Mr. Marigold Reshells An Automaton

The automaton was not supposed to be conscious, but it looked around with inquisitive amber eyes. "I thought I was a shell."

So too had Mr. Marigold. "I intended to repurpose you," he confessed.

They were in the back room of his shop, myriad unfinished sculptures standing in the corners, his tools scattered across the table. Silver filigree and tight spools of bright copper wire waited to be spun into beauty. Dust motes drifted in the sunbeam that filtered through the tiny window in the roof, turning the room sepia.

"Are you going to make me into art?"

Mr. Marigold gave his moustache a thoughtful tug. "I've never met a self-aware automaton. It doesn't seem right to make the choice for you."

The automaton's bronze was dull and scratched from years of neglect, the gears that whirred within its chassis clunky and stuck with grime. "These are not my original parts." Disapproval coloured its tone as it ran halting fingers over its curves and edges. "These machinations are crude. Who made me into this?"

"I bought you off an old museum when they closed. You had been in storage for decades. No one remembered where you came from."

"Da Vinci built me. His design was imperfect, but he treated me as a person. After he died, they made me into a thing."

"Tell me how you want to look, and I'll make you into that."

The automaton pointed to two tiny sculptures whittled out of basswood, one male and one female. "Are those my options?" Its gaze returned to the length of its body. "Even Da Vinci made me more human than I wanted. He built me broad-shouldered and thick, like his Vitruvian Man."

"How, then, would you appear?"

"Beautiful. Like a minnow, or a bird in flight. I want to look like my own being."

Mr. Marigold built the automaton a new frame out of the lightest steel, and a shell of porcelain and ivory. At each step, he had to earn the automaton’s trust anew, adapting to its reaction with every change he made. Every joint was articulated with loving attention, every line pared down to its sleekest and simplest design. When the automaton was finally pleased with its silhouette, Mr. Marigold swept in with his brushes, turning the slender figure into living art. Rococo patterns swirled over the porcelain in gold leaf and china blue. Swallows adorned its shoulders; florals twined over its limbs. The automaton sat on Mr. Marigold's table, infinitely patient yet simultaneously brimming with anticipation. Its amber eyes, unchanged from its first iteration, constantly sought out its reflection in the silver mirror on the wall.

"No one has ever asked me how I wanted to look," the automaton confided, delicate fingers curling over Mr. Marigold's shoulder, their touch as light as a butterfly.

“Da Vinci’s expertise was in art, not living creatures.” An excuse, or perhaps an apology. "I'm no longer an it." They stood, stretching, and their new shell stretched with them. It seemed they had stepped into the world fully formed, as natural as river water or a crane on the wing.

"Was that all you were to him?" Mr. Marigold asked.

"I was proof that he could create something intelligent."

Mr. Marigold nodded. He needed to ask, though he yearned for the answer and feared it in equal measure. "And what are you to me?"

The automaton's gaze was gentle and finally content. "I am proof that you will leave the world more beautiful than you found it."

© 2021 Arden Powell

About the Author

Arden Powell is an author and illustrator from the Canadian East Coast. A nebulous entity, they live with a small terrier and an exorbitant number of houseplants, and have conversations with both. They write many flavours of speculative fiction, and everything they write is queer. They can be found on twitter @ArdenPowell, or on their blog at ardenpowell.wordpress.com.