Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  The village padre stood holding a cross over the bodies as the ice wind flapped at his robes. He had cuts, and an injured arm held up in a sling around his neck.

  ‘Let us pray,’ he said softly.

  The sobbing villagers followed his lead.

  ‘Our Mother, who art on Terra, bless these poor souls laying now before you, the terrorist attack on our village by the Brotherhood.’

  Baxter opened his eyes and looked at the others in the square, their heads plunged in supplication. The Brotherhood, Baxter thought. Why attack the village? His father leaving as he did, the arrival of the stranger and the attack – there was a connection, he was sure of it.

  Next to him Tabitha sat crouched, comforting a girl crying out for her mother. Baxter closed his eyes in remembrance when a voice shot across from the opposite side of the square. ‘Nightingale bastards!’

  The padre stopped, looked over to the direction of the shouting, then continued.

  At the end of the service, Baxter walked between each body and inspected their faces. Tabitha still comforted the girl. Some of the bodies had burns, with open wounds having the brightest red Baxter had ever seen. Some of the men’s faces were too grotesque to stomach, eyes and noses missing, taken clean off; some covered in blood, others burned so badly they could have been limbs replaced by briskets of roasted beef, they didn’t look human. He walked back to Tabitha.

  ‘Any luck?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t look for me, I’ve checked all of them.’ He held a handkerchief to his mouth and nose. ‘Neither my uncle nor the stranger from the city are there.’

  She put her hand on Baxter’s knee, as he stared at a group of men building the funeral pyre. ‘It’s a good thing your uncle isn’t there, Bax, if he’s not in the stable and not here then there’s hope he’s gone after your father.’

  ‘But why leave me, here?’

  ‘Maybe he thought you could take care of things here without them?’

  She was right, he thought, had his uncle left it would surely be to grab his father and bring him back to the village. He certainly wouldn’t have left him alone. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The man, the stranger. Those things were after him, not my family.’

  An older couple waddled over. Both had little sign of injuries; it was John Scaling and his wife.

  ‘Your father did this!’ John’s wife pointed at Baxter, her arm shaking.

  ‘Now Helen,’ John tried to calm her.

  ‘Get Jessica away from him, Tabitha, leave this scumbag alone.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with him.’ Tabitha stood up next to Baxter.

  ‘You might have fooled the other villagers and your little girlfriend – we’ve always known who you lot are! Now go back to the inferno, where you lot belong.’

  ‘See what I mean, Tabs,’ Baxter said.

  ‘You think we’re just simple folk out here. Her Father,’ the old woman pointed at Tabitha, ‘he was an airman, and he warned us all when you lot first came here, told us your story, what you lot did to them poor city folk.’

  ‘What story?’ Baxter rushed forward, the husband John stepped in between them.

  ‘Helen, enough – apologises, Master Beechcroft, for her outburst, but if you respect this village you’ll go back to your manor. We don’t need you here and we especially don’t need your grief. Good evening.’ John took hold of his wife and eased her back over to the other villagers.

  Baxter slowly moved away from Tabitha. She had hold of his wrist, he worked against it, got loose and ran back to his mother’s empty house.

  ‘Huh, see,’ Helen said, from over the top of her scarf. ‘If he didn’t have anything to be so ashamed of, why run?’

  ‘Baxter, wait!’ Tabitha collected her skirt and hurried after him.

  V

  Tabitha stormed into Baxter’s quarters. ‘I need this evening to tell mother. At daybreak, I’ll come with you, to help find them.’ Her voice sounded different, a buzzing, he could hear from somewhere.

  Before he could respond, a commotion of mechanics clunked and pitched, gained volume from the sky outside. Baxter recognised it. He grabbed her. ‘Get down!’ he cried, ‘under the table.’

  The sound grew brasher like a mortar as it hurtled toward the house. A dark object smashed through the glass, scattered across the polished wooden floorboards of his quarters. Baxter peered behind his arm guarding his face as the Clockwork Orb rolled along the ground and hit the bookcase. Several books fell on top of it. The engine pneumatics calmed their commotion and finally stopped.

  ‘What’s it doing here? Bax, is this? Were they? – Oh god, they were right!’ Tabitha stood bolt upright and ran to the door, it wouldn’t open, she wedged her back against the wall, ‘It is you, your family, you’re from the Brotherhood.’ She grabbed a nearby spanner and thrust it at him. ‘Stay back,’ she screamed. He grabbed and spun her to the floor. ‘Tabitha, relax.’ His voice calmed. ‘I found it, out in the marshes.’

  ‘It killed my father.’ She wiggled away from him and elbowed his stomach.

  He let go of her. ‘No, it didn’t. I made this to protect us. It chased the others away. I modified it, look, it’s harmless, watch this…’

  Baxter got up and carefully removed each of the books. Aware he might appear hesitant, he cleared them from the top with swipes of his hands, stood over the drone, legs shoulder width apart, and said, ‘Drone, ready yourself and follow me...’

  The orb didn’t respond. Its cooling systems let out a spurt of air and blew it in Baxter’s face, forcing his fringe over the back of his forehead.

  ‘You, made, this?’ she said slowly, sitting upright, pressing her back firmly to the wall.

  ‘Yes, well, no. I found it, a few weeks ago, you remember? The wolf pelt, with my uncle. I found it in the moor.’

  ‘What, so it was just lying out in the middle of the moor?’ She slid forward on the bed, intrigued.

  ‘No, it was in a marsh. I fell in, it got me out.’

  ‘Got you out?’

  ‘Yes, well. It blasted me out.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, raising one eyebrow, ‘and then you, you fixed it?’

  ‘Yeah, although I...’ he paused, knowing his next words might upset her, and he changed them quickly. ‘It’s not like the others.’

  ‘Convenient it decided to kick in when it did, don’t you think?’

  ‘Something must have triggered it.’ He thought about the radio transmitter. He didn’t know how to get it working, it must have been operational all along.

  ‘Is it turned off?’ She shuffled next to him and gripped his arm.

  He reached for it.

  ‘No Bax, put it back down.’

  ‘It’s ok, it’s in shutdown mode. Must have run out of juice.’

  ‘Juice? Where’s it from? The City?’

  Baxter held it toward her to take a closer look.

  ‘Don’t bring it anywhere near me.’ She scurried off along the wall.

  ‘Alright, look, I’ll wrap it back up in this.’ Baxter pulled the wolf pelt off his bed.

  ‘You’re keeping it here, right?’

  ‘Tabs,’ he said frustrated. ‘It protected us, trust me. Out there in the moorland we’ll want all the help we can get.’

  ‘How long are we going to be away for?’ Tabitha asked, backing toward the doorframe.

  ‘As long as it takes,’ he replied, shaking the rolled-up Orb.

  She ran out of the room, and Baxter chased after her. ‘It’s ok, I’ll make sure we’re safe, and I’ll get you back here within a week.’

  VI

  Back at the square, the dusk had begun to settle as a few of the villagers continued to pile up the fire. Tabitha joined the group. Her mother was sat on a blanket, and Tabitha put her arm around her. If her mother had noticed her daughter’s arm, she didn’t show it.

  ‘Baxter’s lost his uncle and his father.’ said Tabitha.

  Mar
ion wiped away tears with husband’s blue handkerchief. ‘how is he?’ Marion asked.

  ‘He seems to think his father has something to do with all of this. He left the village heading to the city shortly before the attack.’

  Marion looked at her daughter. ‘So you want to go with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her mother curled over, making it difficult to see if she was crying or laughing.

  Tabitha strained her voice, trying to deepen it. ‘I won’t be gone long Mother, a week at best.’

  ‘You’re a child.’

  ‘I’m eighteen,’ she said quietly.

  ‘So, you think a year as an adult can prepare you for the city?’

  Tabitha’s body stiffened. ‘I’m capable of looking after myself.’

  ‘And you’d rather help this boy than stay here with your family?’

  ‘I want to know who did this to father. I’m going to help Baxter find them and–’

  ‘And what, Tabitha? My god if your father heard these words, what are you planning to do?’ Aware the others in the square were listening, she grabbed her daughter’s arm and got to their feet, jabbing her palm in Tabitha’s chest, pushing her out of earshot. ‘What can you do, tell me, girl, enlighten me?’

  The tears Tabitha had managed to stop now returned, and the dam behind her eyelids burst, giving in to the pressure. Her mother’s head followed her as it dipped toward the ground.

  ‘Now go, enough of this nonsense, pick up your siblings, take them home and prepare supper. You’re a big sister, not some damned airwoman adventurer.’ Her mother forced up her eldest daughter’s chin with a snap of a worn-out knuckle, pushing her head toward the direction of their home, the windows just as well as had bars attached.

  VII

  A soot cloud shrouded the sunrise, keeping the morning dark. Confused birds chirped away at the dusky dawn. Baxter stood between what remained of the village gates, his woollen clothing clean, hugging him and keeping his body warm. He gave his supplies another check. Two full leather water skins, pair of enhancer goggles, Moorland face mask, No. 6 Peacemaker and its ammunition, a tin held several coins, four boxes of Bryant and May matches, a whistle, two compasses and a loaf of his uncle’s best bread. The wolf pelt wrapped around his shoulders like one of the many adventurers he’d read described in his uncles’ books. He looked towards Tabitha’s house, still no lights in the windows. She must have changed her mind, he thought.

  As he began walking between the two village gate towers, a whistle sounded, frightening some nearby dogs in a yard. It was Tabitha. She had a small bag, matching goggles – the pair he’d made for her birthday – and was dressed in leathers, looking every bit the adventuress. A glowing feeling appeared in his chest. ‘How did it go with your mother?’ He stopped and pretended to recheck his already checked items, feeling rather awkward in the glare from her tight brass-buttoned attire.

  ‘Good, she said it was okay for me to go.’ She avoided his eyes.

  Baxter smiled, pulling her in. Her clothes felt thin. ‘The Moors can get quite cold at night, Tabs.’ Baxter removed the wolf pelt and wrapped it around her. ‘Here, this should keep you warm, it’s going to be a long journey.’

  ‘Thank you, Baxter, how kind? Do I detect a slight relief in your voice I’m coming? Did you think I’d changed my mind?’

  ‘Well. No, I knew you’d be true to your word.’ He tried to clear his throat.

  ‘Good, you’re going to need a navigator.’ She clapped both her leather gloves together, giving them a rub. ‘Do you know the direction of the city?’

  ‘Navigator? I have a compass,’ he said. ‘I always have to triangulate it against the city, so we’ll follow it.’

  She pointed up at the sky. ‘Or we could follow the soot clouds.’

  ‘Yes, or the clouds.’ He bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you for coming with me. What did your mother say?’

  ‘What could she say, Baxter?’

  He squeezed her hard under his arm. ‘Thank you, Tabs.’

  The bridge connecting the village to the Moor was damp and mossy. Parts of the wooden planks lay between the stone supports had smoothed and splintered. Baxter looked back. The village was silent; he imagined his father still being there alone in his tower of their home. It felt like he was. Baxter prayed for him and for his uncle.

  The village now a dot on the horizon, the moorland ahead was silent, a ghostly plain with larger than houses rocks scattered as though dropped from the hand of God. The ground twisted his boots in different directions, sunken inside watery holes. They kept to the natural path worn down path, it best resembled a road and together cast shadows from the morning glare.

  ‘We never had a chance, did we, against those things,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘My father could have stopped them,’ Baxter said, as though in half thought and half reply, ‘if he wasn’t...’ He looked down at Tabitha. ‘My father’s not like my uncle. He’s broken.’

  She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it. ‘We’ll find him, Baxter, and when we do, we’ll fix him together. Are you sure your uncle hasn’t gone after the people who did all of this to us?’

  ‘What do you mean, rather than try to catch up with my father?’

  ‘He might have tried to find them first, instead.’

  ‘If there’s anything I’m certain of in this world, Tabitha...’ Baxter paused for a moment, ‘it’s my uncles’ courage. If he’s left to find them rather than catch up with father, the Brotherhood or whatever they’re called – if he finds them, they’ll rue the day they crossed my uncle.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Baxter.’ she said.

  ‘I’m not.’ he replied.

  A bellowing echo came from the horizon, a deep bass, and both of their hearts rattled. Three large pins appeared in the morning light on the horizon. Perfectly horizontal.

  ‘Can you see those, in the distance?’ said Tabitha.

  ‘What? Oh yes, is it the chimneys?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Yes, they make the soot clouds.’ The hill ahead bled morning sunlight over a landscape riddled with spots.

  ‘Stump forest.’ Baxter positioned his goggles.

  Tabitha followed his lead. ‘What happened to all the trees?’

  ‘Cut down for wood.’ His voice pitched.

  ‘Who would need so much wood?’ she asked.

  ‘It’ll be for the airships.’ Baxter picked up the pace.

  ‘What happened to the animals? Hey, Bax.’ She lifted her goggles. ‘You’re a lot taller than me, and I’ve got enough hot spots, slow down.’

  ‘Sorry, Tabs.’ He stopped. ‘They’ll still live here, underground or somewhere.’

  ‘And the birds?’

  ‘I guess they found another forest.’ As the words left him, a murder of crows cawed overhead, swooped low. A few landed on the first line of tree stubs, the rest flapped upward and continued in formation toward the chimneys.

  ‘Come on.’ Baxter waved at her to follow him.

  VIII

  A peace came in the days they travelled, cleaning boots, changing socks, laying camp ointments, poisons, trip wires and traps. Finding at times no thoughts entered his mind, all fears Baxter left behind in the village, his only purpose now was to find his father. The Moorland green faded days ago to an all-encompassing shade of brown; it dulled enough to be grey. The sound of Tabitha’s boots made a higher pitch than his own. For half a day, he pondered why and tried to match them, and wondered if she’d notice. She never did. He heard a beat in her squelched steps, her breaths and the sliding of moist leather on leather sleeves. The tune was basic, with parts repeating so often the mundane melody became silence, he only noticed it when they stopped.

  She asked questions about the land, the rocks, about wolves and the creatures inhabiting the moor. He knew a hand full of answers and guessed the rest, and wondered if she could tell.

  After a day bursting blisters, the sun reached its crescendo and God’s eye closed o
n the world. Baxter found a nearby rock face to set up camp. He spread the ointments. The ammonia at first stunk his eyes and took some time to adjust. Huddled together next to the rocks, around them the wild animals called out, declaring territories. Owls were close and wolves howled beyond the darkness.

  ‘Are we safe here?’ Tabitha asked, looking at the dark shadows separating rocks.

  Baxter opened his eyes, already halfway to an excellent slumber. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘What do you mean, who knows? You’re not good at comforting me.’

  ‘Tabs get to sleep, we’re fine.’

  ‘Fine?’

  ‘Yes, we’re fine. Traps all set, ointments laid. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just feel a bit...’

  ‘A bit what?’ Baxter asked firmly.

  ‘This place, it just feels different to the other camps.’ she replied.

  ‘Different because of those rocks?’ Baxter pointed over at the large moonlit silhouetted boulders, dark grey, their shape thick, more broad than tall, but every bit menacing.

  ‘Surely you’ve heard the stories about them?’ Tabitha rolled closer to him.

  ‘Tabs, the moors are full of stories, trust me. My uncle and I have camped and hunted out on these plains since we got here, back when I was a lad. There are no ghosts, daemons or anything else. Our ointments will keep the real killers away, trust me. Wolves hate the stuff, and they’re scared of fire.’

  ‘Do we have much ointment left?’

  Baxter rolled over and faced the other way. ‘About two night’s worth, go to sleep.’

  ‘Will it be enough?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Close your eyes, Tabs, get – some – sleep.’

  Lost in a dream, the sound of metal smashing together rang in both Baxter’s ears. He sat bolt upright, his limbs thrashed in panic. He sprang out of his basher, the morning’s rising sun barely illuminated anything as the cold morning air flooded his lungs. He took shoeless, stealthy steps around the rock face to where the sound emitted as the noise grew louder. He looked down to find Tabitha missing, her basher empty. His pistol lay next to his shell scrap, he grabbed it, cracked the firing pin, and thrust it outward, stern and ready to shoot. He edged around the rock face – what could it be? A wolf somehow got past their lines, perhaps it was an owl or crows swooped down to pick off the rest of his uncle’s bread? Baxter took a breath, and peered around the final edge of rock. There, stood with legs apart, Tabitha leant over his wolf pelt, her arms held up in the air cradling a large rock.