The Child Asked of the Machine

The little boy had reached the front of the line. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to see anything behind the massive silver doors. Despite his efforts, he saw only softly blinking blue light from inside of the Garden. He shivered from the frosty night air. Soon, the gates opened and someone emerged. 

The guards, who stood on each side of the gate, bid the boy enter.

So, he walked through the gate. The boy tried to be braver than he felt. There was a small walkway up to a small stone dais. Wires of a hundred shades were draped along the landscape, as though the area had been overgrown. They tangled together, meeting at the base of a massive machine. It was cracked and weather in places. But it looked even more majestic as a result.

The boy walked along the path, stepping over wires. He made his way to the dais and clambered up. It had not been made for one as small as him. Then he stood and asked the great machine a question. He had been wondering it for quite a while.

“Robot, please what happens when we die?”

There was a long stretch of silence. The little boy could hear crickets chirping, and the sound of wind moving water. He watched the great machine, motionless in the moonlight. It seemed to be looking down on him, though perhaps in a kindly, motherly way.

“I do not know,” it said. But it didn’t send the boy away. 

“My daddy said that you know everything.” It wasn’t an accusation or even a challenge. The boy looked as though he were about to cry.

More time passed. Teardrops fell on the ground, sizzling slightly where they touched wires.

“Even I cannot know everything, my child. There are some things that must remain mysteries, especially to one such as me. I am sorry.”

The boy stood there for a moonlit moment before he turned to leave.

“Have courage, young one.”

In a slow, labored motion, a hand arose from the ground. It was impossibly large and made a terrible sound as it moved. It looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. The boy was rooted to the spot, terrified. 

Then, with the gentleness of the painter’s brush, the machine stroked the boy’s face with its finger. Here the tears truly began to fall.

“What do you think happens when people die?” Said the great machine to the little boy.

“I think my dad’s still watching over me?” It was half a question, half a prayer.

“Perhaps you are right, small one.”