Amy Souza and Dominic Mazzilli

Amy Souza

By Dominic Mazzilli
Inspiration piece

“The Tinkerer made the Irons, at least, that’s what everyone says, but I’d reckon it’s the Irons that made the Tinkerer.” –Moor

He arrived without truck or horse, nor did he walk; one day he was simply there. He took residence in the old lighthouse atop the hill. Never seen, he remained in the shadowed background for three long years, a presence without a face. But, then everything changed, as it always does.

It began on an ordinary summer day, perhaps a bit cool, but otherwise, an ordinary day, on which nothing eventful was due to take place, or so everyone thought. Farmer Moor was up early, ready to seize the day, and had started up the hill to the lighthouse, going to receive his newly fixed tractor. It had broken down three days prior and with the town mechanic out, only the Tinkerer, as he would come to be known, had the necessary tools to provide engine work. As he climbed the sparsely grassed incline, he heard a faint whirring from behind the lighthouse. Hopeful it was the muffled sound of his tractor, he increased his speed. As he mounted the hill he paused for a look at the iconic structure. It was old and rickety, an expansive garage at its bottom, it continued up in rusty reds and silver grays, ending after about three floors with a glass square that housed the gas illuminated lantern. It ended in a flourish of decorative metal swirls on an equally rusted pyramid-shaped roof, surely an impressive structure, Moor thought.

Passing an old, sunken truck of a deep red, he strode up to the door somewhat nervously, and knocked thrice, glancing about at the several reddened trucks and tractors scattered on the lawn like a herd of rusting sheep. He wondered just how all these had got here; they were all clearly expired, and most had been gutted for just about everything; engines, tires, axles, scrap, and headlights were missing from most of the strange herd. As he turned his head back, a small click sounded and the door opened to reveal a small man, dressed in dusty brown robes. He had a balding head with gray hair shooting out from the back and sides. Upon a crooked nose sat a pair of green-tinted spectacles.

He walked with a shuffling as he exited without greeting, and took up an ornate metal walking stick with the head of a lion. He motioned for Moor to follow, walking around the side of the house. Moor, figuring his now working tractor was out back, followed after, slowing his usually long stride to match the small steps of the old man. He found it bizarre that such a small man was a mechanic. At least that’s what Moor suspected he was; he didn’t believe the wild stories that this tiny frame belonged to an ancient sorcerer, a madman scientist, a priest of God, or any such story. He believed he was just another that had wandered to May town. Though he did wonder at just how he had traveled the 536 miles across the Waste with no truck or horse to speak of. May town was the only civilization in the Waste, and newcomers were rare. That development was due to that the lighthouse that had once guided everyone through the dense fog covering the land was in disrepair, not to mention all gas stores had run out long ago.

As they rounded the side of the garage the whirring grew louder yet still remained faint, almost inaudible but it filled the ears of Moor undeniably. The old man gestured for Moor to come closer, stating, as Moore remembered: “It will never fail you again, believe me.” I’m not sure anyone would have expected what came out of the scrap piles, but I’m certain no one would forget it.

“And I saw it, a giant of scrap, it rose high and greeted us as a man would, but it was no man, nor was any son of God.”

-Father Mais


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