The young man sat on a grassy embankment taking in what he could of the view glimpsed through autumn trees. Below him lay a stretch of disused canal, it's brown waters undisturbed by narrowboats for over eighty years. He came here often to this secluded spot in order to be alone. He wasn't especially melancholy in his need for solitude. His longing was for times past which few seemed to share, and here along the banks of the old canal he could let his mind wander to an age long gone.

It is true that some people become so interested in a subject that they come to the point of obsession, and this was the case with Jason. He had happened by an overgrown section of the canal one day on his way to work whilst taking a shortcut through a wooded area (he had overslept that morning) and had resolved to discover more of this relic of local industry later that day. Indeed his lunchtime had been taken over searching the internet at his office and later at home he spent practically all night studying the history of his local area.

He had booked a few days off work and set off early one morning to discover how much of the canal remained. His backpack contained his provisions for the day; a flask of coffee, old maps of the town, some food and his camera. He had travelled for miles that day, photographing every feature of the canal from the sections of cobbled towpath to the semi-demolished locks, the old canalside buildings and the one remaining aqueduct. Several times during his journey he had consulted the old maps he had brought and wondered at the life that had flowed through these places more than a century before; at what different places had looked like back then, at the men who built it all with backbreaking work. He had stood at the top of the old locks, now overgrown and filled in, and looked down to where the lock keepers cottage once stood. He wondered at this growing sense of nostalgia for things he'd had no knowledge of mere days previously before turning and setting off for home. He was to return again and again, having fallen almost in love with a time and place beyond his reach.

Years later found him sat here upon this grassy embankment still pretty much in the same frame of mind. His attention was caught by an old man ambling along the towpath opposite. The old man waved a greeting with his walking stick and continued on his way until he was lost to sight around a bend in the canal. Jason returned to his reverie for a while then was suddenly aware of someone standing behind him. He looked around and was startled to see the old man, leaning on his stick and staring at him intently.

“Mornin' young feller”, said the old man, the local dialect strong in his voice.

Jason stood. “Good morning. How did you get on this side of the canal so fast?”

“I used the bridge o'er yon”, the old man waved his stick vaguely in the direction of the bend in the canal.

Jason turned and looked at the place indicated, then looked back to the old man.

“There's no bridge down there.”

The old man regarded Jason steadily for a moment. Then he said, “There's no bridge there now...but there was.”

Jason regarded the old man for a while. He thought to himself that the old timer must be a little senile or something. But the fact remained that unless the old man was able to leap across the canal itself, a jump of around 20 feet, he'd got there somehow.

“Can you show me this bridge?”, asked Jason.

“That depends on you, young feller. What's your name?”

“Jason”

The old man extended his hand. Jason took it and was surprised by the strength of the old mans grip.

“My name's Stan,” said the old man, “and if you can keep your mouth shut, I'll show thee summart.”

Stan turned and walked off up the embankment with a surprising turn of speed. Jason hurried after him, wondering what he was doing following this cranky old timer. Still, he hadn't got a lot to do today. Presently they came to a dirt track which they followed. This led to a rise in the ground which abruptly stopped just short of the canal. Jason looked down on the waters then looked up and down the length of the cut, much of which was visible from where they were standing.

“Well Stan, where's this bridge then?”, said Jason.

“It's right here,” replied Stan, “it's the accommodation bridge for Piggotts farm.”

Jason sighed a looked at the old man.

“There's nothing here, Stan. The bridge was demolished decades ago. You're seeing things.”

“Am I now?”

Stan reached into his coat and brought out what looked like a large gold pocket watch. He flipped open the lid and depressed a large button on the top of the object, all the while staring at Jason intensely. Jason took a step forward to get a better look at the thing Stan was holding when he noticed he was stepping on cobbles. He looked down at them and around the ground about him. What had been a dirt track and rough grass was now a freshly laid cobbled road. He looked up at Stan, who was now smiling broadly and then turned around to see a red brick humped back bridge, as new as if it had been built only yesterday. Jason hurried onto the bridge and looked down the canal. Approaching the bridge from some distance was a narrowboat being drawn by a sturdy horse led by a woman. A man stood at the back of the boat steering it and as they drew nearer Jason could see they were both dressed in very old fashioned clothing. He was so transfixed by this scene that he only moved when Stan gripped his collar and forced him down behind the brick wall of the bridge.

“Mustn't let 'em see yer, lad!”, Stan hissed

“What the hell's going on?”, Jason exclaimed, “where the hell are we?”

“Right where we were,” whispered Stan, “and keep your bloody voice down. If they crack on we're here we've had it! Now, follow me!”

Jason followed the old man as he crept off the bridge, crouching behind the wall, until they were a short way along the cobbled road and near a stout wooden gate leading into a large field. Here they stood and looked about them again. Jason was startled to see an industrial landscape sweeping down the gentle valley beyond the canal. There were many chimneys sending up various quantities of blue smoke into a hazy sky. Here and there rose the winding gear of nearby coal pits and further away stood mills of varying sizes, interlaced with row upon row of terraced houses. The air tasted bitter in Jasons mouth and the smell of smoke was tangible. He turned again to Stan who was leaning against the gate idly lighting a pipe.

“Where are we?”, asked Jason.

“Same place we were half an hour ago,” replied Stan looking about him, smiling, “as for when.”

Jason leaned on the gate next to the old man. “I don't understand this,” he said.

Stan pulled out the pocket watch device again and clicked the button once more. Instantly the gate Jason was leaning against disappeared and he fell flat on his face in the grass. He shot up exclaiming various obsenities and rounded on Stan who was laughing heartily.

“Look lad,” he giggled, “you're home again.”

When Jason looked, the cobbled road and the bridge were gone. The valley was once more obscured by trees, the canal again was derelict. Stan let the chain which was attached to the pocket watch object slide through his fingers a little and held it up before Jasons confused eyes.

“You'd maybe call this thing a time machine or summart,” said Stan, “I calls it my Eternity Clock. Got the name from the feller who gave it me, back in '45 at the end of the war. I was nineteen then, not much younger than you are. I'd seen some stuff in that war, stuff you wouldn't reckon on seeing by that age.”

Stan puffed on his pipe, seemingly lost in memory. He turned his Eternity Clock over and over in his hands. Jason was lost for words. His morning, indeed his life, had taken a dramatic new direction. He cleared his throat and said,

“Where did you get it?”

Stan looked up from his thoughts.

“Eh? Oh this feller I met in a small town about 20 miles from Berlin. He was a German feller naturally, 'bout as old as I am now. Nice bloke really. He was a watchmaker and said that this here clock had been in his family for generations.”

“Why did he give it to you?”, asked Jason, peering at the gold casing. There were intricate designs etched into the metal, but they were unfamiliar to him.

“Well lad, I'll tell thee.” Stan began walking up the dirt track and Jason walked alongside him, his mind in no small state of confusion.

“We'd got into this town after a few days fighting on the main road leading to it. There were a few of them Nazi types about and they wouldn't give it up for a gold pig. But we hammered 'em pretty hard and when all the Nazi's were dead, the regular German soldiers just upped and buggered off. A few surrendered, like, and then we got into the town.”

As Stan talked they turned up a newly made loose stone path which led across a field to the main road.

“You going this way Jason?”

“Yeah, I can do.”

“Anyhow,” Stan went on, “I was coming down this street with a few of my mates a couple of hours later when some of the lads who had been at the ale decided to loot this here jewelry shop. I could the see the owners were old folks and a fair bit scared so I cracked one of our lads across the back of his head with my rifle butt...went down like a sack of spuds he did...I don't like thieving. Anyroad, a bit of a scrap broke out between them and a few of my mates and me, but they weren't battle hardened like us an we beat seven bells out of 'em. After they'd gone the jewelry shop owners took us in their parlour for a bit of grub, to say thanks like. We made good friends with them that day. A day before we were moving out the old feller took me to one side and gave me this watch, wrapped in a red cloth. He said that it had been in his family for years and years, said that he'd been told by his father that he'd know who to give it to and when. I suppose as they had no children and I'd kind of saved him and his missus then he'd decided to give it to me.

Just before he handed it over he told me to be very careful with it, that I'd not to show it to anyone unless I trusted them. He told me it was a very special timepiece. He wasn't kidding either.”

They stopped at a small swing gate which led onto the main road. Stan looked Jason in the eyes.

“You might believe me and you might not, but you have to believe your own eyes. What we saw back there was the canal and the town as they used to be in the early 1800's. I've seen you lots of times wandering down yonder canal. Seen that look, that need to see back to times long since gone. That's how I used to be. You never saw me, but that's part of the rules. You can go as far back as you dare with this clock of mine, or as far forward...that's been my trouble, I went too far forward. But you must never let anyone see you. You don't belong you see, it'll cause no end of trouble. You mustn't touch anything or move anything other than stuff that don't matter. I thought about it before now you know, all this talk of ghosts and such like. Makes me wonder how many of these Eternity Clocks there are in the world with careless owners.”

Jason stood for a moment, hesitating before he spoke.

“You're thinking of giving this thing to me?”

“I am giving it to you, Jason. There's instructions etched into it see?”, Stan held out the pocket watch, “they tell you how to use it. They don't look like much at first, but you'll begin to understand them soon enough.”

Stan pressed the Eternity Clock into Jasons hand, then stepped back, looked down at his shoes and gave a sight sniff.

“I'd best be getting off,” he muttered.

“Are you sure you want to give me this Stan?”, asked Jason, turning the object over in his hands.

“Aye, you'll do okay with it,” Stan replied, “but don't be going too far forward. That's what I went and did. I went forward past the time when I died, just to see what my world would be like without me. Nobody saw me, the only trouble I caused was for me. You see I went along to the cemetary and found my gravestone, so I found out what day it is that I die. That's when I decided to find someone who could use my Eternity Clock, and be quiet about it.”

Jason stared at the old man. He didn't quite know what to say. Stan stepped forward and shook Jasons hand.

“Take care of yourself young feller,” he smiled, “and the Eternity Clock.”

Jason looked down at the object in his hand. He looked up to say something but the old man had gone. Jason looked around him but it was as if Stan had just disappeared. With the Eternity Clock safe in his inside jacket pocket, and after a short search of the area, Jason set off for the cemetary. Soon he was wandering around the well tended gravestones looking for Stan's marker.

It was after more than an hour of studying the plethora of monuments that he finally came across what he was looking for. Although the grass around the headstone was well tended by the council workmen, there were no flowers on the grave, leading Jason to believe Stan had no close relatives. This was probably the deciding factor in Stan giving Jason the timepiece in the first place. The thing was, you wouldn't give away something so amazing to a person you only knew by sight. Jason couldn't remember ever meeting Stan before. Looking at the inscription on the gravestone he was shocked to find that Stan had passed away some eleven years ago to the day at the age of 68. Jason stood, deep in thought. The old man had died exactly eleven years ago. Was this why he had suddenly vanished? As Jason wandered out of the cemetary a thought occurred to him. Perhaps Stan did know him well enough to give him this amazing thing. He took out the Eternity Clock and studied the inscriptions on both sides of the case and under the lid. The language seemed to be just on the edge of his understanding, sort of almost familiar. The clock face itself resembled an ordinary pocket watch, save for the number of dials which represented years and days and hours, minutes and seconds. There were small levers set into the gold rim of the watch casing with which one could adjust the clock to the desired date and time and the large button at the very top. Jason turned again to the headstone and read the name, Stanley Wright and so headed off to the town hall to find the old man's previous address.