Twigs and leaves crunched underfoot as the young traveler trudged on through the shadowy forest. He was a strong lad of about sixteen, but no one could be sure of his age, for he had no family or relatives to speak of. He didn't even know his true name, but called himself Darton the Wanderer.

Darton traveled endlessly from land to land, finding shelter wherever he could and foraging for food in vast stretches of woodland. Although he was a very capable young man, the only thing that truly bothered him was the loneliness. Fortunately, he was always too preoccupied with basic survival to dwell on it.

All of this flashed briefly through his idle mind as he wearily pushed his way through the thick, tangled plant-life. As he parted a cluster of leaves before his face, a sprawling village sprung into view. Amazed at his good fortune, Darton hurried towards the quaint, straw-thatched huts.

As he approached the outskirts of this solitary village deep in the woods, he slowed his eager pace in order to take in all the details. It was a modest-sized town, with many of the small huts and a few larger buildings. From what Darton could see, these consisted of a stable, blacksmith, church, and most notably of all, a large town hall with an enormous stone clock tower.

The elegant, majestic tower rose above everything, dwarfing even the surrounding trees while it stared haughtily down at its diminutive environment. Its beautiful craftsmanship denoted the efforts of highly skilled and dedicated workers, but at the same time, there seemed to be a mysterious, almost sinister energy radiating from the cold, harsh stone.

As he moved further into the center of town, young Darton began to notice something very strange. It was nearly noon, and yet he saw no sign of activity anywhere around him.

"Hello?" he called uncertainly, "Where is everyone?"

The curious youngster received no reply in return; not even the reassuring sound of a startled bird flying off in fear. The entire village seemed utterly deserted.

Darton strolled along the main street for quite some time, searching for even the slightest sign of life. Upon approaching one of the little cottages, he hesitantly stepped forward and rapped on the simple wooden door. When no one answered, the young wanderer twisted the knob, and found the house unlocked. With a gentle push, the door swung inward on creaking hinges to reveal a perfectly ordinary house, like hundreds of others he had seen. There were over-flowing sacks of grain in the corner and a rumpled sleeping pallet of straw laid out on the floor. A cooking fire, long dead and cold, was positioned underneath a small stone chimney, and some humble pottery and other necessary household wares were supported by a series of pegs and shelves on the wall.

All the other houses were the same, with everything a visitor would expect to see...except people. No children running through the streets, horses hauling old wagons down the road, or even the sound of barking dogs betrayed the oppressive silence. And, now that he thought of it, Darton hadn't even seen mice or other scavengers coming to feast on the deserted food and grain.

With each new building he entered, his panic began to mount. The stables were void of all life; the blacksmith's forge had long since cooled. No one worshiped in the church or toiled in their gardens.

Darton finally stopped, weary from his search, in what he assumed was the town square. With the church on one side and the town hall, with its huge clock tower, on the other, he sat down in the gently swirling dust to ponder what he had-or rather, hadn't-seen. In the entire village, he had found absolutely no sign of life.

As he sat, he happened to hear a faint shuffling from behind him, near the entrance to the town hall. Darton sprung to his feet and quickly turned around. On the well-worn steps of the town hall stood a ragged old man, clothed in threadbare garments, far too large for his small stature, and draped in a soiled burlap cloak. In his hand he tightly clutched a knobby cane, knuckles white from his steadfast grip. Long, unkempt strands of hair partially obscured his face, but his wide, frightened eyes were clearly visible.

He stared at Darton for a few seconds, scrutinizing him, as if wondering if the boy was worthy to confide in. Apparently deciding that he was, the old man opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Darton saw that the man was as startled at this as he himself was, but, undaunted, the old man raised an ancient, wrinkled hand directly above his head. Darton followed the poor old man's haunting gaze up to the tip of the finger and beyond, realizing after a brief instant that the man was pointing accusingly at the enormous clock tower above.

The massive timepiece marked the time as about five minutes after twelve, but as Darton looked more closely, he saw something amiss. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the huge minute hand was moving...backwards! The old man saw it too, and shuddered in silent terror.

Darton returned his gaze to the cowering old man, and their eyes met once more. The minute hand moved back another increment. And suddenly, as Darton watched in horrific fascination and astonished disbelief, the old man began to fade away.

At first, he merely became a bit fuzzy in Darton's sight, but the young lad's frenzied blinking failed to make things clearer. Then, beginning with the out-stretched finger, the man crumbled into dust. Slowly, then a bit faster, until the whole arm gradually fell away into tiny particles that were instantly swept away by the breeze.

The doomed old man tried to scream, but to no avail. In the next brief instant, the old man stared back at Darton, as if pleading him to do something, anything! Then, as the clock ticked backwards once more, his entire body suddenly crumbled into dust and disappeared in a gust of wind, scattered throughout the barren, deserted village.

Finally, released from the captivation of the terrible moment, Darton himself screamed. The sound of his fear echoed through the silent village and the unmoving trees, mocking him as it resounded through the empty forest.

In a blind fit of madness brought on by his uncontrollable fear, Darton dashed towards the imposing town hall, flung open the broad oaken doors, and stumbled inside. He nearly collapsed to the floor then, prepared to resign himself to the fate of whatever mysterious power dominated this forest. But some deeply ingrained instinct inside of the young man stirred, rousing him to action. After years of surviving on his own in uncharted wilderness, something within him would just not let him give up.

Regaining what little composure he could, Darton looked around, trying to think of what to do, and how to stop this insanity before he too crumbled into dust. The clock. Yes, that HAD to be it! Encouraged that he had discovered the root of the problem, Darton quickly plunged back into depression. Yes, the clock. The clock that would be finished with its countdown in under three minutes!

Spinning around wildly, Darton chanced to see a small wooden door with the words "Tower" crudely engraved on it. Plunging recklessly through it, the desperate young man raced up the long, spiral staircase beyond the door. Another minute passed, and he heard the thunderous sound of the hand moving. If he could hear it, that meant he was close. It also meant that he had only two minutes left.

At last he mounted the final stair, and threw his weight against the thin door that blocked his way. It crashed open, and Darton found himself standing on a thin wooden walkway suspended within the workings of the gargantuan clock. Massive gears twisted in myriad patterns, repeated day after day, hour after hour. The grinding of metal parts created a deafening chorus, and Darton put his hands to his ears, with little effect, as he wandered out onto the walkway.

In the middle of the hazardous pathway, a collection of gears was positioned just next to the walk. There was a small, rusted metal railing erected beside this segment, as if that bit of protection would actually do anyone any good. It did now. With a sudden insight, Darton ran over to railing and, gripping it in nervously sweating hands, tried to tear it from the walkway. It didn't budge.

He tried again. And again. To no avail. The clock ticked off another minute. Only one more left.

Finally, as he saw before him the potential of a fate as horrible as that which had befallen the old man, some hidden reserve in young Darton broke open. Adrenaline poured into his system, energizing him with the frantic urgency to survive. He tore at the railing, kicking and pummeling the rusty, deteriorating metal.

With a final, violent pull, a single bar from the railing broke loose from its welding and fell away into his hands. Regaining his balance inches from the edge of the narrow wooden walkway, Darton put his plan into action.

Gears turned, slowly and slightly, but always toward the goal of another increment of motion. The minute hand was poised in the instant between stillness and motion...time was almost up.

Using what little remained of his sudden adrenaline rush, Darton raised the stout metal bar above his head. With a grunt of exertion and a cry of triumph, the young wanderer plunged the bar into the midst of a pair of gears, effectively jamming the entire mechanism.

An ear-splitting screech echoed through the clock's cavernous innards as the massive timepiece ground to a complete halt. The minute hand stopped at last, balanced between doomsday and survival. Slowly, in semi-disbelief and trying not to disrupt the fragile reprieve he had created, Darton crept back across the walkway and down the stairs.

As soon as he left the town hall and emerged into the brilliant sunlight, he saw an incredible sight. The villagers were back! Horse-drawn carts hauled their cargoes through the streets, children and dogs ran and played in the dirt, and a large crowd of people milled around the town square. They went on with their daily lives as if nothing had ever happened, and Darton wondered if they even knew how close they had come to complete destruction.

Shaking his head in dismay at the general naiveté of the populace, he wandered back towards the woods, and figured it was better if they never knew. As he reached the edge of the town, Darton turned and looked back. The clock tower stood as tall and impassively as ever; still there, not wholly defeated. But for now, birds sang from its peak and nested in its eaves, as unaware as the people down below.

Suddenly, he happened to catch a glimpse of a figure sitting quietly on the steps of the town hall. It was an old man, cloaked in a garment of soiled burlap and tightly gripping a knobby cane. The man looked at young Darton the Wanderer with bright, intelligent eyes. In the instant before they lost sight of each other in the crowd, they both smiled.