The Clockwork Bird-Maker
1. Of Birds
I am a clockwork bird-maker. The last craftsman of this trade. At least to my knowledge, I am its last master. It was not always like this. Before, clockwork birds were massively sought after. They were the epitome of beauty and grace, ingenuity and enchantment. Clockwork birds brought dreams to people. They were popular, once, and the trade flourished.
Yet it declined as all traditions do. Nothing lasts forever as everybody says. Like a fever it swept across populations, and like a fever died in a sickly manner. It wasn’t the refinement of old age. Oh no. Nothing so graceful.
I have been a clockwork bird-maker for exactly fifty-eight years, apprenticed to a master at twelve. After learning all I could from that wily old man for ten years, I struck off on my own, opening a small shop at a corner of a faraway town.
What are these clockwork birds? Well, they are the most fascinating of devices, designed to astound even the most cynical of minds. They are not live birds, though they might as well have been. Rather, inside their bodies are little gears and wheels; complicated mechanizations requiring the most fervent of attentions. And yet, these birds have not the feel of machines. No, the clockwork birds of old moved so fluidly, possessing such life-like animations, it was like magic! And it was this magic that entranced us all, a dream us makers and buyers were all spell-bounded by. While a clockwork bird’s insides are all cogs and gears, the outer layer is speckled with jewels and rare stones. A true clockwork bird-maker will endeavor to create the most beautiful of birds, with aesthetic and the personal being his key approaches.
I preferred birds with more feeling, that had extraordinary life in them. It was to this cause that I devoted decades of my life to, this dream to create the perfect clockwork bird. But of course, dreams cannot be reached unless one has the proper means and concentration to do so. For that, I began selling my own clockwork birds. My birds were not pretty. They were actually downright hideous, monstrosities of utter plainness. No, my birds did not catch the eye with their feathers. Instead, they delighted my customers in other ways.
My birds could fly and sing.
While other bird-makers used exterior attractiveness to entice customers, I focused more on the birds’ joints and vocal boxes, installing minute systems of gears to produce the movements I wanted. What resulted were small birds that could, to an extent, fly. For the vocal boxes, I used variations of whistles and music boxes to produce awkward singing. And while my first few birds were not perfect specimens of actual birds, they still managed to catch many a customers’ eyes and ears. The idea of owning a clockwork bird that could fly and sing dazzled many youngsters, who sought to impress peers and partners with something so delicate and mystical.
Life was finally decent and I was earning a living. It was then I met Marianne, a tailor’s daughter, whom I would marry when I reached twenty-five years of age. In the first month of the marriage, everything was brighter, more meaningful and infinitely beautiful. I craved nothing but Marianne, desired only her smile, longed for her voice. So much so that I created a clockwork bird for her. It was a bird I built after her, with my feelings pushed into every nut and bolt inside. When it was finally done, I wound it up and let it go. I then took a hammer, and smashed it to bits. It was not the bird I wanted; it was nowhere near Marianne’s perfection. My beloved chided me and believed that it was enough. But to me, that bird was just a hollow shell. I started on another one, researching every technique, seeking out every problem. I camped out in the nearby woods to observe magpies fly, to listen to the songs of nightingales. Sometimes, I would be gone for days, spending my time staring at birds. I poured my all into this new project, feverishly plunging into my work. So fixated was I on my quest that when Marianne had Ivan, I merely grunted and got back to work. Nothing else mattered and after two years, finally, my bird was complete.
I must admit, I met the results with nothing less than child-like eagerness and anticipation. I named the bird Peri. Small and black, with a misshapen head that did not seem to fit, Peri wasn’t pretty, perhaps looking even more grotesque than my previous works. Yet in my excitement, I thought it magnificent.
With my wife and year-old son watching, I nervously wound up my clockwork bird. My hands shook as I clutched the small bronze key and wound up the many springs within the bird. When it was over, I backed away and joined my family. The gears started whirling and my clockwork bird moved. It opened its beady eyes and gazed at us dumbly. Then it yawned, its beak wide enough to see the pieces within, and snapped it shut once more. Finally, in front of us all, Peri stretched its dark wings and with a proud flourish, launched into the sky.
“Fly! Fly!” I heard myself shout at the soaring figure. The bird obeyed, swiftly zipping from floor to ceiling, corner to corner, on and on until it started circling us. Never had I seen such flight before. No bird anywhere could fly like this. The bird was as if real, as if actually free! “Now sing!” I whispered, lost in wondrous amazement, “Sing!”
Peri opened its beak again and a tune unlike anything heard before filled the room. Its voice was not of any other bird I’ve heard in my life. Rather, it was something entirely new. It was a low mournful sound, thick with emotion and yet crystal clear enough to pierce the silence of the room. I glanced at my wife and son, smiling widely at the awe plastered on their faces. Even I was enchanted by this particular invention. I never knew something Man-Made could sing like that, could project such a tune of longing. It was something I could never forget. It was perfect.
It was then, with the three of us awe-struck, my clockwork bird ended my dreams. With a sudden burst of speed, the bird swooped over our heads, smashed through the glass-pane of a window and flew out of the house, still crooning its song. It happened so quickly that I did not know how to react. All I did was to stare at the gaping hole in my window pane, mind feverishly searching for an answer to the incident before. When it finally hit me, I collapsed onto the floor, my body devoid of any strength.
My bird had flown away! Out of the house! Out of my life!
My senses flooded back in and with a spurt of desperate energy, I surged onto my feet and out of the house. I had to find the bird. It was the clockwork bird that would change the world! I had to find it!
For hours I looked. I searched every alley, nook and cranny, hole I could find. I had hoped the springs in the bird would cease to turn eventually, forcing the bird to land or God forbid, crash. But I had no such luck. Soon, hours turned into days, days turned into weeks. For a while, my routine consisted breakfast, after which I would scour the town for a sign, any sign of my missing masterpiece. On the third week, at the point where I found myself desolately searching the town’s muddy river, I finally stopped. Like a machine that had grinded to a halt, I simply stood there, knee-deep in the water. My grief hit me. I wailed and cursed, a keening sound that tore up all serenity. This I did for hours until a townsman went to call my dear Marianne, who herself arrived to calm me down.
I was bed-ridden for weeks, and barely functioned as a proper human being for years. The loss of my perfect creation had destroyed me. In the years of my grief, Marianne looked after the family. By becoming a seamstress, she earned the money that was needed to keep our family alive. At the same time, she had to look after little Ivan as well. For me, all things were immaterial. Food had lost all taste, colors had all dimmed. And love…love for anything had died as well, buried under the massive weight of anguish and loss. I honestly wanted to die.
But Fate had other plans.
On the eighth year of my madness, Marianne fell ill. It crippled her and forced her to bed. It was the sleeping sickness, the physician had said, and there was nothing he could do, only to make sure she was as comfortable as possible. I nodded emptily at his words. After he had gone, I stood over Marianne’s bed and stared numbly at her frail being. Her normally smiling face was now pale, and racked with a pain I could not imagine. Her breathing was shallow and she wouldn’t stop whispering. By her side, nine-year-old Ivan held her hand gently, his tears streaking down his face like raindrops that refused to fall. As I neared, he glared at me, undisguised accusations boring into me. As if a twisted sign, realization finally dawned on me. My madness cleared and I understood what had transpired. Struck with unfathomable guilt, I sank to my knees and held Marianne’s hand in mine. What had I done? What had I done for a dream when reality had simply passed me by? I kneeled there for half an hour, desperately praying for a miracle and when none came, stood up and walked awkwardly into my workshop. Everything was as it was ten years ago. I picked up a small block of wood and a knife, staring at them for a few moments. I began to cut.
2. Ivan
Marianne died a year later. In that time, I started making clockwork birds again to support the household. My creations were woefully ill-made at first, what with me not touching the craft for more than eight years. Times were tough in the beginning. But after a while, my birds became better and gained a more favorable response.
However, none of them came close to Peri.
Ivan refused to warm to me at first. I couldn’t blame him – I did abandon the family after all. Yet I persevered, constantly attempting to draw the boy in, never pushing him away as I had done once. I even handed him one of my birds and asked if he would want to take up the craft. The reaction was instantaneous. With pure venom, Ivan threw the bird onto the floor, smashing it into tiny pieces before running out of the house in a wild dash. I didn’t chase after him; merely stared at the many miniscule wheels and cogs strewn over the floor.
When Marianne died, we buried her in the nearby cemetery, placing her in a rosewood coffin. At the funeral, I didn’t know what to say to anybody, let alone Ivan. In the end, as he silently stared at her epitaph, I placed my arm on his shoulder and stood by him. He didn’t move away.
After that day, things got better between father and son. While still avoiding clockwork birds like the plague, he began to smile and converse more with me. Gladdened by this folding of barriers, I made my birds with more ease than before. The pieces became prettier and more life-like, the art much more refined. Our lives were comfortable for a while.
Then the war came and I believe, that was where everything ended.
I cannot recall what the war was about, or even who our country was viciously fighting against. All I know about is that the war lasted a very long time, and cost so many wasted lives. During that time, paintings and poems were discarded for guns and swords. Demand for clockwork birds began to decline and my business itself suffered. And yet, there was a great excitement in the air, especially among the young. I was already forty-three and Ivan had just turned sixteen. The war was still in its infancy though, and the tales of horror so known to war had not yet surfaced. At the moment, patriotism was the general atmosphere.
I cared nothing for it. I was worried about my own business. At the rate I was going, I would only sell one bird every fortnight, just barely enough for meager food. If the war continued on, we would not survive.
Ivan on the other hand, relished in the coming war. Already bored with being an apprentice baker, he yearned for something so much more. The war enticed with its smoky promises of clichés - fame and fortune, love and glory. No child could resist. Ivan didn’t even try.
I had noticed my son’s restlessness as his days in the bakery took its toll. I knew he wanted to walk a different path, I just didn’t know what that path was… or how strong that desire was.
Until one day, he never appeared at the bakery. His master angrily sought me out, complaining that my son had not shown up at the bakery for almost a week, which was odd as he had left and returned home at the usual times. When Ivan returned that evening, I confronted him, demanding reasons for his truancy.
“I don’t want to be a baker,” he had said, “I want to join the war! I want to find my fortune!”
I called him a fool and told him the dangers of war. Yet he did not listen. In the end, the argument grew heated and words that should not have been said, were uttered. That night, foolishly regretting my treatment of my only son, I walked up to Ivan’s door, an apology on my lips. When I opened the door, his room was empty. Many of his belongings were missing as well. Ivan himself, had vanished.
Somehow I carried on with life, without my wife and son. I had tried everything I could to find Ivan but to little avail. I resigned myself to the fact that he had gone to play soldier in this brutal game called war.
I continued selling my clockwork birds.
I would not see my son for another nine years. In that time, I relied on my trade to see me through, concentrating on producing a bird akin to the unique Peri. It was a mild cold autumn’s day when Ivan came by the shop. I could barely recognize him. He was taller than me, dressed in a dark coat and helmet. His face had lost the vigor of youth and sported sickly pallor. He had a scar on his right cheek.
But it was his eyes that held me. They were eyes lost in confusion. There was no more boyish innocence in those pupils, only that of a man haunted by ghosts I could not see.
“Ivan,” I had called out to him as he looked sadly at my birds, “is that you?”
He turned and rested his tired gaze on me. “Sir,” he had said curtly, “I wish to buy a clockwork bird.”
“What do you mean?”
“A bird sir, how much for that one?” said the man, picking up a crimson bird. His face beheld no recognition of me and yet I was certain he was my son.
“Ivan! What’s wrong? Don’t you know me?” I pleaded.
Several similarly-garbed soldiers walked up to us.
“What is the problem Saruss?” a portly man asked, “We have to move out soon so hurry up!”
“I know Marius. Here Sir,” said Saruss stoically, handing me three gold coins, “for the red bird.” I accepted the money dumbly, not knowing what to do.
“Iv--” I started but it was too late. He had left the store, bird and all.
That was the last time I would see my son.
Four years later, on another chilly autumn’s day, I saw the most extraordinary sight. There were two objects sailing the sky towards my shop. Two birds, I noticed as they neared. As they came ever closer, my heart skipped a beat and I could not believe my eyes. Flying towards me were two smallish birds, no bigger than finches. One was the dullest black while the other, a crimson red.
It could not be true! And yet, there they were! Ivan’s red clockwork bird…and my Peri! It was a miracle! I could not stop beaming as the two birds landing heavily at my feet. Peri stared at me quizzically while its companion struggled mechanically to rise. With a soft, stuttered twitter, the red bird finally lost its strength and collapsed to the ground, unmoving. It was then I realized - my son was dead.
Peri trilled into the sky, a wistful song of mourning.
3. Springs, gears and bolts
I felt little grief in the many years that followed. I continued on with my life, and my trade, until my body began to betray me. Age crept up on me quickly and soon, I was too old to be of much use anywhere. Almost bedridden and unable to wield a screwdriver, yet I was still making a living. Because of the war, nobody actually constructed clockwork birds anymore. I was perhaps the sole supplier around. Moreover, the miracle of my magical clockwork birds had enticed my customers. Now, my shop is being handled by my neighbor’s daughter, who looks after me while she sells my birds. I spend most of time in bed, reading or writing this journal.
And as I hear my life beating away to inevitable oblivion, I cannot help but write down the many regrets of my life. Of the loves lost. Of the dreams that blinded. Like one of my clockwork birds that which had a soul only as long as its gears lasted, I am an empty being. Yet do not think less of me, do not even pity me, for I am a clockwork bird-maker. I can make dreams take flight. That is enough for one lifetime I think. As I stop writing and attempt to fall asleep this night, I hear Peri’s springs slow down ever so slightly as it prepares itself for another song.
The End
Been spending my time writing for a competition. Here's to fingers crossed!
