Nandroid Witchhunt II

	The clack of her little needles, furiously dashing against each other as the fire popped and crackled, timed out the last hours of dusklight from outside. Now pitch black outside she arose once more to peep in on her master, busy at work at the little workshop he’d made in the room adjacent to his bed. He sat, hunched over his work table, fiddling with a tiny brass box. Inside was a jungle of little clockwork gears, and the man was vigorously rubbing a lodestone along a thin silver needle before placing it in the delicate glass face of the box.
	“Ready for bed, sir?” The man jumped, jostling the box slightly, the needle responding in turn; it spun wildly before pointing well away from the robot and her owner.
	“Yes, Prudence,” the man sighed. “Seems this won’t be working in time for Mister Jeduthan.”
	“Is there anything I can do to help, sir?” The man sighed just a little before steadying himself, having to remind himself impatience was not a vice Quakers took to.
	“Not as of now, dear. Here, I’ll wind you down.” Standing up and stretching his back he spun the little robot around, gently removing the jacket from her back and exposing the little brass door on her upper torso. Popping it open with a fingernail he slowly unwound the spring-bound tension which powered all of his creations and drove the artificial mind inside the little maid. Her eyelids grew heavy, her voice slackening with fatigue as she slowly lost her balance.
	“Good night, sir,” she whispered before slumping backwards into his waiting arms. With the last clicking spins of a cog here, or the groaning halt of a tensened wire, she fell into sleep. He hefted her up before laying her gently in a corner of the workshop - she refused any decadent comforts like a bed or even a cot. Setting her limp form down for the night the man retreated to his own bed, shedding the last layers of hefty woolen clothing and slipping into his nightwear. A tug at a handy string and the lights were extinguished, the little mechanical arm still stoking the fire.


	Come morning, a curt knocking sounded at the door. The room was just lightening, the early morning hour still ungodly by any normal man’s definition. Stretching and contorting as the knocking continued, the man slapped his hand around for his spectacles. Finding purchase he stared blinking into the dark as he set the lights back on. He made his way for the workshop and wound up the little robot again, ‘waking’ her from another night of dreamless slumber. Making his way for the door, the knocker evidently satisfied with the lightening home, the man pulled on his heavy overcoat before finally swinging it open.
	“Ah, Mister Aldham! Good morning,” the visitor said. The genial pastor clapped a hand on the shoulder of the Quaker inventor, a pair of tired eyes his only response. “Yes, well, I apologize for the earliness of my visit but I must be on my way for Salem, yes?”
	“Of course,” the man yawned. “But I must apologize - there’s nothing here for you, unfortunately.”
	“I-How do you mean?” The pastor’s face narrowed just slightly; he wasn’t used to the inventor slipping up or failing when he needed him. Stepping aside the Quaker gestured for the man to enter, but was left waiting as the pastor simply wrung his hands anxiously.
	“I- I don’t believe I’ve the will nor constitution to go in, friend. Please just bring me what you’ve made.” The inventor rolled his eyes before retreating back into the home, just hearing the whispered prayers and appeals to God as he left the pastor. Falling back to his workshop he seized upon the little device which had, for a week now, eluded and frustrated him at every turn. The instant he felt it was working, it’s little needle eeking out a faint direction towards himself or the town, it would crackle and spin out. Sighing he picked up his latest failure, glancing at the little robot still scrunched in the corner, her machinery whirring gently, the lag of sleep still just too much. As he left the workshop, however, the clicking and whirring was drowned out by the robotic yawn, the bellow working itself as she roused herself. No longer lazing on the floor the little maid saw her master with his latest work in hand and sprung up with excitement.
	“Oh sir, is the pastor here!? Come to visit?” She leaped up behind her creator, giddy at the prospect of being able to ask Jeduthan about the faith *in person*, a luxury she’d never had before. The man was less than thrilled, though, taking a deep breath before turning to address her.
	“He’s here, but he’s,” he paused, searching for an answer and cursing himself at the same time. “He’s terribly busy and must be on his way, okay Prudence?” Her enthusiasm waned as she’d received the same answer she’d always gotten whenever Jeduthan was around. She knew better than to doubt her owner but there was a nagging, persistent want to meet the person who’d shaped her so much, at least when she was first made. But sentiments had hardened between the townsfolk and the Quaker roboticist, and the pastor was loath to go against them. The man briefly patted the shoulder of the robot before returning to the door, box in hand.
	“Well, here it is,” he began. “I’m sorry to sa-”
	“Does it work? Listen, man - the things I’m hearing from Salem are dire, dire indeed. What you promised me was an out, something to save that town and all those souls. So - does it work,” he said, the emphasis biting through.
	“Well, Mister Jeduthan,” the man started, gently shaking the box. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but you see-” He stopped again, the eyes of the pastor wide, mouth agape. Aldham turned around to see a flutter of black cloth at the door’s edge, the peeping robot disappeared as the pastor relapsed into muttering prayers for salvation, his own fears no longer subdued. Aldham was torn between the impulse to chase after the robot, to comfort the pastor and have him be on his way, or (it was certainly tempting) to shut the door and retract from the world. He took a much needed breath before clapping the pastor back to attention, explaining bluntly that the machine wouldn’t work.
	“I-You-Control your… your *machine*,” he spat. “You promise me the end to witchcraft in Salem, perhaps the whole of the Bay, and give me a-a-a *trinket* like this!?” Even in the pallid light and frigid cold of Autumn the man’s white face floundered in deepening red, customs of modesty and temperance dissolving as he fumed internally. His lip twitched with the same righteous fury he would lay down during mass, years of distant if amicable relations melting for no apparent reason.
	“Damn you, man! Damn you,” he yelled, a murder of crows fluttering away. He thrashed in place before continuing. “I give you one job, keep the townsfolk from lynching you, and you can’t even summon the effort to save this land from Satan! I tried, I did, with you and your soulless husk in there! But no - no, no, no, you’re limp-handed ‘God in every man’ faith has killed us. You’ve put the knife in our back, Aldham.” The man stomped away down the trail to town, silence creeping back into the desolate wood once again. The crows hopped around in the bare garden adjacent the home. Aldham rested his arm on the door’s lintel before shutting it behind him, retreating indoors once again. There was no time for mass today, only work and preparation.
	As he stepped back inside, the rush of cold air stemmed once again, he spied Prudence sitting in her spot at the fireplace. She was still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring off at the wall.
	“Sir, I’m-”
	“Not now, Prudence,” the man started. He sighed, cursing himself just a little more for his idiocy, his carelessness. “It’s not your fault, just know that much. The prejudice of men isn’t the fault of its victims.” He stepped forward past the silent, stuttering robot into his workshop, shutting the door behind him - he’d only have so much time now to make it work. In the room beyond Prudence ached for the comfort of what she knew, but the greatest authority in her life had just damned her maker to Hell. All she could do was frantically dash her knitting needles together and pray for some deliverance in Salem, an exoneration of intent for her owner.