Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 29: Where They Put the Important Stuff

The Benefactors seized a carriage with papered walls, leather-padded benches and a paneled ceiling centered by skylight. The air within wafted thick with ancient smoke, kerosene, old leather and unwashed travelers. Still, the glazed windows opened to lessen the fug. Arranging their packs to serve as pillows, they settled themselves comfortably, listening to passengers up and down the carriage train do the same.

Nervous Jewel sat facing lackadaisical Bodkin, grave Cedric across from amused Val, happy Matilda grinning at a vibrating Barnaby.

He gazed out a window, eyes wide. Leaping up when the dragon engine blew its battle whistle. Tumbling to his seat again when the carriage lurched, rumbling and rattling out the station and into the open world.

"The ride shall be rough," warned Cedric. "You must learn to brace yourself at stops and starts."

Barnaby nodded, thinking it small price to speed through life pulled by a mechanical dragon. He judged they moved at the pace of a trotting horse. Far faster than his amiable striding; if slower than the windborne velocity of the directable.

After a few minutes the changing view, the constant rolling, rocking vibration left him feeling at once sleepy and slightly ill.

The carriages entered the debris-hills marking the outskirts of Salmoneus, then exited into open fields, passing farms and farmers, cows and crops. The strange semaphore towers waved greetings from the hilltops. A directable hummed amiably as it paced the carriage train; a flock of crows raced the directable; wind-borne clouds outpacing the crows.

At times the wagons halted at lesser stations than Salmoneus. Folk descended, dropping packs so to have two arms to embrace some welcomer at journey's end. It gave Barnaby a shiver to sit watching those greetings. As though he were peering into a window, seeing lives.

More than once, the wagons halted in the middle of farm-field oblivion. Throwing drink from cup, butt from seat. These stops came augured by a screech of wheels, a whistle-blast of dragon-steam. Then folk would curse, peer out windows, spying a cow on the tracks mooing defiantly at the fuss.

For all the fitful stops, starts and rumbling clatter, Barnaby decided steam-dragon to be the perfect way to travel. Sitting in a carriage with friends, snacking on strange delicacies, enjoying a panorama of the world unrolling.

Granted, afoot a fellow could greet those he met. Stopping for a chat with some farmer, tinker, cowherd or wanderer like himself. Sitting in the steam wagon, Barnaby had to settle for waving to all he saw.

More oft than not, folk waved back. Then they went on to the rest of their lives, as he went on to his. Probably to never cross paths again. But still, but still, they'd acknowledged one another's existence in the Middle House of Saints. Princes on the road of life saying, I greet thee, brother.

Evening came. The benefactors shared rations. Settling into naps and quiet conversations. But Barnaby could not long turn eyes from the window.

Every so often he'd put head out to peer northwards. Checking if the line of blue mountains grew higher, grew closer. Sometimes he thought it did; other times not. But sparks and cinders from the dragon engine would fly into face and eye; he could not stare so for long.

"They are called the Septentrional by the Hefestians," said Professor Night-Creep, perching upon the shelf for packs. "The desert folk of Psamathe refer to them as the Moon Black Mountains. Interestingly, the Aurelians name them the Moon White. While the folk of Nix give no name at all."

"What name for what?"

"The range where waits your tower. Granted, the Martia mapmakers designate them the Saintless Mountains. A fascinating name."