The Question Is...

preface: Here's a short story I wrote to sort of set the tone for a book I'm laying the ground-work to start writing. Most likely, this story won't find its way into the novel...its main purpose was to organize my thoughts (from a jumbled bunch of sentences scribbled on the notepad by my bed at 3am) and sort of dip my feet in the water of this idea. So without further introduction, here's what I came up with...

On the day of his thirteenth birthday, Marley’s parents sent him to the center of town to ask The Machine a question. Despite the fact that he had spent most of the night pondering his question, far too excited for sleep, the boy was full of energy and trepidation. He had been anticipating this particular day since his last birthday, for it was at age thirteen that boys became men, abandoning the irresponsible bliss of childhood to assume the weighty mantle of maturity. Though he might look back on his childhood fondly within a few short years, Marley, like most children, was eager to become an adult due to some misconception on the luxuries of growing older. Yet even as young as fifteen, those who had once been so ready to grow up began realizing their position as prisoners of forward moving time. And in that moment, they would long to take even one step backwards to revisit or revise the past. Marley had heard advice from adults time and time again. “Enjoy your childhood,” they had said. “These are the best days of your life.” Even though every adult he’d ever spoken to had offered such guidance, these requests were something Marley, like every other child in the world, had no intention of honoring.

While he was excited to embrace the shackles of maturity, Marley was concerned. On this day, like every child who came of age, he was permitted to go to the town square and ask The Machine one question to which it would provide a truthful answer. He hadn’t given much thought towards his question until the night before his birthday when the incredible significance of the occasion dawned on him. He was expected to begin a life of his own; to stand on his feet as a man and make a way for himself. A flood of questions filled his mind. What would he do to earn money? Who would he marry? Where would he live? Suddenly, the glamour of turning thirteen lost its allure as the cold water of reality doused any lingering magic the occasion held.

As he lay in bed the night before his thirteenth birthday, Marley thought of a question that would condense all the concerns he was experiencing into a single, concise inquiry. He had felt satisfied, arriving at a conclusive query for The Machine, one whose answer could alleviate all his looming fears and doubts about the onset of manhood. Yet as he left his parents house that morning, question in mind, worry began to assail him once more. This time, his concern was not over the question he would ask, but rather the answer he would receive. For some answers were hard to hear either for profound and painful truth or the ambush of an unexpected answer. Some answers led to further questions and Marley only had the one to spare. What if The Machine offered such an answer? What if the answer was too much to handle? Again, the shallow tide of his confidence began to recede as Marley walked down the cobblestone streets towards the town square.

For as long as anyone could remember, the gaudy golden mess of cogs, gears, and fly wheels had stood in the middle of the city, gazing out at the world through a singular black glass orb set in the center of its frame. It never stirred, never blinked, never turned a wheel or whistled. To an outsider, it could have been a monument to some forgotten achievement or a strange piece of art. To the people of Winrey, it was a lifeline. They called it the Answering Machine or just The Machine for short and for countless generations, it had given perfect and flawless direction to those in need of guidance. Truth be known, the town’s leaders had grown complacent and lazy, relying on The Machine to give them answers in times of need. As a result, Winrey was a burgeoning and thriving metropolis with a strong economy and little crime. This was of course due to the guidance offered by The Machine rather than sound leadership but such trivialities mattered little to Winrey’s citizens or politicians.

The center of town was crowded with businessmen, merchants, and common people milling about. People discussed the affairs of the day, gossiping about local celebrities, recanting plays they had just seen, or postulating passionately about the war. There always seemed to be a war occurring somewhere in the world and Ogima, the nation of which Winrey was a part, was always a participant in some form or fashion. People in Ogima discussed war with a displaced passion; a concern for affairs which they knew affected them on some level, but seemed too distant to really matter. Besides, war had become such a commonplace occurrence that the general populace had grown numb to its impact. As far as everyone was concerned, there would always be fighting. It was as inevitable as bumping into others as one walked down the street in the crowded center of Winrey.

At the end of a street with no name there stood The Machine, ugly and asymmetrical with exposed gears and gaudy ornamentation. Yet as eye-catchingly absurd as it was at first glance, there was something improper and otherworldly about the Answering Machine, as though it belonged to another age or another place in reality. And even as it stood motionless behind a short iron fence, surrounded by the greenery of a park, there was something…organic about it; something conscious. Perhaps it was due to the populace’s long tradition of personifying The Machine as a spiritual being, but as Marley approached the golden gears, he could swear it was watching his every step.

For a few moments, Marley stood at face level with the deep black orb in the center of The Machine’s façade. He had watched as others made their inquiries. He’d heard their questions and seen The Machine’s answers. Their questions were always self-centered and purposeless…what job should I take? Who should I marry? Should I grow grapes or tomatoes this year? The Machine would always answer briefly but truthfully. Blacksmith. Abigail. Grapes. Marley thought about his question once again, repeating it for the hundredth time in his head that day. It seemed so similar now to the questions others had asked before. Even in the context of the profound significance this machine offered to the people around it, all they ever concerned themselves with were questions they could usually answer on their own. Was he no better? Marley glanced over his shoulder to see a small crowd gathering. People were always curious as to what others would ask and when someone his age asked their first question of The Machine, it was a moment of particularly interesting note. Turning back to The Answering Machine, a new question formed in his head. Without thinking, he let the words escape his lips. “Why are you here?”

There were whispers from the crowd as The Machine sat silent for a few moments, Marley’s question still hanging in the air. The whispers turned louder and their notes of quiet wondering turned to strains of great concern as The Machine remained unresponsive. Normally, it answered almost as soon as the question had departed the inquisitor’s lips. Did it have no answer this time? Had Marley asked a question which The Machine was incapable of answering? The worried murmuring of the crowd was suddenly silenced by a chime from The Machine…two haunting notes pierced the air. It had never made such a sound before. White letters rose from the inky blackness of the orb set in the center of the device and Marley leaned in to read them. What met his eyes in the orb was not the answer he had expected. Instead, for the first time in history, his question had been met with another question. “Why am I here?” The Answering Machine asked.