Two Clocks

Anna Reid stood at the front of the ferry and watched the island come slowly out of the mist.

She had seen Halla Island many times in photographs.

The photographs had not shown how green the fields were, or how the grey rocks dropped straight down into the sea.

From far away the island looked like a piece of the mainland that had broken off and floated away, and had then decided to stay where it was.

"First time?" the ferryman asked.

"First time," Anna said.

"Then I should tell you something before we land." He did not look at her. He was watching the water. "The island keeps its own time."

"I know," Anna said. "That is why I am here."

The ferryman said nothing more, but Anna thought she saw him smile.

Anna was twenty-eight years old.

She worked in the timetable office of the Northern Ferry Company, in a grey building six hours away on the mainland.

Her job was to make minutes agree with each other.

When a boat left one port at ten past eight, it had to arrive at another port at a time that everybody had agreed on.

Ports, buses, trains, delivery trucks: they were all connected, like the wheels inside a watch.

If one wheel turned differently, the whole machine made a strange noise.

Halla Island had been making a strange noise for a long time.

The company had decided to add the island to a new route.

Before that could happen, somebody had to solve what the office called the Halla problem.

Ferry crews had complained for years.

They said that when they arrived, the island was already waiting for them, and when they left, the island told them they were late.

Letters had been written.

Nothing had changed.

So the office had sent Anna, with a letter, a notebook, and two weeks.

She took out her phone and looked at the time.

Then she looked up at the island.

There were two towers.

The first stood at the end of the harbor, a short square tower of pale stone, with a clock facing the sea.

The second stood higher, on the hill above the village, next to the old church.

Its clock faced the land.

Anna could see both clock faces at the same time.

They did not agree.

She waited until the ferry came closer, and then she checked again, carefully.

The harbor clock said seven minutes past ten.

The hill clock said exactly ten o'clock.

Her phone said ten o'clock too.

Seven minutes.

Not five, not ten.

Seven.

Anna wrote the number in her notebook and underlined it twice.

She had expected an old clock that had stopped working properly.

Old clocks lost time, or gained it, a little every week.

But a clock that was wrong by exactly seven minutes, while the other clock was perfectly right, was not a broken clock.

It was a decision.

The ferry touched the harbor wall.

Above her, the harbor clock struck the hour, seven minutes late, or, Anna thought, seven minutes early.

She was not yet sure which.

The guest house stood halfway up the hill, so that from her window Anna could see both towers without moving her chair.

She thought that was lucky.

Later she learned that almost every house on Halla had been built that way.

Mrs. Halden carried Anna's bag up the stairs although Anna asked her not to.

She was a small, strong woman of about sixty, with white hair cut short.

"You are the clock lady," Mrs. Halden said. It was not a question.

"News travels fast."

"There are four hundred and ten people here. News does not have far to travel." She put the bag down. "Dinner is at six. Harbor time."

Anna took out her notebook.

"That is what I wanted to ask about. Which time do you use? The harbor or the hill?"

"Both."

"Both?"

"For anything at sea, we use the harbor clock. For anything on land, for school and church and dinner, we use the hill clock." Mrs. Halden said this in the same voice she might have used to explain that the bathroom was at the end of the corridor.

"But they are seven minutes apart."

"Yes," said Mrs. Halden. "They are."

"Does that not confuse people?"

Mrs. Halden thought about the question, or seemed to.

"It confuses visitors," she said kindly, and went downstairs.

That night, Anna did her first real piece of work.

She sat by the window with her phone, a pen, and a cup of tea that got cold, and she waited for the hours.

At eleven, the hill clock struck first.

She counted.

Seven minutes later, the harbor bell rang out over the water.

At midnight, the same.

At one in the morning, the same.

She had been sent to find a fault.

Faults were untidy.

A worn wheel made a clock lose four minutes one week and six the next.

This was not untidy.

This was seven minutes, every hour, without any change at all.

Anna wrote in her notebook: The harbor clock is not wrong.

It is set.

Then she wrote a second line, and looked at it for a long time: Somebody sets it that way on purpose.

In the morning she walked down to the harbor.

The tower was open.

Inside, the machine was old but very clean.

Somebody had oiled it recently, and the weights hung on new ropes.

Anna knew enough about clocks to see that this one was being cared for by a person who knew exactly what they were doing.

A young man was tying up a boat below.

He had dark hair and a friendly, unhurried face, and he watched her come out of the tower.

"Find anything broken?" he asked.

"No," said Anna. "That is the problem."

He laughed.

"I am Peter."

"Anna."

"I know," he said. "You want to fix our clocks."

"I want to understand them first."

Peter looked at her for a moment, and then he looked up at the tower, and something in his face grew more serious.

"Good," he said. "Start with Ilsa."

Ilsa Brun lived in the last house before the church, and she was seventy-nine years old.

Anna had expected somebody slow.

Instead, when she reached the top of the hill, an old woman in a heavy coat was already climbing the tower stairs ahead of her, carrying a metal key the size of her arm.

"You may come up," Ilsa said, without turning round. "Do not talk on the stairs. I count them."

There were sixty-two steps.

Anna counted too.

The room at the top smelled of oil and cold stone.

The clock filled it: a great iron frame, brass wheels, a slow heavy weight on a rope going down into the dark.

Ilsa put the key into a hole in the frame and began to turn it.

Her arms were thin, but she turned it evenly, like somebody who had done it eleven thousand times, which she had.

"Eight days," she said. "That is how long it runs. I wind both clocks every Sunday. The hill first, then the harbor."

"Both," Anna said.

"Both."

"Then you are the person I need to speak to." Anna opened her notebook. "Mrs. Brun, the harbor clock is seven minutes ahead of the true time."

"Yes."

"You know."

"I set it," said Ilsa.

Anna had prepared five careful arguments on the ferry.

All of them had assumed that she would first have to prove something.

Now there was nothing to prove, and she found that she had nothing to say.

Ilsa finished winding, and closed the little door in the frame.

"You are going to tell me," she said, "that the ferry company needs one time for every port. That the new route cannot work if my harbor clock is seven minutes ahead. That it is dangerous."

"It is dangerous," Anna said. "If a crew reads the wrong clock."

"No crew has ever read the wrong clock here," Ilsa said. "Not once in sixty years. Every man and woman on this island knows which clock is which before they know how to read."

"Visitors do not."

"Visitors are told."

Anna tried again.

"Mrs. Brun. A clock has one job. It tells the time."

Ilsa turned round then, and looked at her properly for the first time.

She had pale eyes, and they were not unkind.

"That is where you are wrong," she said. "My clocks tell two things. The hill clock tells the time. The harbor clock tells people to go."

"But it tells them to go seven minutes early."

"Yes," said Ilsa. "It does."

"Why?"

The old woman picked up her key.

Below them, the village lay in the morning light, and beyond it the sea was flat and grey and very large.

"You have been here one day," she said. "Ask me again when you have been here a week."

She started down the stairs.

After a moment, Anna followed her, and neither of them talked, and Anna counted the sixty-two steps all the way to the bottom.

The meeting was held in the school hall on Thursday evening, hill time, and almost everyone came.

Anna had been to many meetings like this on the mainland.

Usually there was shouting.

People stood up and said that nobody had asked them, and that the company only cared about money, and somebody always brought a newspaper story from years ago and read it out loud.

Halla was not like that.

Anna stood at the front and explained, clearly and politely, what the new route would mean.

Two ferries a day instead of two a week.

Doctors could come more often.

Children who went to school on the mainland could come home at weekends.

Fish could reach the market fresh, and be worth more.

She showed them the timetable she had drawn, and she was proud of it, because she had made it as good as it could possibly be.

Then she said that the timetable needed one thing: the harbor clock, set to the true time.

The hall was quiet.

At last a man near the back stood up.

Anna learned later that his name was Erik, and that he was eighty-one, and that he had been a fisherman for fifty-five years.

"We want the ferries," he said.

"Good," said Anna. "Then we can go ahead with—"

"We want the ferries," Erik said again, "and we keep the clock."

He sat down.

Nobody clapped.

Nobody argued with him either.

Anna looked around the room.

A schoolteacher nodded. Mrs. Halden nodded.

Peter, near the door, was looking at the floor.

Ilsa Brun sat in the front row with her hands folded and said nothing at all.

"May I ask why?" Anna said.

Several people looked at Ilsa.

Ilsa did not move.

"It is how we do it," the schoolteacher said gently.

"That is not a reason."

"No," the teacher agreed. "It is not."

And that was the end of the meeting.

People stood up, put on their coats, thanked her for coming, and asked whether she had eaten.

Two women told her that the fish soup at the guest house was the best on the island.

An old man shook her hand and said that he hoped she would stay for the summer.

Everyone was warm, and friendly, and not one of them would move.

Peter walked her back down the road in the dark.

"That was the strangest meeting of my life," Anna said.

"Was it?"

"Nobody was angry."

"Why would we be angry? You are trying to help." He put his hands in his pockets. "You just asked for the one thing we cannot give you."

"Cannot, or will not?"

Peter walked a few more steps before he answered.

"When I was six," he said, "my grandmother taught me the two clocks. She told me that the hill clock is the time, and the harbor clock is the promise. I asked her what the promise was. She said that I would understand when I was older." He smiled a little. "I am twenty-six now. I understand."

"Then tell me."

"It is not mine to tell," Peter said.

The island had no library, but the school had a back room with cupboards, and the schoolteacher, whose name was Mr. Sandel, let Anna in and gave her the key and went away, which she thought was either trust or a kind of test.

She spent two days in that room.

There were school records going back a hundred years, boxes of photographs, and, at the bottom of the last cupboard, forty years of the island newspaper, which had been printed once a month until it stopped.

Anna started at the beginning and worked forward, and by the end of the first day she had learned a great deal about sheep prices and nothing at all about clocks.

On the second afternoon she found it.

The paper was thin and yellow and the date was the eleventh of November.

The headline said: ELEVEN MEN LOST.

Anna read it twice.

A storm had come in from the north-west, faster than anyone had expected.

Six boats had been out.

Five had come home.

The sixth, a boat called the Marta, had not.

The report was written in short, flat sentences, the way people write when they cannot bear to write anything else.

It said that the harbor bell had been rung to call the boats in.

It said that four of the five boats that returned had heard the bell and had turned at once.

It said that the Marta had been the furthest out.

And then, near the end, there was one line that Anna read four times.

The bell was rung at eleven minutes past four.

Those who have studied the weather say that it should have been rung earlier.

She sat back.

The next issue of the paper, a month later, had no headline at all.

The whole front page was a list of names, and under the names there was a short notice saying that the island would meet on the first Sunday of December to decide what was to be done.

The issue after that was missing.

Somebody had taken it out.

That evening Anna walked up past the church to the place Mrs. Halden had told her about.

Behind the church wall, out of the wind, there was a low grey stone with eleven names cut into it.

She read them slowly.

Three of them shared a family name.

Two of them were nineteen years old.

The last name on the stone was BRUN.

Anna stood there for a long time while the light went out of the sky, and the hill clock behind her struck seven, and seven minutes later, far below, the harbor bell answered.

For the first time since she had arrived, she did not write the number down.

She found Erik the next morning on the harbor wall, mending a net that he probably did not need.

"You have been in the school cupboards," he said.

"Does everyone know everything here?"

"Yes." He pulled a knot tight. "It is the worst thing about the island and the best thing about the island."

Anna sat down on the stones beside him.

Out in the bay the water was moving in long slow lines, and the air smelled of salt and rope.

"I found the newspaper," she said.

Erik's hands did not stop.

"Then you know the boat."

"The Marta."

"My brother was on her," Erik said. "He was nineteen. I was seventeen and I had a bad leg that autumn, so I stayed on shore." He said it without any weight at all, the way you say a thing that you have said a thousand times so that it will stop hurting, and which has not stopped hurting. "I was the one who saw the sky change."

Anna waited.

"You must understand how it was then," Erik said. "There were no radios in the small boats. There were no telephones in the houses. If the weather turned, the only thing we had was the bell. One man watched the sky from the hill, and when he thought that it was time, he ran down to the harbor and rang the bell, and every boat that could hear it came home."

"Who was the man?"

"That autumn, it was Jonas Brun."

"Brun," Anna said.

"Ilsa's father." Erik looked out at the water. "He was a careful man. Too careful, some said afterwards. He watched the clouds for a long time. He wanted to be sure. He did not want to call the fleet in for nothing, because when the boats came in early, the families ate less that week, and Jonas Brun knew what it was to have children who ate less." The old man's voice was steady. "So he waited. And then he was sure, and he ran."

"And he was late."

"He was seven minutes late," Erik said.

The words went into Anna like cold water.

"How can anyone know that?" she said. "How can anyone possibly measure a thing like that?"

"They measured it," Erik said. "Afterwards. For a whole winter this island did nothing but measure it. Where the Marta had been. How fast she was. How far the bell carries in a north-west wind. How long it takes a boat to turn and run." He finally put the net down. "Men who could barely write sat in that school hall with a rope and a chart, and they worked it out between them, and they agreed, and nobody ever argued with the number afterwards. Seven minutes. If the bell had rung seven minutes earlier, the Marta would have heard it, and she would have come home."

Anna went up the hill that afternoon without deciding to.

Ilsa was in her kitchen with the door open.

She looked at Anna's face and said, "Ah. Erik."

"Yes."

"Sit down. I will make tea, and you will not ask me anything until it is made."

Anna sat.

The kitchen was warm and full of clocks, small ones, on every shelf, and all of them said the same thing, which surprised her.

Ilsa put the cup in front of her and sat down opposite.

"My father did not sleep again," she said. "Not properly. Not for thirty-one years. I would hear him at three in the morning, walking. He never spoke about the storm to me, not once, but my mother told me later that he had said one thing to her, in the first week, and then never again." She turned her own cup around. "He told her that he had not been slow. He had been careful. And that he had learned that careful and slow can be the same thing."

Anna sat very still.

"In December the island met," Ilsa said. "Everyone came. They had two questions. The first was whether Jonas Brun should ever ring the bell again."

"What did they decide?"

"That he should. That day, and every day, until he could not climb the hill." Ilsa's mouth moved a little. "This island is hard, but it is not cruel. They said that no man would ever again stand on that hill and be afraid to be wrong. They said that the fear was what had killed the Marta, not the man."

"And the second question?"

"The second question was the clock." Ilsa put down her cup. "A young man stood up. He was a teacher, he had come from the mainland, and everyone had thought that he would leave, and he stayed fifty years. He said something very simple. He said: we cannot give any man better eyes. We cannot make the weather kinder. But we can give him seven minutes."

Anna felt the room go quiet around her.

"They moved the harbor clock forward seven minutes that winter," Ilsa said, "and they have never moved it back. Every warning, every departure, every bell at that harbor happens seven minutes before the world says that it should. Every boy who has taken a boat out of this harbor for sixty years has been seven minutes early and has not known it. Every man who has run for that bell has had seven minutes that he did not earn."

"And the hill clock?"

"The hill clock keeps the true time." Ilsa looked at her steadily. "That is the whole of it, and it is the important part. We did not decide to lie about the time. We know exactly what the time is. We chose to be early. If we had only one clock, then in a hundred years somebody would forget that it had been a choice, and would think that it was only a mistake. Two clocks make it impossible to forget."

Anna did not say anything for a while.

Then she heard herself speak, and she was surprised, because she had not told this to anyone at work in four years.

"My father died in March," she said. "Four years ago. He had been ill for a long time, and then one morning he got worse very quickly, and the hospital called me at ten past nine."

Ilsa waited.

"I was in a meeting," Anna said. "About a timetable. I remember exactly which one. I remember that I looked at the phone and thought that I would call back in ten minutes, because we were nearly finished. Then I thought about it again and left the room and drove." She turned her cup in the same way that Ilsa had. "He died seven minutes before I got there. The nurse told me. She did not have to tell me, and I have wondered since whether she should have. Seven minutes."

"Ah," said Ilsa, very quietly.

"I have thought about those minutes for four years," Anna said. "About where I would have found them. Not the meeting. I left the meeting. Earlier. The traffic light that I sat at. The wrong turning. The morning when I chose not to visit because I was tired and told myself that there was time." She stopped. "I could not find them. That is the thing. I have gone over that day a thousand times and I cannot find seven minutes anywhere that I would have known to save."

"No," said Ilsa. "You never can. That is why they must be given to you before you need them, by somebody who does not know you, for a reason that you will never hear about."

Anna put her hands flat on the table.

"You are not asking me to accept a broken clock," she said slowly. "You are asking me to accept a gift."

"I am not asking you anything," said Ilsa. "You asked me why. I have told you why."

Anna looked out of the small window at the harbor far below, where Peter was carrying boxes and a dog was following him, and the pale tower stood at the end of the wall with its face to the sea, patiently telling everyone to leave a little sooner than they needed to.

"Nobody down there is thinking about the storm," she said.

"No. Almost nobody remembers the names now without reading the stone." Ilsa got up and began to wash the cups. "That is not a failure. That is what we wanted. A thing that keeps working after everyone has stopped thinking about it is the only kind of promise that is worth anything."

The storm came on the ninth day.

It came in from the north-west, as they do, and the weather report on the mainland had it arriving at half past five in the afternoon.

Anna knew this because she had checked her phone at breakfast, in the way that people from cities check things that they cannot change.

By four o'clock the light had gone a strange yellow-grey.

Anna was in her room writing her report when she heard, below her, the harbor bell.

She looked at the hill clock through the window.

It said seventeen minutes past four.

She was down the road before she had decided to go.

The harbor was already moving.

Not running, but moving, quickly and without noise, the way a place moves when everybody has done this before.

Women were carrying ropes.

A boy of about ten was pulling boxes up the steps two at a time. Mrs. Halden, of all people, was standing at the end of the wall with her arms up, waving a light in long slow sweeps.

Boats came in.

Anna counted them without meaning to.

Four, five, six.

Peter came past her carrying a rope and shouted something that she did not hear.

"Where is the last one?" she asked Erik, who had appeared beside her with his stick.

"Sylva," he said. "Hansen and his son. They fish the far bank."

The wind changed.

It did not build slowly.

It arrived.

The rain came sideways, and out beyond the harbor wall the sea stopped being lines and became something else.

"Can they make it?"

Erik did not answer.

He was watching the water, and his face was the face of a man who had stood in this exact place before.

Anna looked at her phone.

Twenty-nine minutes past four, true time.

She thought: the bell rang at ten past four by the true time, which is what they call seventeen past.

And then she stopped, because the numbers did not matter and she was only doing them to keep herself from watching the sea.

The Sylva came round the wall at twenty to five with her lights on, low in the water and slower than she should have been, and she came in.

Nobody cheered.

Two men caught the ropes and tied her fast.

Hansen climbed out and stood for a second with his hand on the boat, and then he picked up a box and started carrying it up the steps like everyone else.

His son was already helping the boy with the crates.

Anna stood in the rain and did the sum after all.

Seven minutes earlier.

Seven minutes further in.

She had watched the sea for the last four of those minutes, and she knew, in a way that had nothing to do with charts or numbers, what those minutes were worth.

Beside her, Erik said, to nobody: "Good bell."

Anna stayed four more days.

She rewrote the timetable, and it took her three of them, because it turned out that a thing which you have designed to be perfect is much harder to change than a thing which you have designed to be good enough.

The new version was not as clean as the old one.

It had a note beside the Halla entry, and a footnote below it, and the footnote was three lines long.

It said that Halla Island used two times.

It said that the harbor clock, which was used for all departures and all warnings, ran seven minutes ahead of the standard time.

It said that this was done on purpose, that it was written down, and that it had not been changed since the winter of the Marta.

It said that all crews would be given a card explaining it before their first arrival.

Then she wrote her report to the company, and the whole of it was one page long, and the last line said: The clocks on Halla Island are not faulty.

They are correct.

I recommend no change.

She read it through twice and thought that she would probably be asked to explain herself, and that she would enjoy it.

On the last morning, Ilsa was waiting at the harbor with the great iron key in her hand.

"Sunday," she said. "You may turn it."

Anna climbed the tower stairs behind her, the harbor tower this time, forty-one steps, and stood in front of the old iron frame while Ilsa showed her where the key went.

"Evenly," Ilsa said. "Not fast. It does not like fast."

Anna turned the key.

The weight rose slowly on its rope, and the wheels above her went on with their patient work, and somewhere under her feet the whole island went on being seven minutes early without thinking about it at all.

When she came down, Peter was holding the ferry.

"You are late," he said.

"By your clock or mine?"

"Ours." He grinned. "Which means that you have seven minutes."

She used four of them to say goodbye properly, and two of them to promise Mrs. Halden that she would come back in the summer, and the last one standing at the rail as the ferry pulled away, looking up at the two towers.

From the water you could see both faces at once.

The hill clock, high and clear against the sky, said eleven o'clock exactly, and it was telling the truth, because somebody had decided that the truth must always be kept somewhere where it could be checked.

And below it, at the end of the harbor wall, the little pale tower said seven minutes past, as it had said every hour for sixty years, to a sea that had never once said thank you.

Anna watched them both until the mist took the island, and then she went inside and got out her notebook, and under the number that she had underlined twice on the first day, she wrote one more line.

Ask what a wrong number is for before you correct it.