Bellringer, I was given a name, it came out of a book - I don't know which. I've
been told the Great Man could recite every title in order on its shelf. Well, I
was born and that was a good thing, although I arrived on the day of his
passing, a day on which our country fell into mourning. This I heard over and over,
from professor's to farmers even duel-scarred students, sometimes, in grand
company, remarked upon in third person - a pretty way of saying more than two men
in a room means the third can be ignored, as I was when they spoke of my birth and
Mr. Jefferson's death in one breath, voices dusted with wonderment, faint
sunlight quivering on a hidden breeze. I listened in on the lectures whenever I
can, holding still until I disappear beyond third person - and what I hear
sounds right enough; it eases my mind. I know my appearance frightens some of the
boys - the high cheeks and freckles and not-quite-Negro eyes flaring gray as
storm-washed skies back home; it shames them to be reminded. So much for book
learning! I nod as if to say Uncle Henry at your service,
then continue on my way through darkness to start the day. This is my place: stone
rookery perched above the citadels of knowledge, alone with my bats and my bell,
keeping time. Up here, molten glory brims until my head's rinsed clear.
I am no longer a dreadful coincidence nor debt crossed off in a dead man's
ledger; I am not summoned, dismissed - I am the clock's keeper. I ring in their
ears. And every hour, down in that shining, blistered republic, someone will pause to
whisper Henry! - and for a moment my name flies free.