Beast In The Eye Of - Beast In The Eye Of by Tait Mckenzie

The perspective slouches across the street, seemingly unaware of the traffic lights and horns blaring an angry warning. Is reason absent? On the sidewalk it stops, safe, startled by a sight repeated countless times, on a bank of television monitors in a shop window: Slavering jaws, dark fur ruffling grass, it seems to be a wolf stalking some unfilmed prey, a nature program they call it. Transfixed by this beast instinctively pursuing its fate, blind to the camera’s inquisitive eye, the view resolves in the glass to reveal what looks like a man, mute, intent, leaning into the window with what might be a look, of pity, recognition on its ashen face. If it is a man, you might ask why, despite the hat withering on its brow, the ill-fitting suit, the roughly human frame: a bit slumped in the shoulders but standing upright as man was intended to stand.

But no, despite the feigned slouch, the shoulders are too square, the joints and movements oddly mechanical, the ashen face, though lovingly constructed, was constructed from clay. Reasonable facsimile of humanity, once called a golem, brought to life, as was that of the unfortunate Rabbi Loew, in the alleys and legends of Prague, through a scrap of words placed under a senseless tongue. But what it has become in this age I do not yet know, it is the first of its kind I have seen. Alive, again, but not a man, for then we might be able to read its thoughts, as I was made to read the thoughts of man, but no, perhaps this is too much to ask, of you, just yet.

It leans against the window, is it pity? On the screen a hunter now stalks the wolf, a large knife gripped in his hairy hand. And then the golem turns away, gone from the reflection. Mounted in the golem’s hat, hidden under a mass of feathers in order to not draw attention, is the camera through which we watch, he and I, its view trailing backwards in radio waves to the dingy hovel in which the thing was made, a den no longer fit for most animals, filled with… No, not yet. We will get there soon enough, but first another view. The perspective reels, away from the stone façade, the onslaught of the streets, perhaps terrified to find itself in this new, irreconcilable world. I was also terrified, the fall. It slouches on, occasionally glancing up through the labyrinth of buildings, as if to count what are certainly too few stars. Without reason, they too are fading. Pity, yes, my own?

* * *

A balding and somewhat fattish man, this one really a man, watches the perspective stagger off on his computer screen. He is fascinated by the golem’s reactions, the way it shies away from the cars, as if it expected them at any moment to leap up, like wild beasts, and devour its creaking frame. The den in which the man sits is in ruins, a jumble of broken machines, half-finished creatures made of gears and wires, boxes of circuit boards hulking in the corners, crammed with reams of takeout menus. The Artificer, for that is what he calls himself, having decided, not too long ago, that given names, true names, are nothing but trouble, I’ll allow him this conceit; he is somewhat ashamed by the disrepair around him. Not that he expects guests, no one visits him anymore, not since Tammy left, but he feels that there is something lacking in the inoperative robots, some will-to-power, or at least, a will-to-friendship, as he likes, or longs, to call it. He wouldn’t, for instance, come home, not that he ever leaves, and be greeted, like his dear Bladerunner’s Replicants, by the joyous preprogrammed salutations of his animatronic puppets. No, most of his creations sit unfinished, crowded on the overcrowded shelves, clockwork faces in various states of incompletion like the forgotten household gods of some Boschian mechanic.

The perspective still scours the worn streets, slouching along, past several ladies of the night, they are called prostitutes these days, fallen too from what was once a sacred purpose, clad in scantly ripped skirts and heels. They barely register in the Artificer’s attention, much less that of the golem, which plods along unheeding of their advances. The Artificer sighs, thinks it might think them rare birds, turns in his chair, cracks the lid on a can of Cola, muses at the screen in one of those reveries I find so fascinating in his kind. He is thinking, thoughts he has been reframing for months now, the theme and variations of despair and longing. He is thinking that what he lacks in whimsy he is trying to make up for by innovation in his field. He is thinking of the Institute, of having been the star pupil, unrivaled at the very least in his prostheses, if not everything else, it was surely jealousy on his professors’ parts that he had not been offered the position, that they had forgotten him, let him go, he would show them. And Tammy, always complaining that he would never grow up, always playing with his toys, and yes, damn it, he thinks, I am playing, but it is for science, no, the advancement of human knowledge, capability, whatever, he would show her too, all of them, with his work, this golem thing, as he calls it.

It was these thoughts, calling out from the din, which first grabbed my attention. Perhaps from proximity, we are neighbors, though he does not know it, but certainly I was curious, riveted as always, by an obvious need, a longing for more, than this. I could relate, after so many years, wandering with your name on my lips, proselytizing the empty choirs. But it is not yet, or no longer, my story, only a performance of function, when all else is absent. For me, the watching, for him, a sublime longing, which I cannot let go: his story, his creation. It is all that remains.

The Artificer had all but given up on robotics after the divorce, but then, he met an old man, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, who claimed to have instructions, brought over by his grandfather from the old country, for the construction of a magical man, which, though an ancient practice dating before the Jews, before the Asclepius of Trismegistus, farther back then recorded history allows, was quite new, and worth trying, for a roboticist out of his luck. When I heard the Artificer’s plans, I immediately tracked down the septuagenarian, and listened to his ruminations on the story his father had told him, that had been told by his father before that, of being a small child in a small Bavarian village that was haunted by a witch rumored to live in a castle on the outskirts of the town. The boy had been cajoled by his friends to spend a night in the castle, and had been set upon by one of the wolves that harried the woods in which the castle stood. The jaws were almost at the boy’s throat when suddenly a giant stone hand reached down and flung the beast aside, before scooping the boy up. It was the golem, our golem, though certainly a rougher version in that pre-industrial age, though, as you recall, I was not around then to see it myself, maybe you were though.

In the story the boy and the golem became friends, and the youth would spend his afternoons in the woods trying to teach the golem from his lesson books. He never made it to the castle to meet the witch, who did indeed exist, and had constructed the golem to protect the town, at least until the villagers got word of it and the men destroyed the golem and drove off the witch. The septuagenarian recalled how his great grandfather had taken the tablet on which the golem’s life was inscribed, and had it with him when they were forced to flee the village, for, shortly after, a great war spread through the country, and if only the golem had still been animate, the old man thought, it might have protected them from this fate too. It is a sad tale, and perhaps not all true, no man of stone has ever stopped the wars, but recalling it now gives me some sense of the being’s plight in this age, I understand it all too well, where it is still wandering down the street, seemingly perplexed by everything it encounters. Just look at it now, this is interesting, it has found a man dying in an alleyway, a knife stuck in his chest, howling for help, though no one else is around to hear it. What will it do? Will you watch with me? We are there, on a wing, but no more prayers.

The man’s thoughts are scattered, almost incoherent, more a red flashing than language. There were days, I would have gone down to ease his pain, wrap him up in the memories. Now I watch, we watch, the golem watching the man, who tries to struggle upwards, a red hand stretched out to the golem, who he thinks, at last, is someone, who will offer help. We watch. The golem stands there, watching, and then we kneel down into the victim’s face. We see the beads of sweat running into his eyes, the agony tearing at the corners of his mouth. The Artificer feels sick, but curiosity overpowers, what will it do? Please, the man says, they didn’t take everything, please call 911, what are you doing? A hand reaches out, the golem’s, not stone, no longer, a synthetic clay over a steel frame, but in the dimming light of a flickering streetlight it is still dead as stone. It grips the handle of the knife, and with a quick jerk turns away from the diminishing screams. A flow of red at its misshapen feet, the golem begins to retrace its steps through the city. It brought some kind of peace, not my own, but empathy? We are still left to wonder.

The Artificer is growing tired of this game, he wants to interfere, to hurry the process. He wishes that he had installed another radio transmitter in the golem’s ear so that he could send it commands, but that is not the experiment, control, but isn’t it, always? You would know, it was always your game. A test-run, he calls it, performance optimization, and even with this last scene the machine is running smoothly. The Artificer does not know the story of the golem and the boy, I do not know if he would care, he is more concerned that his latest creation just broke the first of Asimov’s Rules of Robotics. Does harming a man make a machine more than just a well-constructed feat of engineering? The first attempt at creating the golem was botched, the expected form of a hulking clay man seemed too conspicuous, and would not stay in one piece, despite the steel, salvaged from the city’s old industrial warehouses, with which he built its skeleton. He next threw all his roboticist’s know-how at it, constructing a lithe form almost indistinguishable from a man, once clothed.

It is indeed a marvel, he thinks, cracking another soda, a reverie again, I listen. He wants to be more, he doesn’t know what, he wants to make a connection, between that tablet of ancient words under the golem’s tongue, the programmer’s code. Somewhere in there is an answer, to the problem of Artificial Intelligence, he thinks, which keeps desperate demi-scientists up all night on the internets, raving about Moore’s Law and the technological singularity. He recalls a quote, Arthur C. Clarke: any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, he understands the technology of robots, and this, this is actually magic. Ancient, yes, but still unexplored. They would have to take him back now, the Institute, the Army would want a whole platoon. Look how ruthless, no, that’s not what he wanted, wait, maybe they could make sex-bots, a new lifestyle choice for technosexuals, no, not that either, not to be the latest Doctor Frankenstein, a pornographic Pygmalion. Terry why did you leave? No, when was the first, the first moment when, ages ago, was it? It is beautiful. He wanted to be a Gepetto. This far back in his childhood, it is a shame, those boys in the lot, throwing stones, stealing his books. He wanted to show them, to be them. It is a shame, in my eyes, that he did not, that he could not, know this desire, or know how to treat his masterpiece like the friend he had once dreamt of being able to create. This is the moment, I’ve waited for it, I would, I want, to share it with you, as I once did with my kind, with you… are you still there? I, I must act, maybe meet it, be its friend. Like you couldn’t, be mine.

* * *

That night, after the golem returns and is put to sleep, in a corner, with barely more than a grunt in greeting or goodnight, the Artificer lays awake for a long time, the lamp off, and then, just when he thinks the sun should rise, he dreams. A house, home, childhood, that day, no. Moving, the furniture piled in the middle of the rooms, tables, cabinets, jumbled, he wanders among the ruins, looking, afraid of the empty walls. Drawers, looking, everything empty, no, there are photos, toys, his whole life left behind, to rot, even life after that day, before, Terry at the beach, the last time they went out, robots, chipped plastic, what were they called? Atomic Robot Men, they are marching over the photos, out of the drawer. The Artificer, no, he is a child now, he has forgotten his name, he was afraid of them at first, takes a step back, several. It is not the robots, something else, the golem, no, it is after him. He turns, runs, through the rooms, there is a river running across the floor, broken through a wall, he crosses over, into the street. It is Time, at his heels, it is snowing, a church, lit with candles, windows curtained. He bangs at the door, let me in, no one answers, no one is there, anywhere, they forgot him, except me. I am coming. Time, he runs, no one may ever hear him, down an alley draped with crushed velvet, a pile of building blocks, gigantic, he climbs, it is all too much. He is an old man now, collapsing, at last, into his bed, there, there will be safety, but no, look who is coming. It is done.

An angel, clad in white silk, skin, a halo of rainbows over snaking curls, feathers ruffling into the aether, who is she? The Artificer asks the golem. It is mute. I didn’t think I still could. She came down, touched me, here, he touches his forehead. Bring the dream. Oh god, what have I done, I’ve wasted so much time, Terry… please, I command you, find her, my angel. The golem listens, mute, I wonder, we wonder, does it understand? The eyes, painted marbles, watch. The Artificer paces, stares back, shakes his head, becomes irrelevant. I want the drama now, this mute machine, so much promise in a metal skull, redemption? It can tell me so much, mute, slowly, it nods, takes a step, another, is gone. The man collapses into a battered La-Z-Boy and cries. How could it understand? The screen is blank. But I know what I have to do.

The wings spread, it has been so long, I still remember how, the remiges unfurl, into before dawn. I fly, even above the lights, no stars, the city, everything’s illuminated, too much light to see you. But I am here, again, for so long. Below, the city, hands stretch upwards, fingers pointing, shouts, look, an angel! Slowly crowds assemble, scatter, cameras, so many ants in the flood. The air feels good, sharp against the skin, alive, reeling, with you? Somewhere I spot it, the golem, from this height just another huddled figure, but I know, the only man whose mind does not open, before my omniscience, all tremble. The poets once sang odes as I caressed them, it cannot know, what that is like. Beauty becoming terror becoming you. In the days we still could. It doesn’t look up, though I spin and they sing, horror and hosannas. No one to answer their prayers, or mine. Since I fell, my God, are you still watching us? This thing down here, this beast in the eye of, of what? What else do I have to believe in?

They have assembled wired vans, larger cameras, confusion, suddenly, I am a sight, repeated countless times on a bank of television monitors. The golem is there, it sees me, seeing it, it looks up. It is done. I am gone. They do not see me slip, through an open window, into memory, legend, tomorrow’s news. You’ll have your faith yet. But it knows where to go, home, I live in the roof, up endless flights of stairs, from the hovel, a slow climb. I can wait. He’s watching again, silly man, he heard the commotion, finally turned on his computer, he doesn’t matter, but now I can see. Stories, spiraling up, the hand crushing each railing. There must have been some understanding, that it is coming, after me. I wait, steps, the man’s anticipation, time. Was it just on his command? I want to believe, there is more, it was moved, it too wants freedom. God, grant us freedom. It would be a reason left, to believe. Steps, waiting, time. So many centuries waiting, cast in clay, the world, without you. Even clay, metal, matter, must long for the infinite, for embrace. We wait for each step. Do you see us, waiting?

It is at the door, it opens inwards, the golem enters, at last. It is dark, I can no longer bear the light, wondering if you are no longer in it. But I want to see it, it to see me, so, light. The golem is… no, the Artificer gasps, I am, no, I did not know! How awful. I see in his eyes, disgust, a reviling. On the screen, the room lights up to reveal tatters, stained floorboards, a pallet strewn with newspapers and ripped velvet. Another hovel, and I, I. I am not what I once was, no longer that ball of light descended into pure flesh, graceful feathers, the halo, no, that is not what he sees. Here is the bruised skin, the bare remnants of dress, torn, splattered with filth, my wings, what is left of them, oh God, how did I live this? How could you abandon me? The man wants to turn away, cries out, he wanted to woo me, me, this flesh rotting since the moment I came to earth, I am dying, hundreds of years towards the grave.

And the golem? What does it see? Does it see me, like this, the filth, can it know, my pain? It too, wrecked, up close I can finally see, it is not so well made either, the clay falling off to the side, the gears showing through to the light, oh we are in such a state, failing, falling apart. It must know how I feel, it must, the sorrow. No. The golem steps forwards, the knife, in its hands, reflects your light. It steps forwards, offers this, peace. No, the Artificer screams, even with my wearied flesh, he did not want this. Where is control now? The golem steps forward, for me, he said for it to find me, I am beginning to see it. The wolves, it has always had masters, always had commands, always, protects the village, the maker. I almost smile, it is sweet, that it still serves, that it sees me, as, at last, a threat. It is something, is it you? Is this the freedom you offer, a return to your light, your eyes, reflected in the blade? The golem raises its arms, that familiar gesture of thanksgiving, a thousand sacrifices in your name, in your image, with that one movement of mechanical grace. The man will have other toys, but we will have forever. I am coming, my lord, you are coming, it is not dead matter, it is you. I step into your embrace.