An exhilarating work of speculative fiction that enthralls readers from the very first page. The author skillfully crafts a frozen dystopian world, where the remnants of humanity are confined to the Pyre, their only refuge against the frigid landsca...
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THE WANDERLANDS
Prologue
My earliest memory I have as a child is around six years of age. 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 clenching 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 dried 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 parch.
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.
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.
* * *
Now, I am 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. Yet 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.
