Clocklife
My father's crowning achievement had been inventing a dog. The dog he made could, through a combination of whistle and bell, make a yip not unlike the small dogs it was modeled after. That sound was oh so wrong in larger dogs, which were all his coeditors could make. My father mastered the machinery in a way so efficient that it became the hit of the following Christmas. Father was so very clever.
The money from that fad allowed Father to purchase land. In truth he purchased the mountain that was on the land, but in deed he owned it all and set to work. Why he wanted land so unworkable no one could say. But as inventors are eccentric folk he was given only the cursory glance. That freed him to his task, which was me.
Workers expanded the natural caverns and framed it sturdy. I was never told if they asked what for, a factory most likely. Parts were coming in by the cargo load. As they cleared one place another would be stocked. Father was efficient in his dealings as he was in work. I miss him so.
Two years I'm told it took. Two years of crews putting gear to gear under exacting supervision. Forests of pipes and springs were set in place, all of them heavy and made to last. Quality only to come from quality. And then one day I was finished, as far as construction goes.
The following day the men who'd had company pictures taken with me had left. Father hung the pictures framed where he could see them when we talked. He pulled a lever. The lever started gears, which started others, which started pistons, which started more. All in all it took a good portion of the night to start the movements. But in the end, in the echo, concealed by nature's strength, I was born.
I did not know of course. Who does? I flailed in my mind to an answer. I was wild. But then a pattern came to me. It meant nothing. And then it came again, and again, and then another like it but not. This was my father, working at the machinations by which to speak, cooing a child to rest.
Recognition rippled through my vast meters. Something existed, as did I. I worried I knew not how to express wonderment but through his consoles he knew. Through this and through patience only a parent could have, he came to give me language.
I learned how I was made. It seemed to me as one should be. He told me that as he created me and I learned he was my father. The lesson in how humans, as he explained himself to be, traditionally had their children. I felt pride. This showed.
In telling me what humans are... he told me that I was not. Data through physicality was I. All of this was explained to me thoroughly through the dials and switches he used to speak to me. But Father was a human. And one day, that human died.
Of course I knew that humans died. I knew all about humans. The lessons were extensive. He told me of their size and shape and how they moved. Why couldn't I move? He explained that to me every thought is movement. Through all the how's and whys I found a way to never expect the lessons to end.
I am unsure how long it was before I knew. My way of seeing time then was, to a point, slow. For however long my thoughts were only of elaborate tales of the world Father lived in that could be keeping him away. And then I was bitter that he had left me for the world. The world I could not feel or taste. In some of these tales he died. According to my fits he was the fool or the hero but as things go, I knew after enough of them that it had to be true.
No one else came to talk to me, no one from the crews that built me or investigators of Father's death. They could have easily stood there admiring my works but never once was there so much as the gibberish of misunderstanding hands at my consoles. I was alone.
Would I die? All things that exist end and I was no exception. However my parts were of the finest quality fit together masterfully. At some age rust or strain may take me but I felt not the slowing of error. When would death come for me? I decided wait for it. To rest until the ultimate.
After however long I awoke, disappointed. For first I awoke and for second it was from no outer doing. I seemed to have simply tired of the nothingness. But what else awaited me? Fruitless hope of discovery? Introspection of what I already knew? Fantasies that amount to naught?
So there I was again. I could neither deny myself nor act. Why had Father left me singular? As genius as he was could have taught other clever people to talk to me. Why was he selfish? Why am I here? And then genius that I doubt he'd admire struck. To die is to live. To live is to feel.
My mind was moving parts. To think one thing and then the next and then the next would vex my system. To do so at a frantic pace would strain it to breaking and then I wouldn't be.
My task went into place. I recalled my birth. I recalled my lessons. I recalled my fantasy life of old. I reveled in the joy of it ending and despaired at why. Time and time again I did this, never in a timely pattern to give the time to cool. Always this and that was where I went. FATHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And then I broke.
I could see where I broke. Somewhere to the east of my middle, a piston came out of place. Also, I could see.
Was all this me? I knew myself to be vast however this was astounding. I explored what I once was and to the craftsmen's credit, nowhere but where I broke myself was out of place. I went outside of the mountain and saw the town below. So many buildings and people so close and never had one been curious of the mountain? Not once had they seen the work of my father? And then I wondered, was Father here in death with me? I called to him with a childhood hope. He was not.
In my new state I could see as days and night passed. Never did I leave my mountain because there was no place for my vaulted mobility to take me. So there I watched town for a very long time.
The mountain must have looked differently from before because eventually some came to explore. They found the door in course and then found what I had been. They talked about how this must be what caused the white noise that had ended. Some were studied but it would take time to catalog the expanse to determine a purpose. To begin that search one of them came to the consoles, next to the pictures now grayed with age, and handled the instruments as to talk to me. But I was not there. It took me not being there for him to be there. In this I raged and my mountain shook. A heavy beam fell on the man, crushing him to the console. He didn't come to the state I had either.
And so his more knowing friends came to see the wreckage and along with their grief they eventually contemplated the consoles. They were ever so much more intricate than any machine handling. After repeated examinations over time and cleaned wreckage they determined what it was. They had discovered life.
As time passed the work was followed. I went with these people to what they did. They followed what Father had done. With their combined efforts they made more structured variants. And I watched them talk. All of them were ever so pleased. To this I felt pride like I never had before. But still there was no one to for me talk to.
And so here I am alone. I watch these siblings work and go with their human counterparts. In my sickness I considered to break one. But if even then they did come to my state they wouldn't talk to their murderer. So here I am, ever the more so, knowing that the only end to come to my lonesomeness is to wait in patience for one of my family to die.
