“Several of my patients said these cured their headaches,” a doctor told him after buying five dozen. “I give them to everyone who comes to see me now.”
A banker told him the candles kept time better than his own pocket watch.
Another buyer asked, impressed, “Where’d you learn how to make these extraordinary candles?”
“A wise clockmaker taught me,” was Elbert’s simple answer.
Each week, after paying his expenses, he sent half his remaining earnings to his parents, who did not know much about their son’s research but were nonetheless thrilled he had left the fickle show business for a more stable career.
Then one evening, a little after midnight, the music box opened for the first time. Elbert woke to a strange, eerie tune. The music was short yet long, simple yet complicated. When the melody ended, the music box closed by itself, and remained shut.
The very next morning, Elbert’s pet dove flew headfirst into the window. The poor bird died instantly.
A year after that incident, the music box opened and played for the second time. Elbert had just returned from visiting his mother in the hospital, where she was staying due to fevers and weight loss. That very afternoon, his mother passed.
When the music box played again, several weeks later, Elbert immediately tried to close the lid. But while the music box wouldn’t open before, now it wouldn’t shut no matter how hard he pushed, not until the entire melody had finished.
Three days after, a letter arrived stating his father had been crushed to death by an anchor at the docks.
Now, Elbert was not a superstitious person. You’d think a magician might be especially susceptible to the blurred line between reality and the mysterious, but Elbert was not. He had never dreaded Friday the thirteenth. He didn’t blink twice when he’d accidentally broken a mirror in his youth, nor did he trouble himself with the many black cats that had crossed his path over the years. But now, the meaning of the music box loomed over him like a shadow, and warnings from Santiago echoed in his head. He began to have doubts.
“Must not let anyone else have this bewitched object,” he vowed. Such an object could drive people insane with its premonitions—starting with himself. He thought of chucking it to the bottom of the ocean, or burning it altogether in his fireplace, but Santiago’s many years of chasing the object guilted Elbert.
So he kept the music box buried inside the wall in the back of his closet. That’s where he hoped it would quietly lie, until his own death.
Then had come the candle theft.
Over the years, the popularity of Elbert’s candles had caught the attention of a wealthy businessman. He appeared at Elbert’s doorstep on an autumn evening, wearing a decorative three-piece suit and clutching an elegant walking stick.
“Elbert Walsh, I presume?”
“That’s me.”
“Pleased.” The businessman had hair the color of salt and pepper, and two long, heavy eyebrows, which rose in a scornful sneer as he glanced inside the small apartment. In a self-important tone, he said, “My name is Robert Baron. Word on the street is that your candle clocks are more precise and last longer than any other on the market, and that they apparently possess healing powers.”
“Er, yes—” began Elbert.
“I’ll get to the point,” the businessman interrupted. “I wish to buy your candles.”
“Certainly, sir. How many would you like?”
“No, no, you misunderstand me,” huffed the businessman. He gave an impatient sigh. “I want to buy the rights to your candles—goods, formulas, and all. I’ll brand them and make an empire out of them.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The formula is not for sale.”
Although Elbert didn’t know it at the time, this businessman was a particularly greedy fellow. So greedy, in fact, that he had five companies to his name, all of which had been acquired by a mix of bribery, theft, and, failing those, any means necessary, no matter the cost.
In order to convince Elbert to give up his candles, Robert Baron tried the first tactic: bribery.
“I will pay you handsomely, of course,” lied the businessman. “I will exchange most of my savings for the mere candle recipes. Four hundred dollars, not a penny less.”
Although it was a lot of money (four hundred dollars back then was enough to pay Elbert’s rent for a year), Elbert politely refused. His candles carried a lot of sentimental value for him. He had made an honest living with them, and the candles had allowed him to carry on Santiago’s research and ruminations about the time touch.
A good businessperson isn’t one who gives up easily. Robert Baron pressed on, “All right then, why don’t I pay you five hundred dollars? Mm, no? How about six hundred?”
On and on this went, until the bid rose to fourteen hundred. It was more money than Elbert had made from a year’s worth of stage performances, and infinitely more than what he made from selling bundles of candles.
“Well…all right,” Elbert said after thinking it over. “On one condition. I want to be a full partner in the business. These candles mean a lot to me. I want to oversee the candle-making process, and make sure the candles meet the expectations of the man who originally inspired them.”
“Yes, that can be arranged.” The businessman gave a slick smile.
So Elbert signed the contract (which turned out to be fake). He handed the secret formula for the candles to Robert Baron (who turned out to be a snake). And it wasn’t until the businessman left chuckling to himself that Elbert had an inkling something was wrong.
Half a week later, Elbert lost the rights to his candles. Stern-faced lawyers appeared at his door, warning him that if he sold one more candle, he would be arrested. Candles that Elbert himself had created.
Elbert angrily went to confront Robert Baron, but the man had many powerful connections from years of carrying out bribery and blackmail. Elbert was dragged away by the police in handcuffs before he could finish shouting at
