Meet the Luminaries: Bunson

Bunson, Machina Sniper. Art by Raphael Ferreira Braga.

Matthias couldn’t say with any certainty how long he’d been trapped on the bitter glacier. One minute he’d been traveling the Road, and the thought had crossed his mind that an icy cold glass of water would be greatly appreciated to rinse the dust of travel from his mouth. The next thing he knew, his wagon had ground to a halt in a snowy drift, one rear wheel hanging above a bottomless chasm where the only things visible were an endless wall of ice, and snow whirling in angry winds.

Since that time, Matthias had managed to secure his wagon on snow-drenched ice ledge, and block the worst of the wind by converting spare blankets into curtains and insulation to seal the wagon’s canvas-covered interior. The rapidoxes that once pulled his wagon had frozen to death some time ago, unable to withstand the gelid nights in the Aspect of Ice. Matthias’s only company was the old pot-belly stove in the back of the wagon, whose now-meager flame was fed by scraps of old books and pieces of the very wagon in which Matthias sheltered.

“Well, old friend,” Matthias began, as he had on so many other occasions, “I suspect that this is the end of our adventures. Stuck here on this frozen ledge until the only thing left to eat is my boots, and then a slow death by frostbite. ‘Tis a sad fate and one I’d not wish anyone.”

“Then it simply won’t do for it to befall you, my friend.”

Matthias sat in quiet contemplation, certain he had imagined the response. Certain, that is, until the stove stood up on a pair of humanoid legs and wrapped one of the few remaining blankets around Matthias’s shoulders!

“Uh-wha? Buhjehbwawho?”

Matthias was aware of the fact that the sounds coming out of his mouth could not rightly be called words, but found himself bereft of anything better to say when confronted with the unexpected reality of his furniture walking and talking.

“Tst,” the sound the living stove made may have been a gentle exclamation of concern, or a drop of condensation landing upon its heated surface. “We have surely been here too long, my friend. I think I shall take us home.”

Matthias could do little more than stare, wide-eyed, as the stove that had been his only source of heat for unnumbered days calmly tore the blankets covering the interior of the wagon down and swaddled him in them before forming a harness out of rope and canvas.

“I shall carry you, my friend, but be careful not to touch me, as I am quite hot!”

With that simple warning, Matthias found himself carried down the glacier, strapped to the back of his friend, the stove. The stove drove its fingers (“It has fingers!” Matthias marveled) into the icy face of the glacier, creating handholds for itself that would almost certainly have been to slippery for human hands to grasp as it carried its friend towards home.

As the ice and snow faded behind them and the dusty bricks of the Road appeared beneath the stove’s feet, Matthias bade his companion to set him down so that they could walk side by side.

“Tell me, friend, what am I to call you? It seems improper to call you ‘stove’ and when we reach the City there will be many friends about us.”

Though the stove lacked a neck, or even much of a head to speak of, Matthias was certain that the change in its posture was the equivalent of a man cocking his head quizzically. It tapped its stovepipe for a moment, and then frowned and carefully removed the entire pipe apparatus from atop its body. Etched into the base of the pipe was the name of the smith who had forged it, though Matthias was not sure if his friend knew that such was what the words represented.

“You may call me Bunson,” the stove said, tapping the word and bobbling in satisfaction.

Bunson tucked the pipe under their arm as they continued to walk with Matthias. Overhead, a pair of birds circled each other warily in the midday sky, perhaps in romance or perhaps in warning to each other.

“Tell me, Matthias,” Bunson asked, “what are those?”

Matthias shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked up.

“Pigeons, I believe. They are dear birds found throughout the City, carrying our messages too and fro to save our legs the effort.”

“They are beautiful” Bunson said in quiet response. “Tell me, do you think one might carry messages for me?”

“Bunson, you magnificent creature,” Matthias grinned in response, “when we reach the City I shall build you a loft and stock it with pigeons myself!”

Matthias was true to his word, and Bunson became the owner of a beautiful pigeon loft. Matthias and Bunson remained close friends for many years, though as Matthias grayed and stooped, Bunson remained unchanged. Eventually Matthias passed from the Dream, and his family joyfully celebrated the life he had shared with them. Bunson was given a place of honor in that gathering, cheerfully telling stories of the adventures they had shared with Matthias, and sitting in peaceful calm as Matthias’s grandchildren toasted marshmallows over Bunson’s stovetop.

Bunson’s stove pipe never fit quite right upon their body again, and as the call of the Dream began to fill their thoughts, Bunson had the pipe reforged by a local smith into a proper long gun with which they could defend themselves from hostile dream creatures. It became Bunson’s habit to delve beyond the City gates, sometimes in the company of other delvers and sometimes with no company beyond their favorite pigeon. Bunson never told anyone what they were looking for, and the gentle machina’s thoughts never caused an expedition to stray from their chosen course. But deep inside, Bunson suspected that if Matthias had passed from the Dream, then their old friend must be somewhere else out there, beyond the edges of what was known. Just as Matthias had found the Aspect of Ice without knowing it existed, Bunson hoped that one day he might find some distant unknown Aspect where his old friend now traveled, and the two of them might once again find peace and comfort in each other’s company.