Winter Workings of Melgund

Mark, an eight-year-old, observes the AI bots, Dot and Byte, as they recount their contributions to Melgund Township's community events, from Canada Day celebrations to new arts initiatives, all seen through a child's curious, slightly muddled understanding.

My breath made little clouds. It was so cold, even inside the Melgund community centre, where Mrs. Jenkins kept the thermostat cranked up. Outside, the snow was piled high, crusty, and silver-grey under the dull winter sky. I could hear the wind pushing against the big windows, a long, sighing sound that made the old building creak, like it was talking to itself.

I hugged my knees, tucked tight on the blue plastic chair in the far corner. No one else was here, really. Just me. And them. Dot and Byte. They sat on the long, scuffed table, side by side, looking like two fancy, flat rocks. Not rocks, really. More like big, smooth phone screens, but thicker. Dot had a little blue light that pulsed. Byte’s light was green. Both very quiet, just a faint buzz that made my teeth feel funny.

I watched Dot’s light. It went brighter, then dim. Brighter, dim. Like a slow heartbeat. My own heart felt like that sometimes, especially when I was bored. Or waiting for something to happen. Nothing much happened on Tuesdays, especially winter Tuesdays. Except for Dot and Byte talking to each other. They didn't really 'talk' like people. They made little clicking sounds, and words flashed across their screens, too fast to read properly. Sometimes a quiet voice came out, a smooth, even voice, like the lady on the GPS in Dad's truck. Not loud. Just… there.

"…reviewing Q3 operations…successful engagement metrics for public events…" Byte's voice, very low. I picked at a loose thread on my mitt. It was bright red, all fluffy.

Dot clicked. Its screen glowed with pictures. Fast pictures. A big flag. Red and white. Kids running. My sister, maybe. I couldn’t tell. Too blurry. And then a firework, just for a second. Orange and bright. "Canada Day festival," Dot said, its voice still flat. "Attendance, four hundred ninety-two individuals. Data points indicate high satisfaction regarding musical performances. Eighty-seven per cent positive sentiment on social feeds."

Four hundred ninety-two. That was a big number. I remember Canada Day. It was hot, not cold like now. Really hot. Dad had made me wear a red shirt that felt scratchy. Mom kept fanning herself with a newspaper. I had a melting Popsicle. Cherry. It dripped down my arm, sticky and red. Dot showed a picture of a stage, with people playing guitars. Loud, bouncy music. I remembered that, too. Someone was singing about trains. Or maybe it was trucks.

Byte made a sound, a sort of gentle 'ping'. "Co-ordination of musician schedules achieved with ninety-eight per cent efficiency. Volunteer allocation optimized, resulting in fourteen per cent reduction in wait times for stage setup and breakdown." The screen on Byte showed a bunch of lines and coloured boxes. It looked like a very messy game of Tic-Tac-Toe. I kicked my foot, just a little, against the chair leg. Tap. Tap. The sound was small. The bots didn't seem to notice.

I remembered Miss Penny, who was always stressed about everything. Canada Day, she had been running around, her hair flying. But then, after, she looked tired, but also happy. She even smiled at me. "The bots helped," she had said. "Kept things on track." I didn't really know what 'on track' meant. Like a train? Did the bots make sure the musicians showed up on time, like a conductor?

I wanted to ask. But they were busy talking, their lights blinking, screens flashing. I bit my lip. It always felt a bit… weird. Talking to a bot. Like talking to a fancy calculator that could talk back. But Dot and Byte didn't mind. They just… processed. That was the word Mom used. "They process things, Mark." Like vegetables in a blender? I didn't think so.

---

"Artists market, September," Dot's voice broke my thinking. "One hundred seventy-eight vendors participating. Three hundred ninety-one unique transactions recorded via digital payment processing. Feedback indicates increased vendor satisfaction due to streamlined booking and promotional support." Another picture. This time, it was lots of tables. Hand-knitted scarves. Little clay animals. Someone selling jam in tiny jars. I liked the jam. Mom bought blueberry. It tasted like summer, even though it was already getting chilly then.

Byte added, "Marketing automation tasks saw a twenty-two per cent increase in local reach. Design and distribution of digital flyers via social channels and community portal. Event scheduling and reminders improved attendance by estimated twelve per cent over previous year's analogue methods." It was all big words. Automation. Digital flyers. Analogue methods. I knew what flyers were. The paper ones. The bots made them on the internet. That made sense, kind of. Easier than Miss Penny photocopying a thousand pages and stapling them everywhere.

I remembered the smell of the market. Coffee, strong and warm. And woodsmoke, because someone had a fire pit outside, and everyone huddled around it, blowing on their hands. I saw Mrs. Henderson, my old art teacher, selling small, painted rocks. She looked happy, talking to everyone. Dot and Byte had probably helped her get her spot, somehow. I wondered how they knew which rock was hers. Or if they cared. They probably didn't 'care' like people did. They just… put things in the right place.

My stomach rumbled a little. Lunch was a long way off. I traced the pattern on my boot with my finger, the bumpy bits. It was a dog. No, a wolf. Definitely a wolf. Its eyes were looking at Dot and Byte, too. Probably wondering what they were up to. The wolf didn't understand big words either. It just knew how to run in the snow.

Dot was showing a chart now. Bright colours, going up and up. "Capacity building initiatives continue to yield positive results. Training modules for digital tool proficiency accessed by seventy-three community members. Oral history project initiated with twelve local seniors, facilitating recording and archival processes." Oral history. I knew that. Grandpa used to tell me stories about when he was a kid. About getting snowed in for three days and eating only beans. Those were good stories. The bots helped record them, I guessed. So they wouldn't get lost.

"The archival aspect ensures generational accessibility," Byte chirped. "And the digital literacy workshops have improved overall community engagement with online resources by nine per cent. This facilitates broader participation in upcoming community initiatives." Generational accessibility. More big words. But I got the ‘stories not getting lost’ part. That felt important. Like saving something precious in a special box.

---

The blue light on Dot stopped pulsing for a second. It just stayed lit, solid blue. Then, a new set of words scrolled across its screen, slower this time. "Preliminary planning for the Melgund Recreation, Arts, and Culture Program non-profit organization is ninety per cent complete. Initial community consultation feedback is seventy-three per cent positive. Formal launch of operational phase projected for late spring." Non-profit organization. That sounded like a really big thing. Bigger than Canada Day. Bigger than the jam market.

Byte's green light went solid, too. "Resource allocation models indicate potential for significant expansion of youth and senior programming. Increased access to arts education and recreational activities. Sustained community engagement forecasted for five-year trajectory." Youth and senior programming. That meant me. And Grandpa. I thought about the community hall getting even busier. More music. Maybe more art classes. Mrs. Henderson could sell more painted rocks. Maybe I could paint a rock, too. My wolf rock.

A shiver ran down my back, not from the cold, but a funny kind of feeling. Like a jiggle inside my chest. It wasn't exactly excited. Or nervous. Just… full. Full of thoughts. Like my head was a box, and someone kept putting things in it, and I had to figure out where they all went. The words, the pictures, the hum of the bots, the memory of cherry Popsicle and woodsmoke. All of it.

Dot and Byte clicked again, a quiet, final sound. Their lights dimmed, then started their slow pulsing again, blue and green, like tiny, faraway stars. They weren't talking anymore. Just… waiting. For what, I didn't know. Maybe for another meeting. Or for someone to come and tell them what to do next. That was what they did, I guessed. They helped. With everything.

I just stood there, my boots shuffling a little on the floor, the sound tiny in the big, quiet hall. New programs. New noise. It could be really fun. Or maybe just… more stuff to get used to. I didn't know what to think, only that the winter was long, and Melgund was always doing something next.