4.26

A clockwork horse, many times too large, loomed above me. Its sides shivered from the stress of the forces building inside, the driving mechanism obscured by thin sheeting. Its eye left a soft light in the hissing steam escaping its nose and mouth. The tail of it stood still, waiting. It had not moved as I approached, and it has not moved as I examined it, circled it, wondering at its purpose and construction. Then, grindingly, ponderously, it moved, bending at angles too subtle for a horse, it shifted angle, straining against its own weight, and powerfully pushed away at the ground, nearly leaping down the road. There was no reason I could see why it should move now, or why it had stood before. The place where it had stood was now buckled and rent, as though a thin skin on top of the earth had been overcome, torn, as though the hoof itself had not cut through the surface, but rather the power of the step had surprised the earth and the stone and soil itself had reacted too slowly. I turned to watch the horse steam away.

Who made it?