The Automaton - Ch. 2
- Maggie Yore
- Jan 25
- 8 min read
Chapter 2
Once again, the aids and nurses suspected nothing. She was beginning to think that they didn’t care about her. She was in the pauper’s wing, after all. People filed in and out, some so severely ill that they would pass away within hours of their arrival, some screamed in such agony that she had to plug her ears for fear of screaming along with them in their sorrow.
She wept for a short while that afternoon, while she was being taken on a short walk around the courtyard behind the hospital. The aid was numb to any kind of tears from patients, as she was sure that they had plenty others to deal with. This gave Calantha free range to openly cry without fear of being judged too harshly.
“There there, dear.” The aid had kindly mustered up a few words to soothe her, patting her linked arm between the two of them.
Her mind wandered back and forth between the fright she had received from the automaton’s movement, she hadn’t looked back to confirm after she had awakened from her passing out in front of him. Curiosity always got the better of her, and her bravery was the kind of strength she admired in herself. For a moment, she determined to stay in her bed and never return to the church.
But now, after hours of deliberation and trying to convince herself to either return or stay away… she made a decision to lean into her courage and face the automaton. What harm could he produce with one leg? Was he even capable of being ambulatory?
Her heart quickened, the blackness of tunnels returning. Lying in her bed, waiting for the faint to befall her, she imagined his dark brown eyes looking deeply into hers.
She was awakened for her evening meal of gruel and a piece of day-old bread. She ate as much as she could, knowing she would need a fair amount of strength to return tonight. The clock on the wall ticked with definite tone, each second stretching out longer than the last. Darkness and silence befell the halls once again and she roamed out into the night.
Standing in the closed doorway, she studied him from a safe distance. From what it seemed, he had not moved, yet in the moonlight, she could easily see that his head had turned. She cautiously approached, each step like lead in her socks, pointed and secure.
Frozen like a tree in the winter, his ice-cold face was glowing in an unearthly way, a countenance of a gentleman in the prime of his life. The sight caused her to take a breath. His eyes gently closed, the original furrowed eyebrows now seemingly giving a man in pain, a heart broken— she felt remorse for fleeing the night before.
“But you are not living, nor dead.” She said in a pained whisper to him. Curiosity falling over her like a rush of cold water, reminding her of the time when she fell through ice into a pond as a young child.
“Who are you?” She said, as her eyes searched his face for even the slightest movement.
He must have a maker. She thought to herself.
Calantha had remembered that pieces of machinery had markings on the back or underside. She blushed, she couldn’t look at his bottom, even if he was pieces of metal, wood and porcelain. She figured that behind his head might be a good place to look first. And her insight was correct, at the base of his neck were some markings. No serial numbers, but a name and a date. Ainsley, 1889.
Aware of a kindling of ache that had begun to burn years ago, had resurfaced at the sight of his name. As much as she hid herself away from the world— it was as much as she wanted to be seen, wanting touch, a kiss from a lover, a warm hand to hold and a life to spend with a soul that matched hers. Someone to look at her in wanting, not in disgust.
“Hi Ainsley. I’m Calantha.” She said in a gentle tone.
A song rose from her clouded memories, “Beautiful Dreamer” came to mind as she thought of the automaton.
Searching his carved face, she saw nothing but the same frame from earlier. She sat herself down in front of him, closed her eyes, steadied herself with her hands splayed on either side of her bent legs, took a deep breath and began to sing. She imagined the lyrics formed in her heart and was then giving it to Ainsley.
Moving through the song, swaying and gently smiling, she felt the tightness of the ache release as she finished.
She opened her eyes and met his in return.
Heart pumping and tears forming, she knew this had to be a kind of magic unknown to the world.
“Hello, you.” She said as her skin turned to gooseflesh and a hot a tear fell.
He blinked a few times, and as he slowly turned his head, the sound of metal clashing with springs, plaster and the creaking of wood echoed in the stillness of the dark room. His right arm moved from his lap to lay on top of the desk. She had only noticed how articulate his fingers were once they moved into a position that looked like the thumb and index finger were pinching an invisible string.
She gazed at him in complete awe and enchantment; eyes widened to the size of planets while seeing the inevitable bursts of stars from lack of blood flow. Closing her eyes for a moment and calming her yearning heart yet again, she relaxed into a state of peace.
Slowly, she got up and went to see what was on the desk. There was nothing and he wasn’t holding anything.
He looked up at her, blinked, then looked back down at the desk and started moving his hand and fingers as if he was writing.
Then it clicked. He was trying to speak to her through words on paper.
Containing her excitement had become increasingly more difficult in the presence of this creature. She quickly found a notebook and pencil, placing the paper underneath his hand and the pencil between his wooden fingers. She caught sight of a splattering of paint on them.
He wrote “Hello, Calantha. I am Brone. Ainsley was my maker.”
“Oh, hello then, Brone. I apologize. You can certainly hear me, can you see me as well?”
Frightened not by the fact that this inanimate human figure has the ability to process sight, but her instinct was to hide her deepest insecurity. Her hand flew to her exposed neck, eyes drawn down and away in shame. She looked back up after a few moments of embarrassment.
He stared at her with his eyes so full of life, but only into her eyes and not at her hand. She stood, watching him as he wrote without looking at the paper, eyes fixated on hers. She leaned over to read:
“You’re voice, beautiful.” He wrote.
Blushing in the drowning moonlight, she told him in a hushed whisper, “thank you.”
“Why are you here?”
Calantha pointed to her neck. “I need surgery. It’s in a few days.”
“I’m sorry.” Again, he wrote while looking directly into her eyes. A strange sensation crawled over her chest, it felt like the beginning of a real conversation.
“Tell me about you.”
“Oh.” Calantha paused. Talking about herself was not something she had ever gotten used to. She started with the basics about her family, her working situation, status as unmarried, she loved to read books when she could afford the time.
She waited for a response; there was no movement from him. So, she continued, thinking he was being patient.
“Um. Well as you already know I like to sing, but not professionally of course. And I love warm, fresh baked bread. I know it is quite simple, but with a touch of butter, is there nothing more heavenly?” She chuckled a little.
She then became more self-conscious the longer she waited for him to respond.
Nervously, she blurted out something she had never told anyone. Something she had held in her heart for many years.
“In the summer, I like to lay under the trees and watch the filtered sunlight catch on each leaf, it reminds me of when I was a child and didn’t have so much to worry about. I once fell in love with a young man under a tree. We held hands and talked about nothing; it was everything to me. He moved to New York, and I never heard from him again." She remembered the tenderness that the young man had showed her. She also remembered the silence after he left. No letters, no indication of his affections for her. Her heart darkened at the thought. She changed the subject in order to disassociate from the feeling of loss.
"In the winters, when the ponds froze over at my aunt’s home up north, my brother and I would brush the snow and felled leaves off the ice and skate for hours, until the tips of our noses were numb from the cold. Then our aunt would have fresh cookies and hot chocolate ready for us. Our aunt was very rich and could afford such fickle things. Sometimes I wish…” She stopped. Her heart ached; her mind went quiet. She felt safe in his presence. How could something not quite alive cause emotional harm? She looked away, eyes set in consternation and worry, she wrung her balmy hands, cold from poor circulation.
Looking down, unable to meet his glassy eyes, in hardly a whisper she declared, stumbling the words as they came out, “I wish I was loved as I am. I don’t feel worthy of love, but I want it desperately.”
The smile that caught in the corner of her mouth turned into a frown. “Those days are over, though. I may also not survive this surgery, so I have been contemplating my life.”
She heard a creaking of movement coming from Brone. He had reacted to her story. It wasn’t just facts about her life that he wanted, she quickly calculated that he was looking for connection.
This time he looked down at the paper and wrote, “turn over.”
Calantha’s eyes darted back and forth, “whatever do you mean, turn over?” she asked him.
He pointed to the paper.
“Oh, silly me.” She smiled and turned the paper over. She was quickly learning the limits of his abilities.
He looked at her for a moment, then looked down at the paper and started drawing.
This caused a surge of excitement far too great for her to bear. She sat down again and watched him with reverence.
He paused for a moment, turned his head to look at her, then continued drawing. It didn’t take long for him to complete his work. The indication he gave was sitting up straight and removing his hand from the page. He looked at her again, blinked a few times— signaling to see what he had made.
Calantha’s chest swelled, her breath caught in her throat, he had drawn her likeness.
She hadn’t looked in the mirror in so long, she despised the sight of the protrusion, when then led to a small kind of hatred of herself.
“Brone, I don’t know what to say.” She picked up the paper to examine it closer. It was as if it were a photograph. “I suppose I could say, you are very talented indeed. However, you made me prettier than I am.”
He shook his mechanical head.
She gave a weak smile and felt the faintness returning. Placing the paper down in front of him, she apologized and explained that she needed to rest.
He wrote, “tomorrow?”
She stared at him, smiled as best as she could and said, “yes. Goodnight, Brone.”
A peculiar thing occurred next, his eyes lost a kind of glow she did not notice before. He had powered down or went on stand-by perhaps. She could immediately tell he wasn’t “there.” It left her with a feeling of wanting. This was now a game of making him come back to life. She knew what she needed to do tomorrow; reveal more heartfelt secrets, ones that she dare not tell anyone in the world.
~
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