The Machine Man

On the very edge of the great steel city of Idenro, there is an old machine shop. The wind blows through the windows, rusted open from years of disuse. It makes a hollow, forlorn keening as it whistles through all the rooms and around all of the old metal contraptions that are so rust-covered, you'd swear there was no metal left, only rust. Because of this moaning of the wind, the old machine shop is nicknamed the Howling House by all the citizens of Idenro, and is generally avoided.

However, once a month, an old man comes to visit the machine shop. He was once a well-respected, well-loved tinker; but now, time has taken its toll on him. His shop stands empty and unvisited; his workshop, once so filled with the sounds of whirring machinery and clanking gears, is silent.

So once a month, the old man takes his bucket and his tools and makes his way to the Howling House. He walks inside, lovingly and curiously surveying all of the old, rusty gadgets with the keen eye for which he was respected in his day. Then he chooses one, and only one, out of the piles of ancient machinery. He brings it home with him to his empty workshop, and for that one night of the month, the small room comes alive again. He oils it, polishes it and generally repairs it until all its flaws have been buffered away and it is as good as new. Then, he brings it home with him and puts it on one of the innumerable shelves lining the walls of his house. He does this once a month, every month, without fail.

It is once again time for the old man to visit the machine shop. Slowly but surely, he walks down the street with his bucket over his arm. In his bucket are the bottles of oil, rags, chrome polish and various tools he will use to repair his chosen trinket. He approaches the door, pausing at the stoop as if expecting an invitation. There is only the whistling of the wind through the windows of the Howling House; the door stands open before him. Seemingly satisfied, he hoists his bucket higher upon his arm and steps inside.

Inside the shop, the old man again begins to peruse the piles of corroded knickknacks. He picks up a small wind-up cat, twists the key gently, waits for a response. Nothing. He sets it down again. He inspects a large, intricate gear with many teeth, then once again replaces it in the pile. Nothing so far has caught his eye. Then, as he turns, his gaze settles on a tiny metal man.

The old man gently picks up the figurine, turning it over in his hand. A wind-up key protrudes from the tiny man's back, and the old man slowly turns it, then sets the metal man upright on his palm. Slowly, with jerky movements, the metal man comes to life. His legs kick and his arms swing, as if he is walking a jaunty walk. The old man smiles in delight and turns to retrieve his pail from where he has left it by the doorstep. Suddenly, however, a voice cries out, "No! You have chosen wrong!"

The old man turns back, astonished, to see who has spoken, thinking that someone must have followed him in through the open door; there is nothing, however, but the empty and desolate machine room.

The voice calls out again. "You have chosen wrong! Please, I am unworthy!"

The old man slowly looks down at the figurine in his palm. To his everlasting delight and surprise, the toy opens its metal mouth and says, "I am not worthy of your choice. Please put me back and choose something else."

The old man starts in surprise at the toy's words.

"Why, little Machine Man," he says kindly, "whatever makes you think yourself unworthy? I find you a fine prize, for surely there is no automaton who speaks so plainly as you!"

"I was crafted by a master metalworker," laments the Machine Man. "Every day, he worked diligently in his shop, building elaborate machines and wonderful toys. He loved everything he created, but I was his especial favorite. At the end of every day, he would take me from my shelf by the window, where I would sit and behold the eager faces of the children as they looked upon his creations. He would polish me, oil me, wind me up, and say, 'Machine Man, you are the best and most valued of my creations. No other matches up to you. You are the pride of my existence.'"

"Does that not prove you worthy?" the old man asks in surprise. "Surely to be the favored creation of a master such as your own tells much of your value and worth!"

"My tale is not yet complete," replies the Machine Man sadly. "As the years passed on, my master slowly grew tired of me. He had other, newer, better inventions to occupy his attention. I was still taken down, still oiled, still polished to the shine of freshly-minted copper... but it was not the same. His eyes did not hold the same sparkle of affection that they once had.

"One day, my master decided he had finally had enough of metalwork. He had worked years creating masterpieces for others' happiness; now it was time for him to have his own. He packed all of his best creations, his most treasured inventions, into a bag, and left the others here to rust with his shop. I was among those left behind. My master did not want me, and so he left me, as I am sure you will do when you tire of me."

"But, Machine Man," the old man says, "he left all of these other creations here with you! Does that not prove them equally unworthy?"

"Ah, but I was his favorite," the Machine Man sighs disconsolately. "None of the others ever fell so far as me. Besides that, I am convinced his departure was my fault."

"Why, how do you know?" responds the old man.

"I failed to occupy his attention," the Machine Man says, bowing his head in shame. "If I had been a better creation, perhaps he would have stayed."

"Come now," the old man scolds. "You cannot possibly believe you are the source of all your master's troubles! Why, you are but a tin toy!"

The Machine Man begins to weep bitter tears, dark oil leaking from his eyes and staining his tin face.

"I know I am," he sobs. "I am only a tin toy who marches. I cannot do anything worth mentioning. Who could ever want such as me; a failed creation who was tossed away like rubbish?"

The old man's heart goes out to the Machine Man, warming in sympathy for the little toy's plight.

What must it be like, he wondered, to be favored of a master and then abandoned? Surely I shall never know.

"Why, Machine Man," he says gently, "I want you. For I have a home full of little grandchildren, and I know they shall delight in seeing one such as you. Come now, dry your tears, for you shall rust even further! Lay your burden and your sadness upon me, and I shall cry your tears for awhile."

And so it is that the Machine Man departs the rust-ridden, silent, despair-sodden rooms of the old machine shop and returns home with the old man. The old man's workshop comes alive that night as he polishes, oils and repairs the little toy until he gleams; and both creation and master alike are transported back to a happier time.

Underneath his coating of rust, the Machine Man wears a red soldier's uniform with several medals and blazons adorning it. His pants and his neat soldier's shoes are shiny black, like pitch, and his smart little hat is turned just so on his head, giving him a cocky, jaunty appearance. His tin smile is bright, and his eyes, to any who behold him, seem to sparkle with a hint of mischief.

Every day, the old man takes the Machine Man from his shelf, winds his key gently, and lets him march across the grand workshop table, to the delight of his many grandchildren. Slowly, the news of the tiny metal man is passed on, through the mouths of these innocent youngsters, and more and more children arrive each day to marvel at the wonder of the little marching tin man. Gradually, a crowd forms, lining up in hordes each day to walk into the workshop and watch the little Machine Man as he marches proudly from one end of the worktable to the other, his eyes winking at the spellbound children in the light of the forge fires that flare once more from the belly of the workshop furnace. The people have returned to the old man's shop, and the little Machine Man has finally found a master who loves him.

When the old man finally passes on, his workshop, now thriving, passes into the hands of his granddaughter Sofia, along with the Machine Man, who remains on a shelf of honor right above the forge. Every day, Sofia takes him down, polishes him, winds him gently, and lets his march continue, past generations of children whose faces are different, and yet the same in their delight.

And so it is that the old man's workshop is brought to life once more, buzzing and humming with cheerful customers and warm happiness.

So it is also that the Machine Man comes into the care of a family and a home who will never abandon him to rust in the Howling House; who will love and cherish him for as long as they live.