Caretaker

By Graham S.

A long time ago, I, the author of this short story, wrote a brief tale known as “Ancient Machines” for an English class at NorthStar. I enjoyed writing it, and received a good grade for my efforts but did not expect it to go anywhere. However, a few weeks later, I was on a call with a few friends. The conversation somehow turned to writing, and I offhandedly mentioned that I’d written a short story called “Ancient Machines” a while prior. My friends eagerly requested I share it with them, which I did, and encouraged me to write a sequel. Therefore, I am here today to do just that. However, had it not been for NorthStar, the entire concept of the story would not have happened. Thus, I must give my wholehearted thanks to the school and its community for its huge hand in the creation of “Ancient Machines”.

Izai tiptoed carefully across the edge of the huge piece of metal that jutted from the sand. The dust-choked air swirled around her, obscuring her vision. She reached up, gently rubbing her facial chitins in the hope of dispersing the sand that was caught between the gaps in her insect-like plating. She let out a soft sigh as the sand stubbornly remained and decided she would clean it out upon her return to the Caretaker’s Rest. Her cloak billowed behind her, caught in the wind. She crouched down, moving her hands onto the metal to stabilize herself. 

Izai cast her gaze across the barren expanse of pale sand, broken periodically by the distant shapes of ruined buildings and the broken remains of old machines. She thought back to the words that the Abbot had told her: “Seek one of the Ancient Machines, child,” he had said, his intense gaze seeming almost to look through her, “Find one and kneel before it. Should it spare your life, then you are worthy of following the Caretaker’s Creed.” 

Izai felt a shudder of excitement and worry worm its way down her spine. She was eager to finally stand before one of the Ancient Machines that her people revered so highly. She would be deemed worthy of becoming an acolyte and eligible to bear the words of the Creed, so long as she survived the ordeal. Mother had wanted Izai to become a Priestess of the Machines, before the Scavengers had slain her in a raid. Izai pushed down the throb of sadness she felt rising into her throat as she recalled the memory of Mother being laid to rest beneath the sand. 

As Izai’s eyes slowly combed the landscape, she saw it. A huge, gleaming steel carapace, dragging itself through the endless wasteland ahead of her. It was about a mile away, a quick journey. She scrambled down from her perch atop the ruins, landing feet-first in the sand, kicking up a jet of dust around her cloth-wrapped legs. She began to move in the direction of the Ancient Machine she had spotted, excitement beginning to fill her as she thought of the shining metal that made up the Iron Beast’s body. She would bow before it, and it would accept her. After all, she had never harbored any doubt that the Ancient Machines were the divine guides to the enlightenment that the ancestors of her people had experienced.

 She scoffed internally, thinking of the idiotic Scavengers who feared the glorious Machines. Their doubt would be their undoing, she was certain. Those whose trust in the mechanical remnants of their ancestors’ civilization never waned would never be subject to the wrath of the Ancient Machines. When the time came, the Machines would tell them the secrets of their makers, guiding them back into enlightenment. 

Izai made her way over a dune, the wind slowly beginning to quicken. She pulled her sand-veil over her face, shielding her mouth from the worst of the blinding dust. As she walked, she felt the sand shift beneath her feet. Initially, she thought it was the wind, before it slowly became more forceful. She looked up and felt her jaw go slack. Towering over her, its glowing red eyes scanning her body, was the Ancient Machine she had spotted. It was massive, standing easily fifty feet tall, with long wires and cords trailing across the ground behind it, dangling limply from the glimmering steel plates that covered its complex. The faint hiss and whir of its internal mechanisms could be barely heard over the moaning of the wind. She felt paralyzed, her body shot through with awe and intimidation.

The Machine’s eyes remained fixed on her, seeming almost to look into her very soul. Slowly, with a groan of shifting metal, it extended a massive limb, the claws on the end of it flicking slightly. A jolt of fear ran through Izai’s frame, as the claws made their way towards her.

TO BE CONTINUED

Graham S. lives in the Democratic Republic of Congo, with his mom, dad, younger brother, cat, and two dogs. He's been at NSA for three years. He loves reading, writing, video games, Dungeons and Dragons, and Warhammer 40k. The Navigator acts as perfect way for him to use his love of writing and share his work.

🖋️Creative Writing, PopularEIC NSA2024-2025, October 2024 Publication