It was a sweltering afternoon, and the heat had put everyone in a bad mood. Roz was standing in the shade watching her son out on the water. The other goslings were teasing him about something when they suddenly burst into laughter, and Brightbill turned and hurried home with a stormy expression on his face. He stomped into the garden and right past his mother without saying a word.
“What is wrong, Brightbill?” said Roz as she followed her son into the Nest.
“Nothing!” he squawked. “Leave me alone!”
“Tell me what is wrong.”
“I don’t want to talk about it!”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Mama, the other goslings were making fun of me.”
“What did they say?”
“They called you a monster and then laughed at me for having a monster mother.”
“They should know by now that I am not a monster. Would you like me to talk to them?”
“No! Don’t do that! That’ll just make things worse.”
The robot sat next to her son.
“Mama, I know you’re a robot. But I don’t understand what a robot is.”
“A robot is a machine. I was not born. I was built.”
“Who built you?”
“I do not know. I do not remember being built. My very first memory is waking up on the northern shore of this island.”
“Were you smaller back then?” said the gosling.
“No, I have always been this size.” Roz looked down at her weathered body. “However, I used to be shiny, like the surface of the pond. I used to stand straighter than a tree trunk. I used to speak a different language. I have not grown bigger, but I have changed very much.”
The robot wanted to explain things to her son, but the truth was that she understood very little about herself. It was a mystery how she had come to life on the rocky shore. It was a mystery why her computer brain knew certain things but not others. She tried to answer Brightbill’s questions, but her answers only left him more confused.
“What do you mean, you’re not alive?” squawked Brightbill.
“It is true,” said Roz. “I am not an animal. I do not eat or breathe. I am not alive.”
“You move and talk and think, Mama. You’re definitely alive.”
It was impossible for such a young goose to understand technical things like computer brains and batteries and machines. The gosling was much better at understanding natural things like islands and forests and parents.
Parents. The word suddenly left Brightbill feeling uneasy. “You’re not my real mother, are you?”
“There are many kinds of mothers,” said the robot. “Some mothers spend their whole lives caring for their young. Some lay eggs and immediately abandon them. Some care for the offspring of other mothers. I have tried to act like your mother, but no, I am not your birth mother.”
“Do you know what happened to my birth mother?”
Roz told Brightbill about that fateful day in spring. About how the rocks had fallen and only one egg had survived. About how she’d put the egg in a nest and carried it away. About how she’d watched over the egg until a tiny gosling hatched. Brightbill listened carefully until she finished.
“Should I stop calling you Mama?” said the gosling.
“I will still act like your mother, no matter what you call me,” said the robot.
“I think I’ll keep calling you Mama.”
“I think I will keep calling you son.”
“We’re a strange family,” said Brightbill, with a little smile. “But I kind of like it that way.”
“Me too,” said Roz.