Imagine a civilisation so old and so great that its influence today is indistinguishable from the workings of nature. The corpse of their civilisation is the earth on which our own is built…
My people were born from the earth, in the darkness of caves, shielded from the burning Sun. The elders say to be weary of its brilliance, for it cannot be trusted; that the light will beat us back to the earth someday. From dust to dust they say. We’re told to avert our eyes from its piercing rays, for many have gone blind, mad, or worse. I don’t like to disobey my elders and their laws, but I’m a stubborn one. I know I ought not gaze, but there’s something about the way it glows, so glorious, like gold…
Peaking from below the Eastern horizon was the scarlet-blood Sun. It was sunrise. I liked to wake up early so I could witness dawn break. I watched it rise in awe. With it now hovering above the horizon I asked myself: what race of men live in the land of the rising Sun? They must be warriors of terrifying strength to wound it so every night. Bathed in light, in the distance, I could make out a figure. It had to be Bongo, my thickset friend; fat enough he could have blocked even the rising Sun if his mother didn’t force him to fetch firewood in the mornings. Even from afar I could tell Bongo wasn’t carrying much. He would usually carry a mountain of logs on each shoulder. Why then was he empty handed?
Firewood was taken from the scorched bad-lands south of the village. Here the trees were hollow and black yet, we are told, filled with the rays of the Sun. Then it struck me; the figure approached not from the South but the East. I gripped my spear tight. In perfect silence I studied its steps; unlike Bongo’s boisterous bounds, it moved with a clumsy grace. Like a sparrow with one broken wing, I could sense the figure struggling not to touch the ground. This was a stranger in our land. The Sun had now risen further; no longer cast in shadow, I could clearly make the stranger out. My heart trembled…Marching towards our village was a creature whose skin shun brilliant like bronze and whose eyes pierced blue like lightning - a giant metal man!
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Frozen in terror, I was unable to let out a whimper – never mind the tribal war cry needed to alert the other warriors. My petrified soul knew what my lips would never dare to confess: that our entire tribe, armed even with our most sacred iron weapons would be like grasshoppers in its path. Suddenly, it lifted its head and looked straight at me. I felt its gaze close the chasm between us – how could it see me with such piercing vision? With the swiftness of a storm, the creature blitzed towards me. Now arm’s length away, totally paralysed, I cowered in its shadow. The metal giant stood one and a half men tall and shook the ground with a low hum. Its feet were bare, and it wore no loin cloth – no clothing at all. His face – carved like stone, and his expression – terrible, as if bleeding with sorrow. Looking down with those terrible eyes, he spoke; he spoke in a tongue which I understood, saying in a thunderous voice: “I AM THE AUTOMATON OF THE CITY OF GOLD”. Gently it touched my temples, sending a jolt of lightning down my spine. Then the giant collapsed. With a deep rumble it hit the ground face first. On its back were intricate metallic wings and engraved on its nape were strange symbols that read: “ΤΑΛΩΝ”. With this my legs became weak, and my head began to spin. I collapsed onto the ground and fell into a deep sleep.
…
I awoke in a cave. The high elders had taken me up a mountain into their abode. Many gathered around me with expressions of concern. My grandfather, one of the wise ones, made his way through the aged crowd and stood by me.
“My boy, tell me what it said to you”
I told him everything.
“Son, you have been touched by an ancient one…One of the sentinels of the lost city of gold”
Shaka, chief over the northern villages, spoke:
“You talk of those guardians of old; their power was legendary! My men intend to secure the giant so it can never harm this tribe.”
Shaka’s goons had taken the sleeping sentinel deep underground. There he was plotting to reanimate the giant, so it could serve his dark ambition.
…
When all had left, my grandfather remained.
I asked him:
“Grandpa...what is an automaton?”
“My boy, an automaton is a perfect servant.”
“Servant to who grandpa?”
He was silent for a long time. Then with a glint in his eye he said:
“Servant to the will for which it was created.”