THE WANDERLANDS
The beginning of Time. The 'Priority I' train, 0PT
The 'Priority I' train,' was created by Alexander Abercromby. His journal would describe his greatest invention as follows :
"A metal box with wheels, fixed to a metal track that requires two men to operate. One pulls down on the lever, while the other pulls up, using momentum and a chain to operate.
The effect of the 'Priority I' train is truly one of the great achievements of mankind, equivalent to when the near-frozen man discovered fire.
The invention of the 'Priority I' train would mark not only the beginning of measuring time in The Wanderlands, but also the longest timeline of centralized power in the Wanderlands, for the Abercromby family would rule over mankind for 319 years.
Thus, the PT, or Priority train timeline was born.
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THE WANDERLANDS
My earliest memory I have as a child is around six years old. But my memory doesn't do it justice. It's vague—like I can still see the church-like steel doors all the mothers, children, and elders would pass through. I remember my mother as she would clench my hand as we walked closer to the platform. I imagine she did that so she wouldn't give her daughter-me-the opportunity to do something stupid, like run to the edge of the gigantic steel cliff. And if I close my eyes, I can see the etchings on the walls behind us—fire and steel.
I remember the Pyre smell, like dry sweat and blood. And the sound of the large bell counting down the final hour by ringing once every ten minutes as we stared into the Depths, waiting for the platform so large, one could lose their breath trying to sprint across it. This was the weekly ceremony for the families of the Pyre.
We would all stand at the cliff's edge, looking down into the darkness—the sound the gigantic gears made, as their teeth gripped the steel chains the thickness of a toddler. The platform slowly rose from the depths of hell.
And the heat from the Pyre rose with it. If you stepped close enough, your skin would dry.
We'd wait patiently as the platform rose. And when it came, it was always the same.
The bell would hit the final minute and begin to ring.
The ringing always brought blissful happiness and smiles of yellow teeth with empty spaces.
And a thousand working men covered in coal, ash, and iron flecks, indistinguishable from one another, would rush into the arms of their spouses. It was always a rush.
Except for my father. He was distinguishable by a shiny metal sailboat he wore as a necklace. He would always walk, never run, as patience was in his blood.
I don't remember my father's face at all. But I do remember this: No matter how dirty, how grimy, how tired and sweaty my father was, the metal sailboat never lost its sheen.
In fact, it only shone brighter by the contrast of the coal-covered man who wore it. And it was that glimmer that I looked for. And when I saw it, like a shining light at the end of the tunnel, my brother and I would pull our identical metal sailboats out of our pockets and shine them back.
I miss my father. Sometimes, if he were still alive, I wonder if the world he spoke of would have continued living—a world where people believed in the institutions that they served, a world where, if you gave the Pyre Mining Corporation a good day's work, you were met with an adequate reward.
A world where Wanderers were free and the world was their playground.
I often think of my childhood innocence not because I miss it.
But rather because I wish I had died with it.
* * *
Captain of the Old Betty and Dog of the Authority government: two titles I never thought I'd own. But then again, I'd never thought I'd see my fortieth birthday in the Wanderlands. But here I am, five years over my fortieth, and thirty years overdue for a bullet in my head. The adventurers' luck some call it. Although, I disagree.
My "luck" has everything to do with knowing when to stroke a cock and knowing when to chop it off.
Knowing when to bend over and take it, and knowing when to slip some poison into a drink.
Knowing when it's time to die, and knowing when there is still life yet to live.
You see, in the Wanderlands there are two types of people.
Those who die.
And those who try to die but are forced to keep on living.
I am of the latter.
And I know, I get it.
As the pessimist says, "If life is so miserable, then why live? Why not just kill yourself?"
And for that, I'd say, "In the Wanderlands, at the edge of endless suffering, one has never felt so alive."
* * *
I spent my childhood in the Pyre mountains, away from the freezing tundra of the Wanderlands. Unbeknownst to me, my life would peak at nine years old. I also didn't know that suffering is an endless pit, a constant state. My father would remind me of this whenever I complained of suffering. My father, being away for weeks at a time inside the Pyre, knew of suffering. He was rewarded for suffering.
He received good pay, and as a family we lived in a middle-class home made of rocks, rope, and wood.
While the home was anything but special, it was the location that mattered and counted. I remember when I was nine years old and my father, after a rough week inside the depths of the Pyre, caught me complaining about our food: sliced potatoes and a single piece of bacon, with chunks of pig fat, all soaked in warm water. That was what he called a stew.
While most parents would beat their child, my father instead pulled me from my chair and we stepped outside. Then he walked me down to the bottom of the cliff and forced me to look up. Location, location, location, remember? You see, since there was no plumbing and no way to dig through the rock, houses of the upper class were built on a slant. So, when the wealthy man took a piss or shit, it would find its way to the edge of the cliff—the cliff I was now forced to look up at.
So I'd stand, looking up with squinting eyes. And he'd finish with his words of wisdom. His favorite was: "The rich complain that they wake up with no sun, and sleep with no moon. The middle class complain that their fathers and sons work weeks on end in the Depths and can never lay back longer than a day. And the poor don't complain, for they're too busy surviving."
He was always right about that. I never heard a poor child complain. They weren't happy by any means, but gratitude was always on their lips. Even when my father took me from the cliff and pushed me towards the impoverished class, I was reminded then of my gratitude. The poor would look up and stare, knowing why we—the visible middle class—were there.
They were used to it, I imagine, being trotted out as an example, shown to the sons and daughters of the middle class as less people than objects—but that was their purpose.
The poor didn't have dignity, nor did they pretend to. They all slept under cotton blankets, ate the same meals, shared the same fires, fucked the same partners. But what stood out the most to me, in my eyes, was their bathroom.
At the corner of the cliffside, attached with rope and tar, was a long timber log. And to piss and shit, you would sit on the log and carefully lean back over the ledge—an open cavern with a two-hundred-foot drop.
Accidental deaths happened at odd times, but I never saw them with my own eyes.
I never complained again.
* * *
My mother gave me my first job. The job was quite simple: Bring our family waste down to the disposal site. So, I would take the bathroom rod, that of a broken broom handle, tie two buckets on each side, and walk. The odd piss would splash, but whatever. It wasn't like we showered anyways. It was shortly after receiving this job, however, did I know something was off. It appeared I had been blessed with the most amazing, vibrant, red hair. A unicorn in a dreaded wasteland—the pyre. Eyes would turn everywhere I walked, and old ladies would comment on my beauty and my head of hair. Older men and boys would ogle and stare, whispers behind my back—murmurs of my vibrant blood ruby red hair.
One time, I even had a shop owner speak upon my hair, before offering a cup of mint tea—he told of my hair as if it was a beacon of hope, adding color to an otherwise rockful, dirtful, darkful world.
It felt good. And I eventually started enjoying the walks, and it made my fake smiles to protect myself from the Magisto all the much easier to carry. Magisto was a simple Pyre legend. A magician who had a pocket watch that hypnotized little boys and girls who were poor and orphaned. He would come out of the shadows and pluck the children that sulked and suffered, bringing them into the shadows to devour them whole. Needless to say, I always made sure to smile and hide my suffering at any sight of a shadow. The whole Pyre is a shadow. But it wasn't all suffering. I very much enjoyed walking to the waste well. In fact, I remember the smell of fresh bread by the waste well, and the long market cavern that separated Bowes Market and Triggerman's Plaza. The beloved Baker's family, that of Donald, Donny, and Daughter. They always had a smile and I can tell you, the Donny baker would always hand me a slice of bread and a warm cup of mint tea. It was my little secret.
But everything changed when I saw the rats. It was a very normal day, of a very normal year, of a very normal decade.
Except for the rats, that is. I remember looking over the waste well, dumping the waste, and seeing four rats staring back at me.
At the time, I had never seen a rat. And so like a child doing as I was told, I stepped back from the wall... clutched the sailboat necklace that I wore around my neck.
And I didn't say a damn thing.
I should have said a damn thing...
I always wonder if I said a damn thing about those pesky rodents—if I would be able to close my eyes, think of my father, and picture what he looked like.
I carried on my day like normal, then the week.
And then the citizens of the Pyre performed the weekly ceremony of raising the platform from the depths.
And that's when everything changed.
* * *
I remember the horrible sound, endless squeaks and squelches as the platform rose to the surface. It was only when the Elders looked into The Depths, to see thousands of rats, did they attempt to stop the rising platform. And they did—but like all animals backed against the wall—the rats resorted to the extreme. In a sea of gray fur, pink tails, and black eyes, the rats Climbed on top of each other, and onto the walls as they poured out of the platform and into the Pyre. The elders closest to the platform collapsed underneath the sea of rats, shrieking and screaming until their mouths and throats filled with fur, paws, and tails.
Swallowed by the sea of squeaks.
The soon-to-be men and elders in a panic drew axes, striking the chain and gears that held the large platform, some succumbing to the wave of rats. Within minutes, the platform collapsed inward, the majority of the rats falling into the depths of the pyre.
I'll never forget the sound it made—or rather, the sound my mother made—every working man in the pyre was dead. The children and mothers scattered.
And it wasn't like the stories adults told us as children, Or books we've read. The rats didn't want to eat us like Wanderbeasts, nor did they want to attack us like raiders and mercenaries. And that's all the citizens of the Pyre prepared for.
The rats just wanted to survive. The rats didn't want to hunt or kill humans. They were hunting for warmth and food. And that's what it boiled down to.
Survival.
That's all it is. That's all life is in the Wanderlands.
Survival.
Everything in the Wanderlands is trying to survive.
For the next month or two, my brother and I were food sentries. We exchanged shifts with the other children and elders. The women were tasked to make food, and the children were tasked to kill the rats. But no matter what we couldn't keep up with supply. And that leads to starvation, and starvation leads to death.
And then the first corpse was tossed into the pen of rats—to quench their hunger.
And then, the near dead-the elders who could no longer move very well were tossed to the rats.
And as always, after the elders, came the defenseless.
The babies. It was only when the tenth baby was found eaten alive in its crib—Did the pyre mining corporation finally call for the government. After all, their future workers were now being eaten. And their current workers are starving to death. The Authority answered the Call of the Pyre Mountain corporation and citizens.
What followed was a swift transition under the Authority government. They promised us safety, food, and protection. And within forty-eight hours of acceptance, the Pyre mining corporation was dissolved—the union destroyed.
It took a month for the rat infestation to be brought under control.
As a child, I remember how quickly and effectively it happened. I remember the dozens of trackless trains that showed up. Some short, while others as long as the horizon line as they ground their way across the Barrens, able to overcome all but the most rugged terrain. First, the workers offloaded the train carts stacked with crates filled with food. The single worker as he walked up to the crates with a crowbar, popping off each lid. And as elders, women, and children flocked to the platform like piranhas, ignorant of the cold rushing through their bones from the whitewash. whitewashes are scary. They are worse than a blizzard and have been known to swallow the land, reducing visibility in all directions. Sometimes they would bury trains while they moved, and the crew would freeze to death.
For every crate of food brought, two hulking soldiers were the ones to carry it. Quickly, and efficiently, Pyre Mountain was placed on lockdown. Tents were set up.
And when it was all finished, a new company—the Roltz trading company from Pilgrim–had taken hold. Shortly thereafter, The Roltz trading company conveniently came to an agreement with the Authority: The Roltz trading company will conscript all fighting-aged males within the Pyre mountains to the Authority, and in return, the Pyre Mountains will receive guaranteed protection.
I remember him and me—shining our sailboats pendants at one another, one last time. I promised him then before he hopped up on the Authority government train, that even in death, we will never ever remove the sailboat pendants our father gave us. Before bed, I remember praying to the non-existent God that my brother would be safe in battle against the Wanderers. I never thought I'd see him again. And I never thought that when I did, it would unfold how it did.
For he was an Authority Commander, and I a Wanderer.
But I digress–when the Authority skimmed the remaining boys from the Pyre, leaving us to fend for ourselves, we just ran out of food. My mother was too old to bear children.
And I was too young.
Thus, we both couldn't marry.
The house was sold to make ends meet, and my mother and I moved to the base of the cliff.
At least the Authority left their military tents for the impoverished.
It didn't take long before my mother set up a thick blanket to separate my room from her workspace.
I remember sitting on my footlocker, eating a piece of bread, while a thick long blanket draped over a rope that separated my room from hers. I remember thinking of all the men that walked through this tent, as they'd pull a silver coin and drop it into the bucket before ogling my way.
They always commented on my red hair. And soon after, my bed became a place for them to sit, wait, and gossip. It wasn't long before I learned the politics of the world.
The freedom fighters—the wanderers are thriving, Charles Davidson is calling on the Wanderers Pledge to create a city of freedom. He calls it Freelanders Port.
It was these rumors that crept through the Alleys of the Pyre. The greatest city in the world is being built on the edge of near-frozen waters. And the Authority wanted to crush this man--Charles Davidson—the leader of these wanderers—freedom fighters. It became clear that our mountains were a strategic advantage to the Authority as they served as a middle ground in the Barrens. All these rumors, once a whisper to die in the wind—were now followed by trains and trains carrying more soldiers, and prisoners of war. Soon even the boys of the Pyre turned men, joined the Authority, as opposed to working in the Pyre mines. Which at this point in time—was a place for prisoners anyways.
Overnight, it felt as if the Pyre, a once-bustling city, stuck in the bubble of hard work and peace—was now a prisoner camp.
And while I didn't know it then—the diamond-perfect redheaded darling in the pyre—was gaining traction through the rumor tracks.
And then one day—a few months before my thirteenth birthday—a subtle knock at the door of the tent.
That knock would change my world forever.
It was subtle, very subtle, and soft. "May you please get the door, Elura, my darling?" I remember my mother asking. These days she didn't have much energy, as every crumb she gave me—she would receive a morsel from god...
And I did. I remember standing up, clearing my face from my hair, and opening the door. An old paltry lady who looked a day older than death itself was there. She had a golden yellow cane with golden yellow shoes. Her back hunched as if a replica of the pyre mountains, and yet her smile was as friendly as the smile of all the men who worked the mines when my father was alive. And she looked me up and down before turning her attention to my mother.
"The rumors are true. One thousand gold isn't a fair price, Mrs. Whittle... I have heard of the hardships of the pyre... your story... "
My mother from hearing them speak of Gold perked up. The face she gave me, while my heart sunk to the depths of the pyre—I could tell hers did as well.
"I shall give you five thousand gold, enough to live like royalty amongst your... Rocks,".
And that was it. My mother cried as she was told she would be given five thousand gold, paid monthly to prevent thieves, for the next three years. And I, with two armed escorts and Old Betty, made the twenty-five-minute walk towards the Hawthorne Platform, in just over two hours.
And in those two hours, I was reborn.
"What is your name?" I remember her asking.
And me being naive, I told her Elura Whittle.
To which she told me, "Elura Whittle is dead."
"Ruby is your name now."
And so I went. It wasn't long after, a year or two when Betty passed away—that I was sold and bought again. I moved a lot. Seven thousand coins from Nicole the Butcher, the Brothel owner of the final Wanderer stronghold—the Devil's Cradle. When it fell to the Authority, I was bought by an Admiral of the East and moved to Pilgrim as his personal whore.
One razor blade to his throat fixed that. And at sixteen I was sold once more, to a Merchant in the Rustbelt. Owner of Henry Locomotion: Henry Conaway. When an explosion destroyed his tool and cabin-making factory, he was forced to downsize. And then I was sold the last time for three thousand gold and found myself on a train to the Pyre.
The Pyre was floundering. But the rats lived on.
And at the ripe age of eighteen—I remember leaning over a waste bucket and vomiting up my insides. My friends Veronica and Allison, one holding my hair, while the other, in a panic, tried to get the Elixir she bought from Carleigh's Potions down my throat.
I remember pleading with the girls not to kill my baby.
And I remember then when my new owner, not happy that her prized whore—the whore she spent her brothel savings on, showed up pregnant. Alida walked into the room, arms crossed--
"The rats don't exclude pregnant ladies, nor babies, and they swarm to them at the scent of blood." She said—the words etched into my brain from her ton of disapproval, and also, disdain. I remember as those words left her lips, how a rat crawled out of its hole in the wall and brushed up against my thigh.
The rats. It always comes back to the rats. It was the rats that owned the Pyre mountains.
And it was that fear... that fear of giving up my baby to the rats...
That I remember gathering the courage to rush out of the brothel and into the streets.
I remember running as fast as I could, wiping the vomit off my mouth—receiving stares from the market men and women as I, the whore—ran down the street, feeling the rats at my heels, salivating, wanting, lurking like vultures.
And I remember the screams of Alida Witherton in the distance, as she clamored about to the crowd to catch the girl with the flaming red hair for as I was—her property to be returned.
It was only then that I stumbled into the train station and rushed down the platform, weaving in and out of Wanderers, Authority guards, civilians, and trainmen. The bells tolled loud and wide as more trains would enter and leave, and as I turned around, exhausted, my ankles hurting, I collapsed to the platform--begging for freedom--begging for a chance.
And then the Wanderlands answered my call, with the words:
"I've heard legends of your hair, and even greater ones of your tongue."
I looked up to see the man of legend as he sat on a wooden crate eating a sandwich and enjoying a beer. He lowered his Wanderling pelted cowl to reveal the blondest of hair, bluest of eyes, and the biggest iridescent smile. He brushed bread crumbs from his shallow-ocean-water blue tunic and teal pants, and beneath the cowl above his breast pocket was a curved golden line. Later revealed to be a golden C etched into his clothes. For he was the Captain of the Comradery. Charles Davidson. I remember him looking down at my belly, smiling as he looked at the dozen guards who were in the chase.
"Well don't you God, have a funny way of spiting me," I remember Charles saying as he looked up at the cavern, the train station inside the mountain, and took a bite from his sandwich.
"I-I don't understand," I replied.
"Of course, you don't. And I don't expect you to. For it is I who's just returned from the New World. We've made it through the Passage, beyond this frozen tundra of hot springs, endless gold, and fruit as large as newborns. And yet I have returned."
"Bu-but why?"
And for that, I remember his grin, as vast as any distance we've ever traveled.
"I returned because I didn't bring myself a woman. But now I not only have a woman to join my crew, one that can get pregnant at that."
And I remember him leaning in with such grace as he slid off his box and extended a hand to me.
"Come. We have a civilization to begin."