Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  At the entrance to the port, a man wearing a flat cap swept away some discarded rubbish from some mob which gathered around the wooden posts the evening prior.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said tipping his head toward Alfred. ‘Travelled far, have you Moorlander?

  ‘The Beechcroft village,’ Alfred replied returning the gesture.

  The other gentleman stopped his sweeping, ‘Never heard of it, near Gateshead, is it?’

  ‘Closer to Cliffenfort.’

  ‘Oh, quite far.’ He pointed his broom at Alfred’s bike. ‘Hence the Nightingale hey?’

  Alfred looked down at his bike, for a moment he forgot they’d mass-produced it. ‘Yes, it helped cut up the travel.’

  The man rested his hands on the top of the pole. ‘I’d love one of them, I bet they’re a right blast riding over the Moorland hills.’

  ‘They are.’ said Alfred.

  The man carried on sweeping. ‘I bet, especially when ya getting chased by a bunch of them Rabids. What kind of winder you got for it?’

  Alfred looked behind him and back at the man. ‘It’s a fifteen hour.’

  ‘Clearly paying good wages down at Beescroft–’

  ‘Beechcroft,’ Alfred corrected him. ‘And yes, lots of good farm work down there.’

  The man continued to sweep. Next to him was a wooden platform with three gallows and their freshly cut ropes.

  The man noticed Alfred looking up at them. ‘Two criminals last night, thieves and a Necromancer,’ piped the man. ‘They always bring a good crowd, plenty of shit to clean up.’

  Alfred tucked his face back in his jacket, gesturing to hide from an invisible wind as two birds landed on the gallows chirping at one another, continuing an argument they held in flight. Alfred did his best to ignore them both.

  ‘Is there a place in town to get a drink at this hour?’ Alfred asked.

  ‘Just the dairy, Moorlander, follow the road you can’t miss it. By the look of you, though, I guess you’re after something a little stronger, although Miles’ milk can be just as sharp.’ The man laughed to himself.

  ‘Thank you.’ Alfred refitted his mask and goggles tightly around the alcoves of his features and carried on to the centre of the port.

  The buildings were the same as he remembered. Simple terraced blocks of three to four homes of differing sizes running up and down both sides of the main street, all clad with the signature Tudor styling, it never seemed to go out of date outside the city.

  Houses then shops and a small dairy lined the high road. The dairy’s farmer had unfastened one of his gates and led a small herd from the larger shed out to his adjacent field. The grass looked patchy and old, the morning light – although limited – was enough to cast shadows into the valleys of the cow’s ribs. He poked his cattle with a prod, getting them in line. Alfred slowed his pace and took his bike to the side, lowered its support leg and covered it with the blanket from his backpack, then watched the farmer shepherd his herd, prodding them, his face turning red as the orders sharpened in volume. Alfred removed the lower section of his mask freeing his mouth. ‘Good morning,’ he shouted as jovially as the pit holding him allowed.

  The farmer looked over and shielded his eyes from a few rays of escaping sunlight, his face hadn’t seen a smile in years. ‘Hello, sir.’ The farmer scanned Alfred’s attire.

  ‘How much for a pint of milk?’ Alfred stretched down the sleeve covering his clockwork arm.

  ‘I’m sorry sir, but we’re not open yet.’ The farmer smacked one of the cow’s behinds.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Alfred bowed low in apology, trying to make a natural gesture with his mechanical hand. ‘What time should I return?’

  The farmer pulled a chained watch out of his jacket. ‘About half nine.’

  Rather late, Alfred thought. ‘Thank you, sir, I shall return then.’

  Returning to the road, the gravel crushed under Alfred’s boots, he heard the farmer’s whispers to his cattle, looked back and watched the man smooth their hides, calming one to a steady station.

  He paused with his thoughts. The pair of sparrows landed directly in front of him, pulling him out of the trance as they larked, chasing one another. The slightly smaller of the two crewed something bitter, his eyes bulged and his wings flapped at the other one like he was bossing him around; short man syndrome, Alfred thought. The largest flew off, and the smaller one chased it. He tracked them both over rooftops. Landing finally on a window ledge belonging to an inn, Alfred swallowed the small amount of saliva he had welled behind his lower teeth. The place wasn’t open yet. His mouth was parched, his tongue sticky and thick. Noon was a few hours away. He’d wait, take up a seat in the square. Would be ok, to sit and wait. ‘The farmer might welcome a hand,’ he said under his mask knowing it would conceal his words. A few hours’ worth of honest, charitable work rounded off with a stiff drink to bring back the focus, Alfred’s mouth watered at the thought of such a reward.

  He walked back up the road and saw the farmer sat on a stool milking a cow.

  ‘Good morning, again,’ Alfred cried, in a jolly tone.

  The farmer peered from the side of the cow and gave the Moorlander another, less polite nod.

  ‘If you want train times sir, go and see a conductor at the station.’ He pointed his eyebrows to the station’s location.

  Alfred stepped closer, removed his mask fully and blinked rapidly. ‘I’m not after train times, sir.’

  ‘I see,’ the farmer said, ‘So, what you after then?’

  ‘Can I be of help?’ Alfred clasped his hands together. ‘I’m waiting for a companion, he won’t be arriving at the inn until noon. I need to kill some time.’

  The farmer smiled, then noticed his mechanical hand and sighed.

  ‘It’s perfectly harmless, sir,’ Alfred pleaded, holding up his arm.

  The farmer stood up slowly, using his knees as supports. ‘Kill my livelihood more like. I’m not having one of you lot harassing me herd. Good day to you.’

  The farmer turned his back on Alfred.

  ‘Very well,’ Alfred said, returning to the pavement he looked down at his arm. The gears and pistons clanged together in a pressurised attempt to make the movement look healthy, Alfred tried to stretch his sleeve to cover it.

  VI

  Resting in her bed alone, Tabitha watched the dancing shadows of two birds playing in their room’s window. Had Baxter kicked her out of his bed in the night? She watch him get up and look for his clothes as the birds continued their morning waltz.

  ‘Tabitha, wake up.’

  She pretended to be deep in her morning slumber.

  ‘Tabitha?’

  ‘Oh, morning Baxter,’ she said in a wide yawn, ‘up to get me some breakfast in bed, how thoughtful.’ She cast the yawn into a broad grin.

  ‘Amusing,’ he said, still collecting his clothing, ‘but we need to leave.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘The train, Tabs. It leaves at noon.’

  She reached over to the pile of clothing on the floor. Her exposed ivory back shone up at him, he noticed, and looked away in time before getting caught. She pulled her father’s watch out of her tunic’s top pocket.

  ‘Bax, it’s a quarter to eight. Why on Terra do you want to leave now?’ She paused, staring at him, void of expression. ‘We have plenty of time.’

  ‘I know, but I just want to make sure we get to the station and don’t have to queue.’

  ‘You always have to queue, Bax! Golly, when even was the last time you rode a bloody train?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘When I was little?’

  ‘I’ve ridden many trains, Baxter Beechcroft, and have visited many stations.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘You don’t need to leave as early as you might think. Now get in bed.’

  ‘I’ll go without you, Tabs.’

  Baxter grabbed his bag and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  He’ll be b
ack, Tabitha thought. The wooden boards of the old building creaked under the heavy distant footsteps.

  Many minutes past by and he did not return. She decided it was best to get out of bed and follow him. She didn’t rush, there wasn’t any need; after all, the train didn’t leave until noon.

  VII

  Outside Alfred sat on the curb of a pavement, a few housing blocks down from the inn and opposite the butcher who promised, according to his sign, to open at eight o’clock. Alfred looked at his watch, five minutes past eight, he was shocked, this close to the city most folk were as dependable as clockwork. Up ahead the doors to the inn swung open and out walked a shrouded figure. Alfred got up and headed toward it. The cloaked gentlemen appeared in quite the hurry and disappeared behind the buildings and out of sight.

  The inn was empty; chairs placed on top of tables, with no sign of the landLord.

  ‘Hello?’ Alfred cried. ‘Are you opening, yet?’ A bald man stood at the top of the staircase.

  ‘Good morning sir, I’m afraid we don’t open until noon. May I ask you not shout, we have guests here, and I do not wish to have them disturbed.’

  ‘Very well, I bid you good morning and shall return at noon.’

  ‘If you’re thirsty, sir, the water pump is just there.’ He pointed to the centre of the street.

  Alfred had been trying to avoid it. ‘Thank you.’

  Backing out of the establishment, his mouth now drier than ever before and the dust of the dirt road tormenting it further, the clattering of shoes shot down the inn’s staircase.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ dashed a half-dressed young girl. ‘Did you happen to see a man in a long black cloak leave here?’

  Alfred didn’t face her. Instead, he pointed toward a cluster of houses. ‘Yes, my dear. He headed down there, to the station, no doubt.’

  Throwing a cloak around her neck, she thanked him and hurried out of the inn.

  The landLord locked the door, and Alfred eyed the water pump. Getting closer he saw the Seagrave emblem and gave it a kick.

  VIII

  ‘Baxter, wait!’ Tabitha shouted, hurrying toward him as fast as her legs allowed.

  ‘Tabs, I’m sorry I just want to make sure we get there.’ He embraced her and peeled back her hood. Hot and flustered, the morning remained on her and she breathed it in his face. ‘Tabs, you could have at least cleaned your teeth before setting off.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Feeling rather embarrassed, she said, ‘I didn’t want to lose you, if there was a queue I mean.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, letting go of her.

  ‘How did you expect to get in the city? We don’t have any money.’ She watched his eyes jostle around trying to think of something. ‘How about,’ she said, ‘we ask one of these local traders if we can do a few hour’s work for enough to get us passage?’

  Baxter grinned at her. ‘It’s a smart idea, Tabs, but I can’t spare any further delay. I need to catch up with him, and I don’t care if we don’t pay, we’ll just have to hide on the train is all.’

  Tabitha looked down at his feet and noticed one of his shoes untied. She knelt and tied it.

  ‘Tabs, don’t. I can tie my own–’

  ‘I know, only taking care of you is all.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m not sure jumping a train to the city is a good idea.’ She looked at their attire. ‘We’ll stand out like sore thumbs.’

  ‘My point exactly,’ he said with a knowing grin, ‘If you act like you have every right to be there, they’ll leave us alone. Besides, I heard you talking to the innkeeper. All you should do is use your charm again.’

  She blushed. ‘You think I’m charming?’

  ‘We both are. It’s in my blood.’ He thought of his uncle, the king of confidence.

  ‘Well, okay, I guess we can always talk our way out of it.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Baxter kissed her on the forehead. ‘They’ll be calling us Uppers in no time.’

  IX

  Madeline Barknuckle stood alone on the Gypsy Moth, taking a deep lungful of her late grandfather’s aroma. The old stoker was never far from her mind, and every time she caught the slightest hint of carbon, there he was. She leant over the port side and peered down to the hanger, her eyes glazed as two more ships docked below. Taking no notice, she studied the memory in her daydream, how the gentle old man harvested honey and sold it at their local market, and when she turned nine, he finally gave in to her demands and opened the hive for her to take a peek; the bees, busy about their business making honey, producing wax and supporting their colony.

  She looked down at her uniform and removed black fragments of soot while the crew lumbered the gangway, then clipped her heels together and straightened her back. As the first shipmates boarded, few maintained eye contact. What did they expect? They knew the drill. When he wanted something taken care of he’d call on the Gypsy Moth. She wondered, as they went about their checks, if they knew how much she valued them.

  ‘Lads and lasses, look sharp,’ she said, ‘You know when he wants something done swift and clean he’d call on us – the price we pay for being the best.’

  ‘Aye,’ said one of the female crew members as she passed her.

  Over the bow on the ground below, the workers dotted about fulfilling their orders. The lowest of the fleet’s ranks maintained the hangers and the docked airships; some were volunteers trying desperately to prove their worth. To serve as a plonk was an honour, the nickname for those operational in any of Britannia’s two air fleets. A fully-fledged plonk was entitled to many benefits and luxuries, particularly when a member of the greatest fleet in the colonies. On-board the Gypsy Moth the deckhands, Mr Shanks and the other crewmembers conducted the drills and checks, void of protest and professional as ever.

  ‘Ahern,’ Mr Shanks addressed a nearby deckhand. ‘I want them ropes securitized to their last fibre. One wrecked rope and this old bird will be falling out of the sky,’ he said, ‘and we don’t want that, do we.’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘No sir indeed.’ Everything was checked twice. A tight ship with a tight crew and this bunch of ragtails were nothing less, thanks to the reek of bitter aniseed lingering every time she heard her name cried.

  ‘Captain?’ It was Folly. He stood with rolls upon rolls of maps tucked under his arm. Fresh stubble spikes on his face looked coarse enough to sand the deck.

  ‘If you’re to shave your beard, it all needs to come off.’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, Captain,’ he bowed his head, ‘I found several settlements–’

  ‘They’re at Gateshead, Folly,’ the Captain interrupted. ‘Put down those papers and get to the crow’s nest and await Mr Shanks’ orders.’

  Looking around, Mr Folly failed finding a suitable place to stack them.

  ‘Just take them with you to the nest.’

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ he said softly, detecting her frustration.

  She walked through a gang of lads locking ropes to the hull and continued to the bow. The crew looked fresh with the energy and ready for the skyways.

  ‘Haul short the anchor!’ she bellowed in her practiced airman voice.

  Mr Shanks stood at the stern, on the opposite side of his commanding officer, and repeated the order.

  Boys hurried about on the deck grabbed the ropes and heaved them fast, eager to earn the label of men.

  ‘Yank to the wind!’ shouted Mr Shanks, grabbing the helm and rolling it full lock starboard.

  ‘Make sail Mr Shanks!’ shouted the Captain.

  The Gypsy Moth’s sails rolled out down to each of her booms. The ropes grew as ridged and taut as Eastern Steel. ‘Ready her, Mr Shanks,’ cried the Captain, ‘ropes away!’

  Below the bulkheads of the hull, the ground crew cut the ropes. Madeline stood still and watched two female plonks hoist the main sail together. She made a deep, satisfied exhalation as the ship motioned upward, its balloon filling with hydrogen.

  The stokers deep inside the Moth’s belly shovelled the coal in the furnac
es producing the steam which trapped the pressure, turning the turbine and filling the sails, pushing the ship out of the dock and into the air. The city below sent gusts of the wind from the streets toward the Moth as they hovered above it. How she wondered about the different lives down there, citizens doing whatever they did, she almost felt their envy. Many must be looking up at her, wishing their life had gone the way hers did. She’d once envied them, thinking they were free, until the day she tasted the clouds. A gust hit her back and the main sail filled – now she was the wind.

  Cold air blasted the deck, and the crew held on to the fledge ropes; she ignored it, snuggling her face into the wolf’s pelt. Lesser airships packed the skyways, some larger but slower than the Moth, most looked as though they could fall out of the sky in any moment.

  They banked the craft over to the left and on the horizon the Moor came to view.

  ‘Set the course please, Mr Folly. Gateshead.’

  The sails moved from one side to the other, decreasing and then shooting out, filling with the steam and wind giving thrust, cutting the ship through the cloud cover. Each of the crew members slowed their graft to look at the sky. Her heartbeat slowed as the sun’s heat cast its glow across the deck. She and many others closed their eyes. This was why she did it. This was why they all did it.

  ‘How long, Mr Folly?’ she asked with her eyes still closed.

  ‘Faster than a summers night.’ he replied, equally as spellbound by the fresh morning sun.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in my chamber, please knock if you need anything. Shanks, you have the bridge.’

  The Moth glided over the clouds, an endless landscape of pure white mountainous terrain. Many of the crew placed their goggles on to protect their eyes from the intense reflection. The industrial city below, with its skyscrapers and factories, vanished under the cloak of white heaven.