Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy

‘Bastard!’ Franco cried out, waving away the burning that plagued his hands in turn. ‘It would be braced back up if you stopped asking me every five minutes! Do you have any idea how awkward these bolts are? They were sent to test me, I swear.’

The old man rested an arm on the engine cab in disbelief. He had spent the last few hours sweeping and polishing, driving away the accumulated build-up that haunted every pipe, handle, and gauge. Whilst not clean in the conventional sense it was easily suitable for the first attempt at coaxing the locomotive to move.

‘Really? You’re asking me that? Of everything you’ve done, including rebuilding that pain-in-the-ass left cylinder, you expect me to believe you’re bested by a bolt of all things?’ Pappy quipped. Didn’t the boy remember how long he’d spent living on the rails? Repairs were commonplace. There was no complaining about broken this or impatient that. Either you learnt how to fix the vehicle, quickly, or you stayed to watch the crows circle in impatience.

‘Bested nothing! It’s just being difficult is all; doesn’t want to get set in place.’ Franco took stock of his tool and tried once more. It was unthinkable that a single bolt was going to get the better of him. There was a series of increasingly strained heaves that climaxed with a torrent of abuse at the offending fastener.

‘Quit being soft then! What did I say? Brandish the stick when it misbehaves. Do I have to come down there and show you how to correctly do up a bolt? Shall we start at the beginning while we’re at it? Lesson one. This here that you’re looking at is what’s called a train …’

Franco hunched over himself, tossing the instrument into a nearby toolbox. It’s introduction knocked it onto one side, spilling the rest sideways.

‘Yeah, all right, drop the sarcasm, old-timer. It’s on. That’s the last of them. Let me get my breath back and we’ll get it lowered back down.’ Franco gasped, tossing his leather gloves aside. His palms burnt, indented with the recess of the tool despite adequate protection.

‘After I check it,’ Pappy insisted.

‘Yes, after you check it. It’s like you don’t trust my handiwork …’ Franco peeled his vest from his torso, tossing it to the dirt. The afternoon sun had been scorching, making him a fool for slaving away for so long. Curse this heat and curse those damn troublesome bolts. He swiped at a water tap head, dragging out the connecting hose for relief, dousing his scalp in water.

‘Trust, nothing. It’s sensible to double-check another’s work. Prevents accidents.’

Water sprayed from Franco’s lips, bringing relief. Using the tap, he filled up a pair of tin cups and drank his, hungrily, speedily reaching to refill it once more. The second was passed to Pappy, who sat himself down on the side of the engine steps.

‘What do you think about tomorrow?’ Franco sipped from his cup. If he was honest this whole affair was making him feel quite queasy. It wasn’t the hardships of learning every aspect from scratch, though they were taxing. It wasn’t the sheer urgency that his grandfather demanded they worked with, though it was significantly draining. No, the unease came about whenever Franco envisioned attempting to start the train up. For six years it had been simply a shell, an abandoned husk seemingly rooted to the scrapyard by its own fate. To envision it in movement was preposterous. All this dedication would amount to naught. Doubt was beginning to gnaw away at him despite the accomplishments made.

So what if it didn’t start? They had done everything possible to coax a second chance of life from the locomotive. It was almost depressing to think that after such toil things were in the hands of fate or some other unscrupulous force. At least they had given it a shot. At least they had tried.

Pappy nursed his cup, keeping his own concerns silent. Unlike Franco, he didn’t fret over the chance of the train being nothing. His mind was set on logical solutions to possible eventualities.

‘I think we’ve done all we can do, but if the old girl doesn’t want to start, we gotta encourage her. What’s with your face?’

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘The hell you don’t. You look about as sour as a bottle of milk left in the noon sun. Out with it. Not getting second thoughts, are you?’

‘Never. Just anxious, is all.’

‘We’ve come too far to back down now. We both have. See, our lives have been set on a course like these here rails. No deviation from any of that – even if you wanted to. You’re fixed on your destination, Franco. Ain’t nothing you can do but to just shut up and accept where you’re heading.’

Pappy burst into a series of rasping coughs. Franco watched him finally suppress them with large gulps of water.

‘Curse this infernal dust,’ he griped, spitting whatever had collected in his throat out into the sand.

Franco smiled, taking another mouthful in turn, though he felt his expression descend to a frown behind the tin.

The walk of the yard tracks was done by gaslight, uneventful bar crossing some of the more excitable rats. Sleepers and rails were swept when they saw fit, for a drift of sand could cause problems for the virgin voyage – if it happened of course. These concerns were spoken about seriously and with equally serious length. Franco questioned almost every part of the locomotive, contemplating most imaginary difficulties with concern.

Pappy reassured him with strict mechanical logic when the assumptions of failure were a possibility – no matter how remote. He explained in as much depth as needed why this wouldn’t break, that wouldn’t burst, or why something or other wouldn’t come spinning off in motion. For most of these reservations, it was enough allowing Franco to move on to the next. For the ones where imagination had gotten the better of him, Pappy simply returned various insults, their tameness appropriate to the thought’s complexity.

By the time the track was walked it was already past ten so the pair agreed that the night would be best spent sleeping in the yard. There was already a good provision of blankets, and docile wild fowl that strolled the plot were easily caught for food.

Fire spat and crackled, launching spiralling embers into the night. Metal skewers were adorned with meat, dripping fat onto the coals with erratic sizzles. A wolf called for a mate far out in the desert, its call carrying far into the night. Insects chirped to one another, some taking to their wings and buzzing past the open flame.

Franco turned a skewer, scrutinizing to see if it was ready yet in the light of the fire. Disappointed, he set it back.

‘Cards?’ Pappy offered to pass the time, producing a well-worn pack from a satchel.

‘I’ve never learnt.’

Old features compressed in confusion. ‘Not a single game?’

‘Not a one.’ Franco looked blankly, feeling as though he had committed some grand crime. For all intents he may as well have. To his grandfather, cards were a rite of passage for any young man, as much as their first drink and taste of a woman.

‘How have you lived this long and not learnt how to play a few hands? Next you’ll be telling me that you get drunk from a single bottle.’

‘Big talk from an antique who has never used a razor. I have never seen you without a beard. Bet you were born with it. The agony that your poor mother endured …’

‘It’s better than the scrappy thing that you call facial hair. I bet it’s taken you years just to get it that far.’

Franco snorted, conceding. ‘All right, all right, just cut the deck, old man, and teach me how to take your money.’

After ten hands, the rules were finally beginning to settle, as was Franco’s luck. When the last of the pocket change was used, the pair resorted to the carcass bones of their now spent meal to settle hands. The gruesome pile of makeshift chips was stacked greatly in Franco’s favour.

Pappy swore, stating that the concept of beginner’s luck might actually be accurate. Begrudgingly he dealt the next hand.

‘Spill a story about the old days,’ Franco said. ‘You’ve never actually told me about when you worked on the tracks. Sort of kept that one secret from me growing up.’

‘Not deliberately, you understand. You never wanted to listen so I never took the time to tell. It worked out fine.’

‘I’m listening now. You spent days out in the desert, right?’

The cards were turned and scrutinized. This time the old-timer avoided a bad hand from the outset.

‘It was difficult, for sure. The firm would scoop up anybody to take to the trains, burn them out and then send them out the door. You needed grits to hold out against what they put you through. There was five of us contracted, taking us from the east mining routes to the mills that were springing up down south. It was relentless. Dragging tonnes of ore day and night normally resulted in us in sleeping in the cab to take shifts. Brothers were we, tight as tight we could become. They were blood and there were times when that fact kept us alive. We looked after one another. We were family.’

‘So it was all good?’ Franco drew from the deck.

Pappy wiped spilt water from his steely whiskers, laughing at Franco’s words, taking another card and raising the ante by a pair of rib bones.

‘Oh no. I said we were family. Have you ever seen a family that didn’t argue, or have one who didn’t want to kill another?’

It was a fair point and one Franco dwelled upon for a moment whilst watching the old codger ramble on. He had been a thorn in his side since he was a youngster, stopping him from doing this, doing that, but these were actions always undertaken out of love in lieu of absent parents.

‘We ate, we slept, we argued. It was not unusual to find the cab filled with cards, a veritable gambling den it were. Money changed quickly, from one hand to the next. It was all we could do to be entertained when left out here. I was young, stupid – not too much older than you are now. Those days they got anybody with a back to break to build what you see now, and plenty got broken in the process. Fat lot of good it did. This region is still a dustbowl. Plenty die out here without a coin, without a hope, and without a measure of enjoyment in their lives. And let me tell you something …’

Pappy folded his hand without warning. He slapped his cards down and beckoned Franco to claim the pot. That he did, with the grandest of smiles, unaware that the cards may have been something quite different than what he had been told.

‘… nothing soothes the soul quite like them.’

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