Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher Byford
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‘Thank you,’ Pappy managed in a croak. A glass of water was set on the table beside him with a dull thud, a tinge of red riding its surface.
‘Let me know if you need it again.’
Franco re-seated himself on a simple stool at Pappy’s bedside. This attentive routine was getting the better of him. His eyes had started to become weary and sleep was sorely needed, but his own wellbeing was of little concern. Since Pappy’s deterioration the stock car where they slept had been modified to accommodate his needs. Windows were almost perpetually darkened for he slept often, sometimes as long as a day at a time, only being woken to eat. Beside him there was always something to eat and drink, replaced daily and the old food and drink tossed to prevent any further infection. In motion the carriage rocked, a motion fond enough to be soothing when Pappy’s pain manifested, such as was the case now.
‘What I need is to get out of this damned, accursed bed,’ Pappy whined, patting the mattress with his all too noticeably frail hands. They were hands that had lifted and lugged, fixed and fitted. They had taken to the back of Franco’s head and his backside upon hearing of his misdeeds plenty of times. Now though they were alarmingly brittle in their old age.
‘You need plenty of rest. Conserve your strength. I’m handling things fine. I’ve not caused a single delay –’
‘Last week, you were a good few hours behind on that cotton shipment,’ he nagged.
‘Rockslide. Like I explained, not my fault.’
‘A couple of months back you took that absurdly long route around Abel Pass rather than go through …’ he began, eyes rolling.
‘To avoid bandits that had set up there which, again, was not my fault.’
‘Do tell me, how is the new driver you hired coping?’
Franco cupped his hands together, squeezing.
‘Mister Rosso is doing just fine. It turns out he ran a C class back in its heyday so he’s had no problems. That is, unless you consider his rubbishing of some of our more creative attempts to get her up and running …’
‘Good to know we have someone sporting familiarity. I should let you off, I suppose. You’ve done far better than I thought you would. I had this damned crazy idea that you would stick around and make something of yourself. Now look at you. You’ve learned this train aplenty. I still wish I could teach you the rest but let’s be honest between us … I’m holding you back. I can tell. I can see it in those eyes of yours,’ he croaked.
‘No you’re not, Grandpa.’
With a wheeze his head fell back upon the sack pillow and he stared deeply at the wood-panelled ceiling. ‘You’ve never been a good liar. You can grow all the hair on your chest that you want, but that’s the one thing that’ll never change. Don’t lie to me. You owe me that much.’
Another bout of coughing erupted from the depths of his person. A hastily introduced handkerchief caught the bulk of what was ejected, though some dotted the sheet in specks of red. It was withdrawn and dropped into a wicker basket beside him with all the others.
‘Listen, Franco. I won’t be enduring this sickness for ever and truth be told I’ve already grown tired from it. I want you to do something for me. In fact, I need you to.’
‘Anything, you know that; you need only ask.’ Franco reached out and enclosed his grandfather’s hands with his own.
‘You won’t like it,’ came the reply.
It was true. He wouldn’t.
Unlike everywhere else, the region had plenty of places that could be considered the middle of nowhere. The Sand Sea itself was comprised mostly of nowhere, miles upon miles of nowhere in fact. This nowhere looked identical no matter the approach, surrounding towns and outposts, hubs and trading points with barren land fit for the wildlife and nothing more.
This specific nowhere had a sense of meaning to Pappy. The Condor Highlander line was a rail route built to shuttle tobacco leaf from successful plantations in the south. In his youth, these trips were spent smoking some of the finest cigars he had ever had the luck of acquiring, mostly as kickbacks from the plantation owners themselves to haul undeclared cargo on the side.
Crossing between ridges of mountains it overlooked the basin of the region, the vastness of the Sand Sea laid out before them like a blanket of saffron. Pappy had requested to venture this way one last time so Franco begrudgingly obliged.
Boots cut into the dirt, pushing deep into sand and stone. The ascent wasn’t particularly taxing, luckily wind-blasted paths were cut into the ridge side forming a natural path. What was a different story though was the cargo.
Hoisted over his shoulder, Franco carried his grandfather up the hillside, not once complaining or stopping. In fact he didn’t speak at all, concentrating on his breathing and mentally subduing the burning that ripped through his muscles. If he spoke he would think and if he thought, then the sheer absurdity of this farce would break him in twain like an axe to lumber.
His foot buckled a spell as he caught it against a protruding boulder, forcing him to regain his balance with an outstretched hand.
‘Watch it. I don’t fancy my brains dashed across the dirt because you’ve been getting careless.’
Franco allowed himself to speak, trudging onward. His palm was scratched and raw. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine.’
Pappy grunted in annoyance, spitting from his undignified place. This was how one carried a sack, or firewood, not a person. Despite this, the old man’s hearing still remained keen, or so he thought.
‘Dammit, boy, I told you not to cry.’
‘I’m not, it’s the sand,’ Franco contested.
‘Like hell it is. I can hear you sniffling from here. Liar. Pack it in.’
They passed the skeletons of trees, fractured rocks, and thorny bush that desperately clung to the inclines. As they made their way along the ridge side, the entire basin was laid out before them. Despite the abject desolation of the Sand Sea biting into the surrounding landscape, it still coaxed a degree of awe. At ground level all one could see was sand and rock. At this height the horizon itself laid the land before them on a grand plateau. An afternoon sky waned above them with the sun beginning its fall. A hand struck Franco’s back repeatedly.
‘Here will do just fine. Just here,’ Pappy demanded. ‘It’s perfect.’
Franco sorted through a canvas satchel, withdrawing a bottle of whisky and pouring a measure into their tin cups. The old man squinted his eyes to make out the label while this was done.
‘Cruden Black Blend. Well isn’t that all sorts of fancy. What did I do to deserve this? Am I dying or something?’
Franco’s hand juddered, just for second but enough to spill a little down his wrist. ‘Not funny,’ he stated, passing the cup over.
Down in the valley the locomotive was poised, straddling the rail tracks that followed the natural contours of the land, rising and falling as it dictated. Steel reflected the dusk as a monument to the pair’s labour, as did the four combine cars that accompanied it.
‘What a sight … Beautiful isn’t she? I always said she was, even the day when I first laid eyes on her as a youngster. Do you remember when I dragged you through that scrapheap to find her?’ the old man reminisced, fighting off sentimentality.
‘Of course I do. It was the biggest piece of crap I had ever seen. I thought you had gone senile for a moment. It was a shambolic ore hauler that even time hadn’t had the decency to kick to pieces. That’s a red flag right there. Look at her now though. She’s all manner of pretty.’ He laughed at the absurdity, a collective of bittersweet memories soon curtailed as reality rudely reintroduced itself.
‘I expected you to ignore me when I told you that you would be helping.