His father spoke of his time as a child, the picture which hung on his wall helped retell the story. The dark wood table was set with food of various colors and types; meat, fruit and vegetables piled high on plates and bowls while his grandfather tinkered with a small device. His grandmother was in the kitchen, cooking over a stove, a small cup in her delicate hand as she worked. His father sat at the table expectantly, a young boy no more than six springs old, watching his father inspect and adjust the device in his hands. His grandfather smiled as he placed the device on the table and over pressed a button on its side, the machine hummed to life but did nothing that his father could notice. His grandfather took a vase of water and turned it over the top of the device on the table, to his father’s shock, the device remained dry, and the water was pushed away to the edges of the glass, leaving a hole of dry air in the middle of the vase. His father’s expression would sour as he spoke about the device, naïve he would go on to call it. It was possible that he was referring to his grandfather instead of the device, but John never dared ask that of his father. He would never explain what happened to this invention or what it had been designed for, he would only say that it was the reason he had to leave for another few seasons.
John stared at the photo on the decaying wall, mildew and mold grew up in various hues of grey, black, and green. He had wondered what that world was like before they fell to corruption, he envisioned a world where he could learn and study freely instead of hiding the research of the world before in the darkness of his home. A world where magical machines could bring his deepest desires into existence. He knew it was a fantasy of course, the memories and dreams of a civilization long lost and cast aside by those who now inhabited the charred remains of the earth. He sat up from his mat on the floor, dingy and moist. He couldn’t tell if it was his sweat or another leak in the wall, either way John didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was finding the truth behind his father’s tales of the world before. He left the room and went up into his workshop, the sound of creaking wood and rushing water greeted him as he came up the stairs and opened the hatch into the barn. The smell of wet earth and hay mixed with the smell of charcoal and soot. A pleasant smell which he figured only he could appreciate in its fullness. He stoked the fires of his forge and began working on the next step of his path to the truth.
His knowledge was limited but he found that his imagination and the few remnants he had acquired of the old world were enough to lead to small advancements and opportunities to learn. He was fond of the idea that through his work he was retracing the steps of those lost people and of their ideologies. He worked the metal on the anvil, making tiny adjustments to its shape before it cooled and was placed back into the fire. The wooden cogs groaned louder than usual, which John had learned meant that a storm was approaching, the water warning him of the oncoming wrath of the earth. He removed the metal from the fire when the barn doors swung open violently, the bright light from outside blinded him and sent rays of light into the darkest corners of the workshop. John knew it was no wind that knocked on the door and was proven correct as his vision adjusted to the intrusive light of the early morning. A large man stood in the doorway, dark boots and brown pants came up to his belly, suspended by straps of leather that wrapped behind his shoulders. A dark green shirt poked out from underneath the pants and was stained in various blotches of color. A tangled red beard hung over the front of the shirt and framed the dry tightly coiled snarl of the man which was matched by the angry flicker in the man’s brown eyes. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbow revealing huge arms which he crossed over his equally large and barreled chest. John placed the quickly cooling metal on the anvil as Fisher glared at him.
“Priest has sent for you.” The burly man barked from the door, “And he ain’t asking.” He finished with a deep draw in his voice. John sighed as he struck the metal uselessly against the anvil, he could feel the man shaking with anger from across the room. “You hear me Gov?” He barked again from the doorway, refusing to enter the threshold of John’s corrupt workshop.
“Yeah, I heard you, Fisher.” John replied not bothering to replace the metal in the forge, he figured if Preacher was summoning him that he wasn’t going to have time to finish the piece anyways. “Did he say what he wanted?” he asked, turning to Fisher.
“It’s not my place to ask them kind of things, and it certainly ain’t the place of a damn gov neither.” He snarled; his eyes flashed with more intensity as John questioned the man. “Like I said, Preacher ain’t asking, he’s telling. Why he bothers with demons like you is beyond me.” He narrowed his eyes at john, “Be there in two nights.” He spit into the barn as he finished his command and walked back past the door. John sighed again, he didn’t need these types of distractions while he was this close to finishing his latest project, a project that would show his father how far he had come. He turned back to the forge and was suddenly doused in a thick chunky liquid that splashed across his face and into his forge, which spit smoke and steamed up into his face. The liquid tasted of iron and rot, the chunks on the floor were the heads and guts of Fisher’s catch. He turned back to the doorway and was greeted with a metal bucket to his face. The impact knocked him to the floor as he heard the deep dark laugh of Fisher echo into the barn. He wiped away the shock and blood from his face in time to see Fisher and his oldest son laughing in the doorway and then walked away, Fisher patting his son on the back proudly as they left. “Two nights, Gov.” Fisher yelled without turning around.
He stood up, the forge had been doused and was no longer usable without a good cleaning. He went outside and watched the pair walk down the path past the burnt house towards the hill leading to the road. He watched with a shake of anger in his heart and legs, turning to the barn he saw a single word painted in the familiar red smear and foul odor of the bucket’s contents. The poorly written word “Gov” clung to the dark wood of the barn and had started to attract flies to it. John ignored the vandalism; the rain would wash it away, he convinced himself. He retrieved the bucket from inside and walked towards the river that ran alongside his workshop. At least he had a bucket and wouldn’t need to dirty his own personal waters with Fisher’s filth.
He washed his soiled clothes and body with the bucket further downstream and back tracked to his private waters that was built into a smaller stream that flowed away from the river down into a small pond. Poles and rocks had been built up to keep larger animals out of his part of the stream and laid traps for any smaller ones that made the mistake of invading waters. It worked fairly well and rarely did he have to remove a stray fish or wandering snake from the oasis. The rocks also made the water slightly warmer as they soaked in the sun but not enough to remove the chill from the water as it grew closer to the winter season. John soaked in the cold water for a few minutes watching the water flow over and between the rocks splashing and playing a relaxing melody as he thought. It had been a while since Preacher had summoned him to the village, the last few times had been to investigate and “exorcise” demons from the surrounding area some poor faithful had stumbled upon. He had tried many times to explain the nature of these “demons” to the faithful, but no one bothered to listen to the ramblings of a Gov. He considered how his father must have felt in his dealings with the village and wondered if he had ever been asked to exorcise the various pieces of salvage and machines that must have been abundant when the village was first built. John decided that his father wouldn’t have bothered to help them and was even more certain Preacher wouldn’t have asked for help from someone like his father. The mutual hatred would have ended up being the death of one or the both of them. He sighed and exited the tranquility of his waters and headed back inside to gather the gear for his journey, pushing the thoughts from his mind. There wasn’t a point speculating about the past of the village, besides he wasn’t his father and despite the attitude he held about Preacher, Fisher was right. He didn’t have a choice.
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John gathered the supplies he would need for the trip; a few days of hardtack, a skin of water, fire stick, and his tin cup. He stuffed the items in his satchel and considered bringing along some of his cured meat but thought better of it. The village was only a day and a half’s walk from his workshop and with the cold season approaching quickly he questioned the necessity of it. It was better to have it in stock if he needed it rather than have it for comfort; preparedness is readiness. He did decide to take a few of his common medical supplies. A few linen wraps, distilled alcohol, and a jar of honey with clove, which served a double function. The honey helped to seal wounds and prevent infections, a dangerous situation since he lived alone, and also served as a way of making the hardtack moderately more comfortable to eat, though not by much. Either way, the honey ended up in his satchel carefully wrapped in soft cloth to prevent it from shattering on his journey. With his basic supplies set he hung the pack over his shoulder, so the pack sat tightly against the opposite hip, then put on his traveling jacket which covered his body down to his ankles. The last item on his list was the knife he slid into a concealed pocket on the inside of his jacket, a sharp slightly curved blade set into the leg bone of a deer he had managed to catch in his trap across the river. It was well balanced, a feat even Metalmaker and Trapper admitted was impressive, the only two of the faithful to treat him fairly or even bother to address him. John knew better than to openly display the weapon on his hip, there wasn’t a need to give the villagers any more reason to fear him than they already did.
He fastened the buckles on the front of the coat and began locking his home and workshop up. He passed by the ruined forge and groaned in annoyance; the cleaning would have to wait till after his meeting with Preacher. He truly wasn’t looking forward to the stench that would greet him when he arrived home. He closed the barn doors and secured them with a thick board and locked it in place with a chain made from ruined scraps that Metalmaker “dropped” in front of John. The thick stocky man was the closest thing to a friend he had in the village since… He shook his head and pushed the memory out. He attached a heavy lock to the chain and gave it a few tugs, the chains rattled but didn’t come free. The lock was less to keep people and more about giving him a sense of security while he was away. He looked up at his workshop, taking in the impressive nature of his studies, highlighted by the bloody word painted on its side which was more black then red due to the number of flies that feed off the filth. The rain couldn’t come soon enough. He turned and began his journey to the village, the charred remains of his childhood home a reminder of how dangerous this world could be, the slowly setting sun feeding the fire in his mind and heart.
The traveling path followed the bends of the river as it ebbed through the wooded valley and flowed from the mountains across the river. The late harvest season had begun to turn cold as the wind flowed down from the mountains and the leaves showed the slightest shift in orange. This was the season John liked the most, the few days and weeks of the season that showed the wonder of the natural world. He wondered if the old world had appreciated the seasonal changes or if they had long since dismissed it as commonplace. He took in the scenery as he walked down the path onto the main road into the outskirts of the village. Unlike most other roads that had been constructed by the old world, this stretch was used by a large number of travelers from around the valley since it was the only one that led out of the valley from either direction. One side leads into the plains past the mountains and the other leads to the dead city, a place of such corruption that even stepping foot inside could kill you.
John didn’t quite believe the stories until a drifter had told him of the horrors he had witnessed there. Beasts that roamed and sought the living flesh of man who dared walked the desecrated grounds of the fallen world. Creatures as big as cows with thick smoke that billowed around them, hunted any unwary traveler who didn’t look to the skies. Fog that rolled the ruins and killed anyone on contact. The man had been a traveling acquaintance of his father and had taught him the basics of machines. He couldn’t see why the man would have any reason to make stories about his experience and had seen such fogs with his own eyes while on “Holy missions” for Preacher. He considered taking the risk despite the warnings in the name of research but ultimately decided against it. If he died then so did the hope for a future worth living, he had a responsibility after all. The good news was that because of the various travelers the road was fairly safe, and the many creatures of the valley refused to go near it, at least during the day. John picked up his pace as the orange hues of the sky were quickly receding to the dangerous dark purple of night.
He reached the campsite that served as his halfway point just after the sun set over the mountains and quickly set to work on a fire, his sole protection against the cold of night and the lurking nightmares of the woods. He collected enough wood for the night and used his knife and fire stick to create a spark until the branches and twigs finally caught, then arranged the logs in a crossed square around the growing flame. He had learned the trick from Trapper who used it to ensure a long fire time and also served to create charcoal as a secondary benefit. He adjusted the lean-to to have a slight overhang to the fire pit, another tip from Trapper, so that the fire wouldn’t get drenched if it rained. As soon as John sat down to eat his hardtack and sleep, the melodic patter of rain began around him. His only thought as he finished and tucked his pack under his head drifting to sleep was the look of a clean barn wall free from the rotting word that clung disgustingly to him and his barn.