Aberrant Egress

By James Hill

As a young boy camping in the foothills of the West Wall, Giem Kyler stumbles across a wonderfully bizarre creature
thought not to exist within the miles high confines of the Basin crater. Curiosity turns this first encounter bloody,
leaving the eleven year old with a scar and a lingering desire to know...

Seven years later this same curiosity lands him in a pinch of trouble with the kinds of people his Father
wouldn’t be real keen on, and he is persuaded into a trip back up those crumbling hills in search of answers.
With his best friend Satchel at his side - always dependable, ever the cynic - Giem returns. On the back of happenstance
and less-than-stellar decision making he, incredibly, uncovers the answer, discovers a truth.

And this truth is complicated. Dangerous, even. What he finds is far more than an ecological oddity:
the dragon hatchling's very existence here in the fringes of the Basin thrusts the trio center stage of an ideological struggle between
superpowers half a world away. Who she is threatens to turn a cold war very, very hot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jan 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662921919

Book preview

One

He bolted from the plain, whitewashed farmhouse with childish abandon and crashed into the tire swing. His momentum sent him swinging wildly under the gnarled monster of an oak tree; he burst into giggles as a shoe worked free and went sailing.

Eventually the pendulum slowed. He continued to spin lazily, counterclockwise.

Two miles to the southeast was the small farming community of Aduard; the top of the grain elevator was plainly visible above a line of trees. There was his home, an unremarkable two story farmhouse with a nice porch. To the left was the tall barn, meticulously maintained. Beyond were the fields they leased out, turning green. To the north were the foothills, grayish blue in the distance. Lording over the squat almost-mountains, running from the northern horizon to beyond the southern horizon, was the West Wall. The rim of this ancient impact crater, dubbed simply the Basin, averaged several miles high for the majority of its circumference. Only in the extreme south did it drop low enough for the Jade Ocean to nibble away, to leak in.

There was the trunk of the tree.

Ah, there was the grain elevator again...

And the house...

The foothills once more then -

(a rising flash of nausea made him question the wisdom of such acrobatics following a large meal)

- the dark grey stone of the West Wall. The geological marvel was sheer, nearly vertical in places, dwarfing absolutely everything beneath it. It stood so tall neither beast nor machine could fly above. Only the most daring of souls had ever attempted to scale the Wall; those few that returned reported miles upon miles of glacier-choked mountains beyond.

Escape was utterly impossible.

The door to the porch clattered shut. Giem Kyler, quit skylarking and come help me with these dishes.

He exaggerated a sigh.

You can go play once you scrub these pots clean.

Oh, c’mon, can we just -

No, no excuses, stated his father firmly, hands on hips, a dish rag slung over his shoulder. "You begged and pleaded to skip the dishes last night, and now all the food gunk is dried on. Come on - wait any longer and it’ll fossilize, I swear."

With a huff Giem ceased his spin, fetched his shoe, and returned to the house. Father threw the dish towel at him as he clomped up the steps. Together they went to the kitchen; father took up station at the sink.

When we’re done here I’m going into town for a few things, he stated as he scrubbed a plate. With a dunk and rinse, he handed the plate off. "The truck needs gas and I really should check in with Marcus."

Giem, standing to his side, dried the plate and stacked it in the cupboard. Will you be long?

As a mechanic, father was often away to neighboring towns, fixing this and that piece of farm machinery for this and that family that father always said he should know but never did. As he was a single parent, this left eleven-year-old Giem alone all too frequently. Even though he was a big and strong and super not scared young (almost) man, father being away for all but the briefest of times still made him uncomfortable. A boy’s mind is quite imaginative.

Hopefully, no. Another plate was scrubbed. While I’m out, you need to do your chores. Then go upstairs and pack. Remember, just the essentials now. Don’t take too much stuff, ‘cause it all has to fit in the trunk. Otherwise - he eyed his son with mock sternness - I’ll make you carry it.

Giem nodded vigorously. Just the essentials.

That means you can’t bring your rock collection.

He cocked his head. Huh? I wasn’t going to.

You were thinking about it.

No I wasn’t!

Father flashed a sly grin. A fork went into the sink full of soapy water. Just checking.

With a dunk and a scrub, father passed off the now clean fork, but it slipped from Giem’s grasp and tinked to the floor. He was quick to scoop it up, but father was not an adherent to the five second rule: he gestured to give it back. It was rewashed.

What time are we leaving tomorrow? inquired Giem.

If you have all your chores done and your trunk packed, and you help me load the truck, we can be out of here around ten or so, father answered. It’s a two hour drive into the mountains, so the sooner the better.

Eventually the stack of dishes dwindled. Giem was dismissed; father took his keys and departed for Aduard. While he was away, Giem fed the chickens, watered the garden, and took down what little laundry was left on the line (just a few shirts). As boys do, he entertained himself for a while by throwing pebbles at the vanes of the windmill next to their barn; the thin metal made a funny clang when hit. Chickens pecked about. Finally he went inside to his room to pack.

Mornings were an anathema to him. Never had Giem been an early riser, never would he be. Those who rose with the dawn must not have very comfortable beds, for if they did, surely they would want just five more minutes...

Wake up early...just to go to school...gross...

He rolled away from the blaring alarm -

...wait...

- and instantly rolled back, throwing off the covers and leaping from bed in one smooth motion. This wasn’t a school day! It was June 7, a summer Thursday! It was camping day, camping day! He bounded for the bathroom to get ready, nearly tripping on a toy he’d neglected to put away (don’t tell father). Washed and dressed, he practically threw himself down the stairs.

Why can’t you do that during the school year? commented his father from the kitchen. Bacon sizzled pleasantly in one skillet while one of many pancakes was underway in another. He smiled. Practically have to drag you down the stairs.

Because school is boring. I don’t like school. Giem sat at the table. It’s all dumb things like verbs and fractions. I want to learn cool things like making fire...or cooking fish...

Rest assured, we will have plenty of time for all of that. Father piled high the plate before Giem. His son poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher. Sorry, no eggs - didn’t want the mess. He turned off the stove and sat with his own plate of food.

It’s all right.

Do you have everything packed?

Yep! A cut of pancake dripped syrup, mostly back onto the plate.

Clothes? Your toothbrush? A pillow and blanket? Something to do if it rains?

Giem nodded. He stuffed his mouth with said pancake.

Just the essentials now, right? father raised an eyebrow.

With a napkin, his son wiped syrup dribble from his chin, trying to avoid eye contact.

Giem?

Yes?

Just the essentials...right?

Uh...

Father snorted and hid a grin. Well, you know the deal! Once you’re done, go make your bed, then bring down your trunk to the truck. I’ll clean the dishes.

With breakfast done, Giem hastily made his bed (hopefully father wouldn’t notice that he hadn’t tucked in the sheets) and waddled down the stairs with his trunk full of just the essential necessities and nothing else at all. The truck was loaded. Father shuttered the windows and locked the doors, and together they set off for a long weekend.

Initial progress was along well-maintained roads. The West End was mostly farming; the area around Aduard was a verdant patchwork. The roads here were level, wide, and elevated, flanked by deep ditches. Progress was good, if a little dusty. Nearing the foothills, however, the roads became narrower, rougher, and steeper.

From here on out - hold on - from here, we’re going to be taking old mining roads, father explained as he slowed the truck for a deep rut. They drove through a wide valley between two tall hills. In front of them, the valley diverged, with one branch going northwest and the other northeast. The deeper one went into the hills, the tighter and less traveled the valleys became. Here, at the outskirts, there was still road enough. He pointed northeast. The main road goes that way - there’s a lake with numerous cabins. We were up there once before, but I don’t know if you remember it. You were little.

Giem only vaguely remembered the lake.

We’re going this way, father continued, pointing down the other valley branch. These roads aren’t used much anymore, so they’ll be bumpy. Hang on!

Hang on, Giem did. For an hour and a half, father skillfully guided the aging truck with its rusted leaf springs along the faded and debris ridden remnant of a road with enough twists and turns to blur any sense of direction. Finally, with the sun at about its zenith, father pulled the truck into a low, grassy clearing tucked neatly into the elbow of the valley. Maybe two acres in size, give or take, the minuscule floodplain was fenced by towering pine trees. Birds chittered and squirrels chattered.

Father disembarked and stretched mightily. How about that? We’re here!

If Giem had known the word, he’d have described the area as idyllic. It’s quiet.

Very. That’s why I like it.

The two stood side by side, soaking in the beauty of the scene.

Mmm, marvelous, father sighed, smiling, nodding genially at nature’s beauty. Absolutely marvelous, and yet Giem could not help but notice how he kept his shoulders up, not quite relaxing entirely. A father’s duties never end. How about we get a tent pitched?

Two

Mother sang to her songs so beautiful they stirred her hearts and prompted her to spin about in joy. Father read poems and histories to her, epics and tales of familial triumph through the ages. Her blood rushed, listening to him recount battles from ages past. Love flowed and gentle music suffused her world.

Or it had.

It stopped at some point. When she could not tell, for such concepts as when meant little in this state of being. Nothing marked the passage of time. The music had marked the passage of time. But the music stopped. Time too. Mother and Father grew quiet; their torrent of love and affection waned, then ceased.

What happened? Where had it gone?

Was she alone? Why was that?

There had been noise, but not music. Motion too. Strange motion, not always gentle. Many someones touched her shell; the flames behind the cold touch were displeasing. She was curious in a morbid sense: most were weak or distorted. Some burned too hot, while others were painfully ragged.

She did not like any of them.

At some point, even that faded away. The motion stopped; the flames departed. She was alone. Somewhere. Somewhere very lonely. Damp. Very quiet.

Unhappy quiet.

She didn’t know how long she had been here, in the Very Quiet Damp. Time meant even less here. Time was a construct that required a frame of reference, her father had said...maybe. Perhaps all she needed was a frame of context. Maybe it was time to make time...

Thick moss carpeted the walls and ceiling of the tunnel; its faint green glow offered a modicum of illumination, only enough to cast eerie shadows and make dark corners darker. A pile of battered, rotten crates and barrels slouched haphazardly against one wall. The floor was scattered with rusted tools, bits of chains, the remnants of a mine-cart track. Silence reigned, save the rhythmic drip drip drip of water deep within the mountain.

Sometimes the mountain itself spoke.

One crate of lacquered wood had survived the decades in better shape. It rocked suddenly, thumped from within. The crumbling remains of a stacked tool chest fell away. Tools clattered; the sharp, bell-like ring echoed, disturbing decades of perfect, humid chill.

Another thump from within. The crate jolted.

A third thump; harder yet. Rusted nails screeched as they were wrenched from the wood.

The fourth strike was enough to splinter the crate. Out came rolling an ovoid stone, about two feet long end to end, perfectly white and absolutely flawless. Lacquer had protected but not saved the crate; finally it succumbed to gravity and collapsed in upon itself. The heap of falling junk propelled the stone down the tunnel. It bumped a barrel and spun about for several seconds before rolling to a mossy wall and gently coming to a rest.

Nothing further happened. Stillness returned.

And departed just as quickly.

The stone heaved, rocking gently. It clattered against the wall as it swayed. A stronger crack, and it bodily jumped. The flawless surface began to show damage, fine, fracturing lines spidering out from the point of impact. The prisoner within kept up its barrage, striking again and again, enlarging the fractures. The egg bounced and rolled wildly.

With a final blow, the egg shattered, and a tiny dragon spilled out into a world of dust and rot. The hatchling, barely an arm’s length from nose to tail tip, squeaked pitifully. It struggled to stand on wobbly legs.

In a perfect world, a dragon would hatch in the presence of its parents to great fanfare.

The silence of the cave was a poor substitute.

With a weak stagger, she nosed about her surroundings. Where were her parents? They should be around here somewhere, right? Behind this box? Or maybe around this barrel? Hello?

Panic rose in her minuscule chest.

She was alone, she realized.

Dazed, confused, increasingly panicked, the hatchling searched frantically for her parents, for anyone. Even in the gloom, she saw no one. Her pint-sized roar went unanswered. She cast out with her mind - there was nothing but a few bats.

So...alone...

Panic fully gripped her like a vise. She desperately tried to calm herself, trying to recall any piece of information about herself, her parents, or her predicament. I am...I am...Glorious Snow of Morning Light... -she managed to recall. My...my parents are...are...not here. Gone. I am alone. Three tiny hearts lurched in unison. Mother! Father! No, please, where are you? Why did you leave me! Please come back! I’m hungry and scared! Please, Father! Help!

Blinded by a complex soup of panic, anger, fear and hunger, she fled down the tunnel as fast as her small legs could carry her. Providence or probability, her terrified flight carried her down the proper tunnels to a swift exit.

Squeezing between the boulders of the rockfall that plugged the tunnel entrance, Snow was utterly dazzled by the daylight. For a few moments, she forgot her many problems. The sun was so bright, the air so fresh. Puffy clouds meander through the sky. Everything in this mixed up world was impossibly large - surely those trees must be holding up the heavens!

Her breathing slowed; her hearts were soothed. A fleck of calm returned. She could do this, she decided. She could do this. Just one thing at a time. She would find her parents. Just first things first.

She was thirsty. And dirty. And very hungry.

From far down-hill a tiny waft of moisture - that crisp dampness of running water - found her. There - down there must be a river. A river would tackle two problems at once. The third could be handled easily enough with some tubers or wild onions. Those grew near rivers, right? Only one way to find out!

Teeny feet stamped the ground in determination: she would overcome.

She might have hatched alone in a damp hole in the side of a mountain who knows where, but she would persevere. She could do this. She was Glorious Snow of Morning Light! She would march down this mountain, find the first person who knew where she was, and demand to be brought home!

Home! She was going home!

To seal her resolve, she drew upon every fiber of her being, throwing back her head and loosing the mightiest roar she could manage!

The pitiful, screeching squeal didn’t even echo. Not even the squirrels dashed for their holes.

I’ll show you, she growled. "I’ll show the whole world! I will find my parents! I will work my way home, whether you like it or not!"

Unsurprisingly, the squirrels offered no retort.

Three

The tent was successfully pitched and furnished. Rocks were gathered from the river and a space had been cleared for a fire ring. Giem gathered deadfall and father chopped some larger pieces. Though still a bit early, dinner was underway over a happy little fire. One thing Giem could not help but notice, however, during all of the camp set up, was that father seemed...well, off. Distracted. Constantly stealing glances northward.

Giem sat across from his father, poking the fire with a gnarled stick. Bits of ash and sparks plumed. Father, tending to a skillet full of diced sausage and potatoes, waved for him to quit it.

Are you okay? asked Giem.

Father cocked an eyebrow. Hmm? What do you mean?

You seem...on edge.

Do I?

Yeah, you keep spacing out, staring into the forest. Is there something out there? Giem asked, suddenly worried. Father flipped some sausage; the grease crackled pleasantly.

No, not that I am aware of. I did see some mountain cat tracks, however. Giem’s eyes went wide, mouth open. No, no, don’t worry - they were definitely not fresh. Besides, mountain lions are solitary creatures; they rarely attack people, he continued, trying to reassure his son with only limited success. Giem, too, began scanning the deepening darkness of the forest.

Is it safe?

"Is it safe? Ha! As if I would ever let some overgrown barn cat lay a claw on you, father stated firmly. I have my shotgun and the smoke from the fire will keep them away. Don’t worry, I’ll be your protector." He curled his right arm, flexing muscles shaped by years of working with his hands.

Dinner was served, and the rest of the evening passed uneventfully. The sun dipped behind the West Wall, and the night grew cool. A full moon kept watch as they turned in for the night.

The water of the small river was crystal clear and very cold; she found that she very much enjoyed the frigid bite. Picking through weeds - none of them looked edible - and clambering over river rocks, Snow found a small cutout near a bend in the river where the water pooled lazily. It was shallow in this spot, with a sandy bottom. She dove straight in, digging into the grit, cleaning herself against the sand. A songbird perched atop a nearby sapling to watch the curious creature bathe. The bird was very pretty and sang a beautiful song. Snow was disappointed when it flitted away.

Satisfactorily clean, she lounged in the shallows for some time, letting the cold touch of the snow-melt reach deep into her core. Shadows were growing long when she climbed back ashore.

Her thirst sated and her body clean, she found herself in a better than expected mood. The situation was still quite unpleasant, but for the first time, the outlook didn’t seem so grim. It would be difficult, but she would make it. She would find her parents. She would find someone.

Then came a strange scent.

Between the rich aroma of pine and the cool scent of the river, she detected the signature odor of wood smoke and meat, faint but distinguishable. It was fleeting, but unmistakable.

Meat. Cooking meat. Cooking meat meant people - they couldn’t be that far away, could they? No, of course not! Her hearts pounded at the possibility of both a meal and rescue. Pacing the banks of the river, she held her snout high, trying for another whiff, desperate to find the scent again, to track it back to its source.

Wait - yes, there! No? Yeah! There! She found it again, carried up the valley upon a lazy breeze! They were south somewhere - how far, she could not tell. She would have to hurry to find them; time was against her here. Deep in the valley, the sun was already setting. Night would be upon her soon.

Morning, father greeted as Giem crawled out of the tent, bleary eyed and blinking in the brightness. Sleep well?

Yeah, fine. Giem yawned, rubbed his eyes. There’s a rock or something under the end of my mat. I felt it with my feet.

We can try to sweep that out later. Clean yourself up and help me make breakfast. Father already had a cook-fire started and was heating the skillet. I got some fun things planned for today.

Yawning profusely, Giem snatched a bucket to fill with water for the morning. Father was humming as he waddled by, wearing boots and teddy bear pajamas, carrying the oversized bucket to the river.

Need help?

No, I can do this, Giem answered.

Okay then, just holler if you need me. Father returned to his prepwork.

It was a mere fifty feet to the river, but morning dew on the long grass meant that by the end of Giem’s trek, the legs of his pajamas were damp. They clung to his legs in a really uncomfortable way. He thought of rolling up the pant legs for the return trip but remembered a warning father had given about ticks.

The river burbled happily. He stepped down onto the narrow shelf of loose stone this side of the river featured; it formed a natural walkway between the river and the grassy shores. Bucket extended, he reached down to fill the pail with enough water to clean himself, but not so much he couldn’t carry it back to the camp. He’d already told father he could do it. It would be embarrassing if he needed help now.

On the opposite side of the river, the side that cozied up right against the foot of a mountain, grass began to sway of its own accord. Giem watched, curious but not alarmed. Something was moving his direction. Something small - a rabbit, maybe. Perhaps a muskrat. Either way, it sure made a lot of noise.

Whatever it was came to stop; Giem felt as if he was now being watched.

Unnerved, he hoisted his overly full bucket up and out of the river and waddled back to the camp as quickly as he could manage. Water sloshed about. Father asked why he was soaked, so Giem told him about the mystery animal stalking him. Father laughed.

Don’t worry, it was a muskrat - I saw a den upstream yesterday, about a hundred feet north. You were fine, father said reassuringly. Now change out of those pajamas for me so I can hang them up to dry.

Giem, much relieved and reassured, brushed off his own foolishness. He went to the tent to change.

The scents had changed. The distance was further than anticipated and night-time had arrived, along with all of its associated dangers. Snow acknowledged her small size and limited strength, so, against the protests of her stomach, she climbed a large tree, settling into a nook to rest, hopefully away from predators. The immense tree swayed gently in a steady breeze. She slept well.

Morning was heralded by the annoyed chatter of squirrels, furious about this strange intruder. Bothersome little things, they were.

She descended the tree to refresh herself in the river. Frogs watched from the reeds, too quick to catch. She let them be.

Relieved and watered, she continued her expedition south to find the source of that delicious aroma, the memory of which yet stirred her stomach.

The direction of the wind had shifted overnight, so she heard the voices before she could smell whatever creature was making them. They were indecipherable but carried well in the cool morning air. Aside from the breeze, the valley was quiet. The swish of grass and a small splash of the river suggested that one of the creatures might be rather close. The breeze slackened.

Her nostrils flared; the musk of this creature was peculiar.

Humans, she thought. Memories - none hers - jumped to the forefront of her mind. Curious creatures, somehow both incredible artisans and frightening barbarians. Whose memories were these? Mother’s?

She paused, concealed by deep grass, organizing her thoughts. She cataloged every little thing about humans she had been taught, attempting to determine the best approach. Finicky, impulsive, not keen on strangers.

Hmm. She might have to be careful.

Four

Their first full day in the mountains was eventful.

Not far from camp, father knew of an old switchback road that climbed the side of the valley, nearly to the top, where there was an abandoned prospect mine. A good deal of prospecting had been done after gold had been found in the streams around Aduard half a century ago - the initial finds had been remarkably promising and spurred substantial infrastructure developments. When the gold suddenly dried up, so did the investments. Dozens of mines and miles of roads were left to return to nature. Long forgotten, crumbling remains provided excellent hiking for those who knew where to find them.

The climb was demanding. The trail was rocky and obscured by undergrowth and deadfall. Nine switchbacks brought Giem and his father over five hundred feet up from the valley floor. Even with walking sticks, both were breathing hard. Despite the exertion, father remained vigilant, continually scanning their surroundings, his trusty double barrel shotgun slung from his shoulder, close at hand.

Phew! Heck of a climb, he stated, water dripping from his chin. He passed the canteen. Worse than I remembered. Ha! I must be getting old.

Giem held the canteen skyward and downed great drafts; father chided him for drinking too much too quickly.

Easy there, you’ll give yourself a stomach-ache. And save some for later!

Reluctantly, he returned the canteen. Wiping his mouth on a shirt-sleeve, he asked, You’ve been up here before?

A couple times, before you were born. Used to come up here once a month or so. He planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the valley. It was good exercise...and this view is incredible.

The mine had been built on a kind of ridge in the mountain; it wasn’t very deep, maybe fifty feet or so, but it stretched for some distance both north and south, curving out of sight along the side of the mountain. From their vantage point, they could look over most of the trees on the mountain-side, down into the valley.

The mountain that hemmed in the far side of the valley was immense. Trees blanketed the lower half of its slopes; the upper half was a sheer rock face of steel gray granite, stretching a thousand feet to the sky. Both north and south, a series of mountains fenced the valley for as far as the eye could see. Through the gaps, additional mountains could be seen forming more valleys, further east. Like snowflakes, the mountains were all exactly alike yet remarkably unique.

The forest that filled the valley with life was just as fascinating. There was an infinite assortment of green; some trees stood taller than others, and while the vast majority were pines, a few deciduous trees could be seen making a life for themselves down by the river. Across the valley, a few hardy individuals could be seen growing in the scree piles or even from the very cliff face itself. A blue sky featured a handful of puffy clouds, framing the whole scene.

Wow. Giem was entranced.

Something else, isn’t it? Most people never get to see anything like this. Father pointed out a pair of hawks, rising on thermals. Look at that! The world is such a huge place, yet most people hardly see any of it at all.

His son pointed a little south, mostly east. Visible through a saddle between two low peaks across the valley, far in the distance, was a tall gray hump hazed blue. What’s that? he asked.

That’s a Monolith. There are a bunch of them all over the Basin - have you learned about them in school yet? Giem shrugged. Guess not, huh. All right then, class is in session. The boy rolled his eyes.

Father went to one knee to fetch his binoculars from his pack. Passing them over, he explained; That in the distance is Zanderberg, not far from Zandkreek. It’s a Monolith - do you know what a Monolith is?

Giem shook his head.

‘Monolith’ is the name given to these kinds of rock formations, where a volcano forms under a glacier. The lava and the ice interact in weird ways, so you end up with an odd, sheer-sided, flat-topped mountain. Like a mesa in miniature.

Father helped Giem steady the heavy binoculars. It’s big.

One of the biggest. Vaalserberg near Basin City is a bit bigger.

Has anyone climbed it?

Father screwed his face tight in thought. Ahh, I don’t...think so. Not that one, at least. I’m told the Monoliths are dangerous to climb; their sides are so steep, and the rock is unpredictable. A few in the East End have been, though.

It was a fascinating sight. Such a monstrous conglomeration of rock, towering alone in the grasslands of the West End. It looked out of place.

While Giem was studying the quirk of geology, father was laying out a map of the Basin, pinning the corners with small rocks.

Okay, time for lesson two, he said with a smirk. More of a test.

Giem was quick to protest. What? No, c’mon.

Yes, yes. Every man should know how to find his way home. He held up a compass. I want to see if you can tell me in which direction Adelaar is.

Doing as he was told, if a bit grudgingly, Giem took the compass and oriented himself. Father had drilled the basics of reading a compass and pathfinding into him previously; Adelaar shouldn’t be too hard to locate. After a moment of consideration, he pointed in a northeasterly direction. That way.

And Basin City?

Giem consulted the map first, then the compass. He pointed almost due east.

Lauwersoog?

The only other port city besides Basin City was much closer, but on about the same latitude. Giem only made a minor correction southward.

Excellent! Now what about...Torweise? He grinned when his son gave him a confused look - Torweise, the capital of Land van de Reuzen, the colonial parent to the Basin, was many hundreds of miles south, well off the bottom of the map spread upon the ground. Ah, I’m just teasing. That’s pretty far south of here. Good job though.

As father stowed his things, Giem’s gaze eventually wandered over to the mine. The remains of what must have been a cabin stood to one side; a menagerie of rusted-out tools littered the area. Tracks and trusswork led to the edge of the ridge. How old is that? he asked, pointing.

Father turned as he stood. The mine? Fifty years at least.

Together they meandered over to the site.

Must have been a lot of work getting everything up here, Giem stated as he nudged a rusty shovel with his boot.

It sure was. Everything had to come up the switchback, father said. He was inspecting the ruins of the cabin. Food, water, all their tools, building materials, you name it. I’ve heard from a few old timers in town that it took an entire team of donkeys to get one wagon up some of these slopes. Some of the beams in the matchstick pile of lumber were rather substantial. Then whatever they mined, they had to carry back down.

The entrance to the actual mine tunnel had been crudely sealed with a door built from roughly hewn boards; the way the barrier was constructed made it seem as though whoever had built this mine had intended to come back at some point. The weather-beaten wood still felt remarkably solid when Giem pressed against it. The chain and padlock, however, were heavily rusted.

Can we go in? Giem asked flatly.

Into the mine? father raised an eyebrow. Old mining tunnels are notoriously dangerous. They’re dark, with lots of junk and debris, and they can be full of bad air. Why?

I don’t know. He shrugged. I want to?

Father eyed the barricade, obviously doing some manner of mental calculation. He sighed, picking up the rusty shovel. All right, fine. But we aren’t going to go very deep, okay? Two whacks and the rusty chain shattered. Giem pried the door open, rusted hinges squealing.

The tunnel was six feet wide by eight feet high; the walls and ceiling were very rough and littered with tool markings. The floor was damp and moss covered. The air that rolled past them was cool, moist, and carried a musty scent. It smelled like old furniture, or a room that had been closed for a long period. Giem wrinkled his nose.

From a pocket father first fished a small lighter before taking a few tentative steps into the darkness. Striking the flint, he held the lit lighter out in front of himself. The flame danced happily. Satisfied, he turned to Giem. All right, let’s go take a look.

They ventured thirty feet into the tunnel - it was more or less straight. Father’s lighter cast a meager amount of light - just enough to see that on the north side of the tunnel, a ledge had been carved into the wall three feet above the floor. A variety of crates were cast in deep shadow. There was even an old brass lamp, which, incredibly, still had some fuel. Father gave it an appraising look and a hardy shake, then, satisfied it wouldn’t fall to pieces or explode, ignited the wick.

The flame readily took, and the tunnel was bathed in light.

He set the lamp on the shelf. Impressive.

What?

Oh, nothing.

What’s in these? Giem asked, tapping a crate. The labeling was faded and written in a foreign language, the wood dark with age and damp.

Don’t know, but let’s find out. I suspect whoever left them here won’t be back anytime soon.