Prudence and the Leeds Devil II

---II---


	That new road that had breathed so much life into the dismal little hamlet wasn’t exactly the finest. Rough, brutal cobblestones bounced the man on his rear every few yards, an irritating ache running up his spine with each successive jump. Shaking it off he worried for the narrow little person at his right, each bump nearly throwing her from the carriage or jostling some as-yet-unknown component irreparably. Yanking his horse to a halt he secured his charge with a loop of rope, her limp body properly secured. Humping it down the road towards Pennsylvania, back sorer by the minute, he prayed she was still in some shape to be repaired.
	A few days more and he returned ragged and sore, but in one piece, to Philadelphia, to home. The city steamed and fumed with activity and liveliness, a far cry from the humble, shivering towns northward. Boston was certainly a nice visit but not a place to settle down he mused, the climate would never agree with him. Home was here, home was the broad avenues and grassy commons about the city, the sparse scaffolding where the new state house was being built. He’d like to see it done some day, to see his papers and books piled high at some well-lit desk of authority. But that was the future, far off and obscure. For today he had to worry about the delicate machine lying asleep next to him, and the increasing frequency of stares she was attracting. Down an alleyway and away into some warm corner of the city he made way for his humble printshop, a fittingly small chain of rooms sitting atop the store. Dismounting triumphantly he carried the miserable construct over his shoulder, the odd apprentice carrying the rest in after him.
	“Is there anything else Master Franklin?” Half turning the young man smiled, grinning at one of his aides.
	“No, Thomas, I don’t believe so. Ah, wait! Any word from Mister Leeds on his almanac?”
	“No, sir, sorry.”
	“No trouble, no trouble- we can hold the Poor Richard’s for a spell. In the meantime though,” he gestured at the load over his back, “I will be busy. You’re in command Thomas.”
	“Understood sir!” The gentleman retreated upstairs to his personal dwelling and study, slipping past his messy bedroom and into his personal workshop. In the space was the gentle hum of clockwork ticking down amid the scattered, scintillating brass plates and hunks he worked with. Clearing a space with his free arm he laid the lady down, a rattling inside spooking him. It was likely a futile effort, he lamented, but by God he would try to resurrect her. Gently he stripped her of her still-chilly clothing, years of idle sleep leaving them as untouched as the day they were torn.
	“Must’ve been a bear that got her,” the man sniffed. Shoving his spectacles back up his nose he splayed the nude, wooden form apart, analyzing each fragile detail of her aged panelling. Running her limbs in his hands he observed the perfect, soundless run of her joints, mute save for the sickening rattle of her injured mechanisms. Looking her up and down he spied the checkerboard patterning of her old and new panelling, the grim contrast of original and refurbished plating revealing the extent of the damage. Her chestplate popped off, he could finally examine the damage in full, fingers worming around for purchase and structure. The realization came, seeing the splinters of wood wedged between cogs and the animalistic tear through her bellows, that no bear did this. Should she wake up there’d be questions aplenty, an increasingly scant reality as his fingers flipped dislocated gears over each other and were cut by un-sprung wires.
	Sighing, he rose from his place sitting beside her, ambling around the workshop for some spark of inspiration, some hint of direction amid the messy brass gore spilling out onto the workbench. Staring back at the glimmering mess he pieced together a list of tasks to guess at, settling down to a side bench to work new springs together while he thought. There was the matter of realigning the gears inside, another matter of guesswork without her creator or a schematic to work with, the replacing of the narrow struts holding her torso together, and the grim and daunting matter of what lay in her head. Finished with his spring making, satisfied with the pull and jump of them, he returned to the robot. The Sun had disappeared hours ago, whimpering candlelight the only thing guiding his hands in again. It was an easy enough task, plucking out the stray, snapped wires. Deftly knocking some hooks in place he spanned her new springs across the short gap, raring to stretch and pull soon enough. Dusting his hands off he retreated to bed for the night, the arduous task of correcting the jumble of gears and levers inside waiting for tomorrow.

	Morning again he strolled through the printshop first, the inky remnants of last night’s shift neatly organized and prepared for the day. Thomas would be here soon to open up, the young boy eagerly jamming the key into the door and whipping the shop into a more perfect order. Retreating back to his home upstairs, past the bed and study, he threw open the workshop doors. Breathing deep he was filled with the gnawing spirit of invention, fingers wiggling in excitement to return to work at the automaton’s side. He slid over to one of his simpler machines, a winding key awaking a twittering bird that hopped in circles on the windowsill. Glasses straightened again, he called out a composer’s name and piece, the bird shifting with a heavy grinding to a more melodious tune. Twinkling music filled the room as he stood over her open chest cavity, a gruesome mess of gears tumbling outward.
	“Right... To work, I suppose,” he mumbled. The tangled wheels inside befuddled him utterly, the last night spent plucking the loose ones away doing little to ease his confusion. Now the mess inside was neater, yet still just as enigmatic.
	“Let’s try… this?” He tugged gently at one of the spring’s he’d replaced, pulling it up its furrow towards a small lock. Snapped into place it sat, taught and trembling, waiting for release. He plumbed a finger in to test the tension as it flew down again, smashing on his fingertip with a snap. He ripped his hand back, waving the throbbing finger in the air as he hollered aloud, the gentle tinkling notes drowned in his fury.
	“Are you alright Master Franklin,” a young voice yelled up.
	“Fine, Thomas! Fine!” The man whipped his hand to and fro, blowing and wincing. “This better be worth it…” Diving back in he gently pulled the spring back again, watching it track down, guided by his hand. It spun a singular, central gear uselessly. Missing its siblings the cog would only whir and stir the air. Holding one of the toothy brass discs in the air he set to work mixing and matching, the painstaking puzzle crumbling each time he tried to draw the spring and stir the machine to life. Sun setting again, the chirping trinket long since quiet and his apprentices homeward bound after another day of work, he held his head in his hands. The manic swapping and brute-forcing had yielded nothing to show in success. Pounding the table with his hands he committed to a final attempt. Slipping each of the gears into a new place, maintaining those that clicked right and switching those that didn’t he gave it a last try. Pulling each of the springs to attention he pressed the latch (another discovery of his) to release them simultaneously. There was a catch, a halting to their rapid release. Caught syrupy and slow they slid imperceptibly down, gears climbing to life as they finally found purchase on their neighbors and ground together.
	“Yes, yes,” he pleaded, life returning to his tired eyes. “Please! *Please*!” Begging, the machine ground out a gentle, clockwork hum as the robot’s inside climbed to activity again. Surprise draining from his face once again there was no sleepy stirring of her face, no gentle flick of her eyelashes or confused awakening. Sighing, he left the huddled workshop in defeat, extinguishing the last candles and abandoning the little machine to her silent, ticking slumber.