Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel Read Free Page B

easily.“I finished my ’rithmetic,” he offered.
    “And so you should have,” Miss Wharton responded properly. “What special accomplishment would we be celebrating by your winding the clock?”
    Yes, what ? questioned seventeen pairs of accusing eyes.
    Totally unable to come up with a reason, Little Tiny, on that occasion, sighed and gave up, settling back after sticking out his tongue at several of his peers. But the idea had been planted that perfect performance, ideal behavior for a week, might, just might, result in being granted the giddy reward of winding the clock.
    Thus far no one had attained that level of perfection.
    But they found satisfaction in watching Miss Wharton as she performed the weekly ritual, though they knew it by heart, some having performed it in their dreams. And even the most unimaginative among them could picture standing on a chair beneath the clock and, filled almost to bursting with pride, fitting the key in the keyhole and winding. Wind exactly twelve times (everyone counted, silently, each time Miss Wharton performed the task; never once had she miscounted, though they waited with bated breath, anticipating an eleven or a thirteen), until sweat beaded the upper lip, the fingers cramped, the back of the neck grew tense, and the tongue was almost chewed through from the concentration required. Wind twelve times and turn, flushed with victory, to find the eyes of every child in the room fixed in envy upon the blessed and favored winder of the clock.
    But could it be done with the precision, the neatness, the aplomb with which Miss Wharton did it? Could they give a small flick of the wrist as they withdrew the key and closed the door? Would they remember to turn, chin up, shoulders erect, breathe deeply one time, nodding slightly to all those watching? Could they do it all without grinning foolishly and spoiling the solemnity of the moment? Could they deposit the key in the proper drawer at last without dropping it?
    Then and only then—with the dropped key’s small plink —would pencils return to pages of half-rubbed-out sums. Only then were history lessons resumed, perhaps the reading of the account of missionary Father Le Caron when he reported on the mosquitoes, bad in the 1600s and no better in the 1890s: “I confess that this is the worst martyrdom I suffered in this country; hunger, thirst, weariness, and fever are nothing to it. These little beasts not only persecute you all day but at night they get into your eyes and mouth, crawl under your clothes and stick their long stings through them and make such a noise that it distracts your attention and prevents you from saying your prayers.”
    Recitation time, story time, recess, lunch, all were inextricably bound up in the unrelenting movement of the Drop Octagonal. It ticked off their days like a metronome, unceasing, persistent. It ticked off the long days and, everyone supposed, the lonesome nights, pressing onward through the dark until it ticked in the sunrise and another day.
    The Drop Octagonal was unique; no home in the district of Bliss had one like it. In fact, most homes in the Saskatchewan bush were devoid of niceties or items of beauty, even many necessities having been left behind when the trek west was undertaken, and never replaced. The clock, indeed, was matchless and marvelous.
    Its name, however, was a puzzle and a never-ending source of discussion. “It’s because of that little window below the clock, that little place where you wind it,” some child said thoughtfully, and it was the explanation most accepted. From this glassed-in section the keyhole stared, unwinking, tantalizing the fascinated daydreamer to insert the key.
    Once and only once had it been attempted.
    One lunch hour, when Miss Wharton was out of the room, Little Tiny had succeeded in persuading Ernie Battlesea, small and easily intimidated, to climb upon a chair, take the key that Little Tiny boldly lifted from the drawer, and prod for the