It stood in the corner almost unnoticed, underneath its aged appearance and worn out hands was a beautifully ornate grand-father clock. Now covered in dust, spiderwebs and memories, this noble and majestic time piece that once stood proud and tall rested quietly alone in the dilapidated mansion.

The clock had many secrets. Secrets of those gone, and a few that still remained. It had seen death beyond a thousand times as well as the birth of many. These mysteries were guarded within its weathered, mahogany frame.

The doors to the old mansion would occasionally swing wide, as if to offer entry, however, no one dared venture inside, not even the bravest of villagers.

People within the tiny village of Edleburgh, where the population was never more or less than 96, were a forgotten people. The tourists had long ago been forbidden access to the quaint, little village and its wonderful coastlines. Forgotten was its ancient history and many artifacts. Tourism was simply not allowed in Edleburgh, except one night through the year, July 29th. There was just too much at stake and the villagers fear was too great.

The village and its native people were a link to the past. A link that had to remain in the past, forever forgotten by time. It had to be this way, there was no other. Visitors were always an inquisitive bunch with cameras strung haphazardly around their necks. Pictures and enquiring folks were not something Iami, the Grand Elder, tolerated. And so it was.

Day after day and night after night the villiagers went about their daily routines as if nothing were amiss. Iami forbid questions from the villiagers as well. Most elder natives knew the secrets of their land and guarded them with their very own lives. Ttime was approaching fast and the native elders gathered themselves together again infront of the old grand-father clock. It was time.

Most of the villagers remained huddled inside while a storm was brewing outside. They knew the rains would soon begin pouring from the sky along with raging winds. The skies would darken while they waited for the clock to strike; a familiar noise but one which was seldom heard.

The gates to the villiage had been left ajar, as was necessary, and the massive, forboding doors to the abandoned mansion quietly opened as the tall, blonde, male and stranger to this tiny villiage stood watching in fear and disbelief.

Father Time would strike again this year at exactly twelve midnight. One life would soon end, and time would stand still, once more, for the tiny village.

Such was the sacrifice for eternal life.

Learn more about this author, Crystal Molott-French.
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