The water feels different around my hips. It lifts me. I feel the familiar hum of the steam channels beneath me, beneath the river Yeffil. It supplies “them”, those gobshite Mages. Them and their plaza houses, filthy rich leaving us with nothing. After everything we’ve done, after everything Mam did.
For the last 7 years of my life, I have been working with a group of very skilled people called the Mages. Each of us has a special power. My power is to go back in time. I had the option to choose my power when I came in to this world, and I do not regret my decision. I have a plan, a very ambitious plan but a plan all the same.
The Mages think that they are loved. They have the power. They have all of the wisdom. The rest of us are here to work. To make sure that the steam engines keep running. No one is to ever damage a steam engine. If they do - they're flogged. The steam engines keep South Dublin running.
Drowning in the toxic green liquid I awoke. The drops burned like the nettles that stung me when I was a child. The colour reminded me of the green grass I ran through, the daisy chains I made, and my favourite hideout. Down by the Hell Fire Club stood the most elegant cherry blossom tree. How I long for that shelter now.
I sit beside Oliver, as he perfects the stopwatch , his exacting eye discerning bolt from screw. We find a beauty in these clocks, these relics. They are survivors, rising from the ruins. Just like us. It is said that there is little beauty in man-made things, but here in this time of chaos and uncertainty, the sure ticking of the stopwatch carries a venerability and certainty that in Clankland, is unparalleled.