The Purchase
A ‘Railroads’ short story
The rain continued to fall.
It had only been a day and a night but it was persistent. Had it been an hour of hell or a night of maddening shelter, then Thompson wouldn’t have been so outlandishly misplaced.
He gazed around the rolling hills of mud and stone, gray grass whipping like a tide that the wind had so brashly assumed. Wiping his brow of warm sweat and cold rain, he squinted in exasperated submission for any sign of life. He could’ve just retraced his steps but he was afeared this his entrenched mudden path had already been engulfed by the now rising bogs.
So he continued onwards with little more to comfort him than wet food in a now soaked leather bag, and his self-beratement of his own foolhardiness to keep him warm. Spying a likely looking hill that may give clue to his whereabouts, he followed onwards towards the next of his trail of giant breadcrumbs.
The bleakness of his surroundings gave poor Thompson plenty of time for retrospection: He’d needed not to travel by foot; a perfectly acquainted rail line ran straight from his last stop to his home. When Thompson was dropped off at Station Town, he’d weighed the savings of his most recent livings and hungered for some spending. He was in the right location to do so.
—
Most of Station Town had refused to greet the weather offered earlier that day, and stores opened late. Reluctant workers banged away from their fondly named ‘Work Pit’ from which sounds rang lazily throughout the town; breaking the silence like a child at a Sunday service.
Thompson Wheels was used to early mornings. He had made his homely living by serving as a crew sit-in for both larger companies and freelance workers alike, a true specialist in navigation. He’d just finished up on a simple Grain Train which ran a triangle between the western settlements. Nothing dangerous, save for the hungry birds, but the best part of a week holed up in the dullest of servitudes.
So Mr. Wheels stretched his muscles and imagination that morning by picking through the cobbled nooks and crannies distant from the popular Main Street. There was not a soul to be seen for most of his hours, and if it wasn’t for the fleeting tail of a black cat he wouldn’t have turned down a side-tunnel of Lavender Alley to take shelter inside the stonework underpass..
‘Mrs. Mogs’ Mysteries’ read a rotten sign; too old to even creak in the breeze. Sure enough, laid into the tunnel wall was an oaken door of wrought iron studs and a burnt black ring handle. It’s imposing visage was quite unlike the squared window beside it. Warmth spilled out of the rippled panes much like an elderly mother glowing with care aside a stoic father. It was the only clue that life was inside, and was the most he’d seen all day.
Convinced, Thompson put a hand on the ring handle, cold and wet of a prisoners shackle, and he leaned into the turn.
It pulled freely, and the door glided inwards with no effort spent. He stepped inside the, well, to call it a shop…
He paused.
It could have been a shop. It could also have been a museum, a library, or the most vibrant mish-mash of a storeroom he’d ever seen. Large shelves lined the walls with no particular orientation filled with books bound in colours and scripts not meant for easy eyes. Wooden and brass constructions littered the floor like molehills while the most grievous oddities dangled from strings upon the ceiling. The clash of colour and concept were an affront the the quiet world from which he’d just taken refuge: It was a vulgar ritual of an entertainers many affairs.
Thompson, the poor boy, was instantly hooked.
It wasn’t until he’d let his eyes focus and remembered to breath did he notice a figure sitting by the near corner, surrounded by a goliathan desk iced in scrolls. The lass smiled calmly from her armchair, and patiently waited for Thompson to return to his senses in full; her straight raven hair reflecting brightly in the shimmering candlelight.
She did not introduce herself, and Thompson could not will himself to greet her. He did not try for long. He made his way into the conglomeration of assets like a bird hungry for morsels, but cautious of predators.
Literacy of Languages unknown; maps of cities long lost; schematics of enigmas impracticable; paintings of landscapes impossible. His fidgeting found a forgone climax mistaken as a conclusion at the comings of a brass clock.
It was a shapely box no bigger than a fruit crate, but no smaller than sense would allow. Upon it’s square face, engravings would catch the light around enamellings that would compliment it’s contours. Inlays of precious stones would radiate prismatic patterns of emeralds and rubies, nestled neatly upon ivory embellishments.
It had truly captured his passion. Thompson had not before been entertained by clockwork, yet knew upon sight this timepiece that it had been incepted into his enraptured heart.
The woman of dark hair make silent approach to the embracing couple, a knowing smile upon her lips and a look of empathy in her eyes. In her palm lay a turnkey of brass. Slowly, she plucked the tool between thumb and forefinger and eased it out of it’s nest. She glided to the clock’s rear with flowing haste and centred the key to it’s entrance.
Their eyes locked contact for mere moments long enough, Staggered breathing made intruding advances amongst the intimate embrace. Hearts thumped of unspoken tension, and she could take it no longer. She gripped clock and key and with a sharp twist, a third heart beat to life.
—
Thompson re-adjusted the leather holdings from tugging at his coat. Slick with water on oilskin, he cursed as he trapped his finger in the process. The clock was a considerable weight which should have warranted another good reason against travel by foot. However, it’s price left Thompson with little left to afford ticket. He couldn’t remember the exact pricing but that it was an oddly specific value, and more than three days pay. He’d mulled it over, and figured by the time he’d paid for the Baron’s Inventory Tax, he would have little left. It seemed to him now that it would not have been such a sacrifice after all.
Still he marched forwards: A lone soldier separate from his platoon of society. Eventually, his persistence would reward him with the villainous shape of Farmfort! A defiant gesture to the woods and fields surrounding.
Farmfort! A castle upon a rise of crag and crest with enough cannons to watch over it’s brood of farms scattered like offspring. People ate well in Farmfort. It was one of the few places a man could actually work for his keep, so to speak. Thompson Wheels had called it home since he was Thompson Farmer and held it’s ruler in the appropriate regard.
They called him the Red Butcher, for the Baron of Farmfort tended to kill those who spoke his true names. He made sport of it. Everyone was in agreement that the main problem of the sociopathic boiling-blooded glutton was that he was very good at his position. In the many decades that he had claimed possession of the industrious town, not once did the affairs of outside aggression cause so much as a drop in profits. His profits, but economical gain nonetheless.
One particular supply of income was sitting as a literal weight upon poor Thompson’s shoulders. Technically what he was now trying to achieve was a severe case of smuggling. It might as well be treason, the Baron is not creative with his charges. He hoped his otherwise clean slate would avoid suspicion.
He eyed a smoky trail drifting wistfully away from the fields, most likely the three o’clock to Laketown. He watched the distant machine of soot and fire gently chug along the northward line until he lost it behind the approaching treeline. With relief in his soul he started onwards back down his point of vantage, and he trudged his way homeward.
The woods would provide ample cover for his dripping torso, but it wasn’t until now did he realise the rain had stopped and declined into a simple drizzling mist. As with the ending of the torrent; he too needed a rest.
Finding a suitable log beneath a thicket clumping, he took a strained seat to let his hollow legs quiver. He lifted his face to the canpoy toying the occasional drip of water into his mouth and once again questioned the sanity of his purchase.
He shook the pack to the floor and lifted it’s lid, wary of letting the elements inside.
‘The hands hadn’t moved! Don’t tell me I’ve bought a broken clock…’
He lifted the gilded weight out the the pack and turned his ear to its spine: still it ticked. He plucked at the hands but they stayed firmly in place.
‘I do hope it’s a simple fix. I’ll have to wait until I get back.’
His ears picked up a distant sound from the woods. It was well hidden within the rustle of leaves.
There it was again. And again. A sharp clink. It was rythmic. It was getting louder.
It was getting closer.
Thompson jolted to his feet, cramming the clock back into the sack, and dove for cover behind the soaken log.
He could hear a figure approaching, stumbling, panting with fatigue. He could hear it stop for a pause, then scramble for cover aside a thick tree right next to him. The figure, now noticably female, had not noticed him for her sights were firmly set on the trail she had come from. He scanned her sylan features; her forced breath. She was clothed in furs and skins decorated with stones and flowers. And bones.
Thompson dared not move. He knew what she was: ‘A Woad.’
Barbarians who were insane enough to live outside city walls, relying on their wits and instinct to survive each passing night. The woods are their dwellings, and they are very territorial. To trespass without cause is death.
As he watched, she drew a bow and knocked an arrow. The engineer in Thompson had to admire it’s design, but they were interrupted.
An explosion rang from the trees, and a neighboring branch was reduced to splinters.
“Come on out lil’ raider! Why’re you hiding? Could it be that yer a-all outta tree-es…”
A thick Farmfort accent cooed as its speaker came into view. A tall man. Well fed. Clothed in Blackguard fatigues. A slim flintlock rifle poised in his hands.
Thompson pressed himself low. A weapon of that quality could only mean a Hunting Party.
‘They must’ve been chasing the Woad. Bloody hells teeth! She led them right to me. The others must be nearby.
Sure enough, more figures emerged from the woods. Varnished rifles and uniformed helmets were the only unifying factor of their scruffed appearances.
One of them was large and fed. Crimson cloth sticking out of the contours of his armour. The Red Butcher himself.
A rustle of movement, leaves scattered. The men, Thompson included, jumped. The ground shook with the ‘crack’ of gunpowder.
A matt of brown fur came to a stop at the bottom of the trunk, bloody and still.
A rabbit.
The men turned away, but Thompson couldn’t take his eyes off the critter. It was a mere few feet away and he could clearly see how it’s form was an imitation. It had tusks. Small and rounded instead of front teeth. It’s feet jagged and clawed and it’s tail hid spines within the ball of fur.
So entranced was he that he failed to notice that one of the Blackguard had also taken an interest. A leg entered Thompson’s limited peripheral and he froze.
“Looky ‘ere! It’s a right muncher.” Appraised the man, scooping the beast up to display.
Thompson could feel the eyes of the hunting party bare down as if their gaze could see straight through his cover. He locked his own firmly on the ground.
‘Don’t look down. Oh sweet Earth please don’t look down.’
“It’s a hefty one too! Soft fur- yaaaaargh!” He yelped, and dropped the rabbit. The men howled with laughter, but the humour was lost to Thompson.
The man had looked down.
Their eyes met for an eternity. The hunter span on his heels and pointed right at him, and an arrow pierced his throat.
He gurgled in warning.
The woad span from her tree, another arrow knocked. The men brought their weapons ready, The Baron barked orders.
The woad let loose, taking a rifleman through the gut. A volley of firesmoke tore into the vegetation. Thompson ducked.
A hunter broke position, throwing aside his gun and unfastened a nasty iron cudgel. The woad pounced upon him in an instant. She spun her bow into the clubs shaft, pinning it, and yanked, The weapon, arm, and man unbalanced onto her. She pulled at her pendants by her neck with a free hand and snapped off a beast tooth.
In one swift motion she gutted the man.
Another volley, this time at her. She braced in a low crouch behind her victim and leaned his body as a shield. They shot straight through him, killing them both.
The welcome silence was broken by the Baron.
“Stand up coward. Hands were we can see ‘em.” He instructed calmly.
Thompson readied himself and obliged. He uncurled his lanky form desperate to relieve his aching muscles, and gradually took account of the scene. What was left of the Baron’s men held their weapons with a faint uncertainty. Glances were exchanged and low muttered questions.
The Baron stepped closer and gestured for his men to lower their weapons. He smiled.
“You’re the Farmer’s son, aint’cha?”
Thompson nodded.
“I knew yer father, A good man back in his day. He still happy in the city?”
“T-Thank you Sire.” Stuttered Thompson, taken aback. “Yes, Sire. He is.”
“Aye…” said the Baron. His smile fading. “He’s gonna miss ya…”
Thompson took a step back.~
“S-Sire?”
His mind raced, Did they notice he was missing from the train? Had they seen his pack? Did they think he was with the woad?
“You’ve been got, Son. You ain’t getting out of my woods with that.” He pointed to his chest.
Blood. Hot and sticky, and his.
Thompson didn’t feel a thing. Shocked, he watched as the Baron pulled a pistol from his hip.
“I’m sorry.”
He loaded a round ball, pulled back the hammer, and fired.
—
Darkness.
A tunnel wall. A large wooden door. A prisoner’s shackle. A world of culture.
A raven-haired woman.
—
She gripped clock and key and with a sharp twist, she waited.
Nothing.
Thompson blinked.
“Pity.” He remarked. “It would’ve been nice to see it working,”
He gingerly put back the clock upon its shelf and addressed the shopkeep, who was retreating to a polite distance.
“Mrs. Mogs, I presume?”
She laughed. An angelic sound.
“No, no. Mogs is the cat. I’m just the clerk.” She dismissed.
“Well then, Mrs. ‘Just-The-Clerk’, you have a wonderful place here. I shall be sure to remember it for my next visit.”
He fastened his raincoat and permitted himself one last sweep of the curio’s.
“Such a piece, that clock. Tell me, I would’ve thought someone would’ve bought it by now?”
“Well that’s just it…” A sad smile on her lips.
“Noone ever does.”
—
The rain began to fall. Thompson was glad to have the warmth of the train carriage as he returned home. The view of Farmfort skipping between the trees. Thompson stared blankly, listening for gunfire.
A Pursuit of Passion 