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

Since the advent of steam machinery, progress had leapt ahead of the initial designs. Trains, the once proud workhorses of those who populated the Sand Sea region, were the biggest casualties with a plentiful number being scrapped in places like these since their usefulness had been replaced with cost-saving or convenience. Some were recent, seemingly fresh out of the factory – without signs of damage, whereas others were perforated, rusted messes that the desert was slowly consuming.

All these were present for the goal of breaking them down and selling the material off to smelters. That was seemingly the plan at least, as it had obviously been some time since anything was taken to the breaking yard. The owner had let the last of his assistants go when swinging the hammer and axe was beyond their years.

‘Gramps? Hey, Gramps!’ the youth called impatiently. When no response was forthcoming he scraped up a length of piping and launched it at the figure atop the mound.

Franco’s grandfather, whom he had affectionately called Pappy throughout his younger years, straddled the cusp of a mountain of wreckage, surveying the surroundings. His work overalls were oil-stained and frayed, mirroring his cantankerous features and his thick, white beard. At this height he could find what they were looking for with his spyglass that extended out in a telescope of brass. Or, at least he could if the boy would stop complaining for five seconds.

The pipe fell short, though made quite the din, achieving its desired intention. Pappy withdrew his visual aid and scowled.

‘I don’t get it. What are we doing out here?’ the youth whined. Like any teenager, there were scores of places he would prefer to be.

‘I’ll repeat myself once more since you seem to be incapable of listening to me. I had a tip-off that this graveyard happens to be home to something of considerable worth, not that the owner knows it. He owes me and I need an extra pair of hands to collect it. Since yours are unburdened with a day’s work, I figured I could put them to use. Everybody benefits.’

‘Except me.’

Pappy sighed, attempting to keep his composure and scanned the yard again. ‘Yes, Franco, except you,’ he called. ‘This entire thing is an elaborate ruse to make your existence that little bit worse. Stop pouting. I didn’t say I was going to keep you all day, did I?’

‘We’ve been here for ever.’

‘It’s only been two hours!’ Pappy retorted.

Franco compressed his features in annoyance. ‘Yes, and it feels like for ever!’

The old man retracted his spyglass and began hooting with joy. Suddenly he skidded down the pile of wreckage, sending components tumbling down with him. The wave of materials spilt out around Franco’s feet like noisy water, loudly announcing Pappy who rode its crest on his backside. He landed with a thump and sprung to his feet – shockingly spry for a man of his age – before increasing to a jog.

‘Come on, lad, get moving; time is a-wasting. I found her!’

Franco followed half-heartedly, kicking whatever found his boots rather than making a route around.

Behind the next two elevations a small maintenance shed was hidden away. It wasn’t much to look at; the roof had partially collapsed, its doors no longer existed, and every window frame was devoid of required glass. This wasn’t important though. The real treasure was what was inside.

Franco made his way around to the entrance, or what was once defined as an entrance. Buried train tracks that supplemented the circumference of the yard itself split off and lazily ran into the neglected interior.

Inside, straddling the tracks, was a pitted, decaying mass of metal. It was clearly the corpse of a machine long abandoned, well past its glory days. Its wheels, despite age, still held strength, propping up a sandblasted frame.

‘Is this it? This is what we made our way out here for?’ Franco asked, decidedly unimpressed. A handful of pigeons watched from the bare rafters above, cooing at the intruders.

‘Can you not see it?’ Pappy questioned, strolling into the structure. The overpowering stench of dust, oil, and grease that assaulted the senses were obviously a delight for Pappy. For Franco, it just made him jerk with each violent sneeze.

‘It’s a wreck.’

‘That’s all it is to you?’

‘I think your eyesight’s going, Gramps. I thought you were going to impress me with all this talk. Instead, you’re excited about this. This.’ He gestured wildly with his hands. He concluded by putting a boot to the driving wheels in turn, three identical spindled beasts that matched his height almost perfectly. Flecks of corrosion fluttered away from every impact.

‘Young eyes, I swear. If all things were run by fourteen-year-olds, we would all meet a terrible end,’ Pappy mumbled to himself. Allowing himself a treat, he pulled himself up on the handrail to the vehicle’s footboard, a square of corrugated metal that covered the front wheels before the vehicle’s nose. He scrubbed away some of the deposits of filth with a leather glove, revealing a hint of its previous paintwork. It was oddly reassuring.

‘This wreck, as you so eloquently put it, is the Eiferian 433, an Alamos D-class locomotive and a real beauty of one too. See, these things were the workhorses of the Sand Sea before the sand ships began to move shipments. Unlike this thing here, they carry more loads and weren’t consigned to tracks so plenty of the trains like this were scrapped. They run others on the lines of course, much faster they say, but the Alamos … in its heyday, kid, they were a thing of beauty.’

‘It pulled ore?’

‘And plenty of it. Everything needs something to burn to fuel it these days. Time was, whenever you looked into the Sand Sea, you would see these on every line built.’

He ran his fingers down the boiler, tracing every pit and groove. The patina, long blasted away by the winds, left bare metal exposed.

‘Sounds nice, Gramps. Shame it’s seen better days, I mean, but still.’

‘Haven’t we all?’

The engine cab may have been blanketed by dust but this mattered not to Pappy. He stepped inside, trying not to let his excitement run away with him. His hands drifted over the knobs and pipes, most tarnished with age but seemingly in acceptable condition. Memories dictated movements. He gently tested levers with a tug this way and that. The firebox took more encouragement, though it finally opened. Large metal jaws exposed the heart of the locomotive, once an all-consuming fire, now just a recess harbouring darkness and ashes.

Franco watched all this play out. Never had he seen his grandfather so keen, a curiosity considering that he was the one raising him in his father’s absence. There were always arguments, mostly revolving around Franco’s troublesome friends and wayward attitude. Pappy scorned more than he complimented, knowing no better than to mimic how he himself had been brought up.

Dirt was wiped clear from the engine’s pressure gauge, its numbers clearly visible through smeared glass.

‘The 433 wasn’t just any old train, Franco. It was my train. I used to work it, this exact one, over forty years ago. You can’t imagine how excited I was to hear that it was here – cast aside like junk, but I was excited nonetheless. Back then I worked hauling coal in the east on one of the smaller lines to the smelting plants. Tough, dirty work, my boy. Would break someone of your frail constitution, as you are now at least.’

‘Day to day on this thing? Doesn’t sound so terrible to me.’

‘You may come to regret those words.’ Pappy chuckled.

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The yard owner owes me a debt.’

‘What sort of debt?’

‘The kind that you want to pay off immediately,’ Pappy coyly answered, ‘and he was mighty desperate too. This delight is now our property. Part of the arrangement is that we also get to use this here workshop for however long it takes to get it restored to working condition. That and we have claim of whatever can be of use on the premises. It will be a venture well worth the undertaking.’

‘We?’ Franco said, clearly not sharing the enthusiasm. ‘This is your endeavour, Grandpa, not mine. Don’t be roping me into this none.’

‘Yes, we. Us. You and I. Was I not clear in pointing that out? Do you have something better to do? Elsewhere to be?’

‘Yeah I do. I’ve got ambitions,’ he boasted with juvenile pride.

‘Please! You’ve got nothing but bad decisions under your belt, hoisting up those britches that are far too big. What are your plans outside of causing a ruckus with those who disagree with you?’

‘Does it even matter to you? It’s not like you’re my father or anything.’

‘No, but like I repeat every year, I’m the next best thing you’re ever going to get and should he miraculously drift on past, I’ll gladly pass the mantle.’

Franco huffed, kicking a spent can of paint over in frustration.

‘This is stupid. Don’t you think I deserve a say in all this? Don’t I get, I dunno, a choice?’

‘No, you don’t,’ Pappy snarled, ‘because I’m sick of hearing about the mischief you’ve been getting up to. You’re better than those rapscallions out there, troublemakers who steal purses from already downtrodden folk. Do you want to live picking pockets or brawling in gutters? You’re better than that, Franco. I raised you better than that and I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch you succumb to such foolishness. If you are incapable of making sensible decisions, then I’ll have to make them for you.’

Franco immediately recoiled. The pigeons loudly took to the sky in surprise. Anger was not a stranger to Pappy, but to see him so fiery about his grandson’s wellbeing was unique. That passion was normally reserved for betting on horses or debating the state of local ales.