The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Despite his trepidation, Bray couldn’t stop looking around as they walked over the beautiful bridge called The Arches. All around him were sights at which he wanted to spend more time staring. Waist-high stone guarded either side of the bridge, protecting people from the long drop below. To Bray’s left, upriver, the waterfall surged over the dam, running over partially submerged rocks before sweeping underneath the bridge on which they were standing, making a noise over which it was difficult to talk. To the right, the water continued past the bridge and forked around the sprawling island that they’d seen from the road, accessible only by the solitary street that sloped down from the bridge.

  Trees dotted the island. Some held their dying leaves, while others were barren. Bray could see a few layers of stone homes that lined either side of the road, looking as if they’d originally been built in the time of the Ancients. Most were square, one story structures, and appeared as if they held a single family, while others looked wide enough to accommodate more. He couldn’t see to the island’s end, but it looked large and long enough to hold many occupants. About a hundred feet of water provided a barrier from either side of the island’s coasts to the riverbank. He couldn’t see the second island, but remembering what Flora had told him, he guessed it was beyond the sprawling mass of trees and houses, somewhere far in the distance. A few people walked on the road that led to the island, carrying tools and heading toward some of the distant buildings that lined the road.

  Bartholomew and Jonathan glanced over their shoulders, watching their reaction.

  “A township in the water,” Bray marveled, loudly enough to be heard over the surging waterfall in the background. “I’ve never seen a place like this. And the bridge is beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Jonathan returned over his shoulder, as if he’d built it himself.

  Kirby asked, “How many people live on this island?”

  Bartholomew said, “Enough to fill the length and width of this bridge.”

  “That is a good number,” Bray said. “The bridge seems like good protection.”

  “It keeps us safe from the Savages, and from our enemies.” Bartholomew turned to face them. “We guard both ends, and we guard the road leading to the islands. We have people set up in places where they can easily see what’s coming. We conceal our lookouts. We avoid the eyes of anyone who might be trying to take what we have.”

  Bray didn’t miss the subtle warning.

  “It’s a majestic place,” Kirby said, trying to keep the conversation light. “I have never seen its equal.”

  They walked farther on the bridge, passing several other guards that had wandered from the far side of the bridge and planted themselves close to the waist-high walls, making no effort to look away from Bray, Kirby, William, their guns, and their horses.

  “Please excuse the staring. They are as enamored by your weapons and horses as we are,” Jonathan said.

  “I understand,” Kirby said.

  “Your horses are magnificent animals, and lucky for anyone who has them.” Bartholomew bent down to look underneath the steeds. “Are any female?”

  “No,” Bray said.

  “A shame,” Bartholomew said. “You could sustain yourself from them in the winter.”

  “I would’ve liked to breed them,” Bray said. “Foals fetch a hefty price, where we come from.”

  “I was actually referring to feeding yourselves with their milk and blood.”

  “Their blood?” Bray asked, furrowing his brow.

  “Our soldiers mix horses’ milk with their blood as a nourishment in the wild. They make a cut in the horse’s shallow vein and drink it in the forest, when hunting is hard. Or they used to, when we had horses.” Bartholomew looked sad.

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Bray said.

  Bartholomew shrugged and said, “It didn’t hurt the horses, of course. Our riders treated them like family. They grew very accustomed to one person’s commands.”

  “My horses are accustomed to me, too,” Bray lied. “And to William and Kirby. I doubt they would listen to anyone else at this point.”

  “They’re good animals, like ours were.” Bartholomew smiled.

  They continued walking, taking in the views off the Ancient bridge.

  “How long have your people lived here?” Kirby asked.

  “Several generations,” Bartholomew said, motioning toward the island. “Not even the oldest of us remembers a time when we didn’t live here.”

  “The bridge looks stable,” Bray said. “Your people have done a good job repairing the few cracks or holes in the walls.” He pointed toward the side of the bridge next to which they were walking, which had several large stones lodged into the crevices.

  “Most of our people are farmers, woodworkers, hunters, or soldiers, but we have figured out some crude repairs. The gods have blessed us with a place to live. We protect it,” Bartholomew said firmly.

  Pointing at the steep banks that surrounded the river on either side, made of natural, jutting stone, Bray noticed, “The water and the steep banks must provide a natural barrier from the Savages.”

  “Many thirsty Savages have fallen from the precipices looking for a drink, or looking to feast on our flesh.” Jonathan smiled. “Another way The Arches protect us.”

  “Do any of them try to cross the bridge?”

  “Some do, but we stop them. The sloping mountains to the west help, as well,” Jonathan said, gesturing toward the row of mountains, one of which Bray had crossed. “The Savages get discouraged by the height, and mostly stay on the other side. Some come down the road, of course, and we’ve had plenty of battles. Thankfully, we’ve won them all.”

  “You’ve never been overrun?”

  “We’ve had our casualties, but no significant number have made it as far as the island,” Bartholomew said proudly.

  “Your people must be fierce warriors,” Bray said, thinking a little flattery might earn him some more trust with the men.

  “They are,” Bartholomew said. “Our men and our women start training as soon as they can hold a sword. We take pride in our defenses.”

  Bray nodded. “How about the spore? Do you have a means to avoid it?”

  “The spore?” Bartholomew wrinkled his brow in confusion.

  “The way the Savages become infected with the disease. The pink spores that float on the wind. Many of our people hide their faces from them, hoping not to get infected.”

  “The Savages aren’t diseased.” Bartholomew made a face to show he didn’t understand.

  “The spores infect them. That is how they become twisted men.” It was Bray’s turn to be confused.

  “We’ve seen those objects floating on the wind, but they have nothing to do with the Savages. The gods choose who is afflicted, and who isn’t.”

  Bray started to argue, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to risk offending these men. “What do you do with the people who turn, then?” he asked.

  “Those who show the signs are turned away in a ceremony in the woods.”

  “And they don’t come back?” William asked.

  Bartholomew looked between all of them. “They know better.”

  “None come back,” Flora clarified.

  Bray gave William a glance and shrugged. At least their stories were consistent. Whatever ceremonies these people were engaging in, it sounded better than a burning on the pyres of Brighton.

  “Is this the only bridge leading to the island?” Bray asked.

  “Yes. Most of our bridge guards live in the first houses along the road, so they can get here quickly, in case we need to defend it,” Jonathan said. “Though we have guards and soldiers stationed throughout the islands.”

  “Of course,” said Bray.

  “Many of our hunters live in a special section of the island. That is where we are taking you now,” Jonathan said. “Flora told us you were a hunter. When we get to the island, we’ll show you an empty house where you can get some sleep. There w
ill be plenty of room to tie your horses, and we can even have a farmer bring you hay to feed them.”

  “That sounds good,” Bray said.

  “It’s a short walk down one of the trails off the road,” Bartholomew added. “I hope you aren’t too tired.”

  “We’re fine,” Bray said.

  Looking at the island off the bridge, Kirby asked, “The first island is the bigger of the two?”

  “Yes, this is the one we use most,” Flora explained.

  Chapter 22: Bray

  Reaching the middle of the bridge, they curved down the descending, raised road that ran perpendicular to it, leaving the bridge behind. The road decreased in height, making the water closer beneath them. Some of the noise from the dam behind them had faded. Bray noticed several stationed guards staring at him from either side of the descending road. If Bray had been in Brighton, he might’ve said some words that would make them turn their heads, but he was a visitor in a foreign place. He held his tongue.

  “The road is in just as fine shape as the bridge,” Bray observed, adding more flattery instead. “Most of the roads I’ve seen in the wild, or even in our townships, have pieces missing. Some are buried so deeply you can no longer see them.”

  “We do our best to keep the road clear,” Bartholomew said.

  “Does this road run the length of the island?” Kirby asked.

  “Not quite,” Bartholomew said. “It turns in a half-circle near the end and connects with itself, almost like a keyhole. A wooden bridge—much less spectacular than the one behind us—connects to the second island. The second island is much smaller.”

  “We have some shops and homes on the road that you see, but there are also paths branching off, with homes built between the trees and on the island’s coasts,” Jonathan added. “We use whatever space we can, whether it’s for homes, farmland, or raising animals. Our population has grown over the years.”

  That seemed better than the populace of Brighton, which was always shrinking as people were spiked, killed, or burned, but Bray didn’t say that out loud.

  He looked as far as he could down the road, which flattened as it reached the island, traveling deeper onto land. The island seemed to get wider the longer it got. On the sides of the island’s road were some of the houses he’d seen from the bridge. Most were simple, square dwellings made of the same Ancient stone as the homes in Brighton. Some had roofs patched together with logs and limbs. Others had stones securing what had once been holes in the walls. Boot prints lined the snow around the road and most of the pathways wherever people had walked.

  Pointing at the banks on the side of the island, Kirby asked, “Do you get much rain?”

  Bartholomew and Jonathan exchanged a grave glance.

  “You’re wondering about flooding,” Jonathan guessed.

  “I know the dangers that can affect such islands,” Kirby admitted.

  Bartholomew said, “A few times a year, harsh storms wash the river over the island’s shores. Mostly, they affect the homes near the banks, but occasionally we’ve had storms that have damaged many homes inland, and we’ve been forced to repair or rebuild them.”

  “Have you ever been forced to leave?”

  “No. Our gods have protected us from greater tragedies.”

  “The security of the island outweighs the threats of the mainland,” Jonathan added.

  “Strangely, we haven’t had much rain this year,” Bartholomew noted, a look of concern passing over his face.

  “What about the buildings on the other side of the dam? Have you ever used those?” Bray asked, momentarily forgetting that they wouldn’t understand Kirby’s term.

  “Dam?” Bartholomew looked around to see what Bray was talking about. “I’m not sure what a dam is.”

  “That’s what Kirby’s people call the stone that makes the waterfall,” Flora chimed in.

  “The buildings on the other side of the—stone water wall—are for the most part uninhabitable,” Bartholomew said, avoiding the unfamiliar word. “The roofs collapsed many years ago. We haven’t had the need to occupy them.”

  “I see,” Bray said.

  “Maybe one day we will,” Bartholomew said with a shrug. “But our focus here is on making sure our people are fed, clothed, and safe. Anything that doesn’t contribute to our survival is unimportant.”

  “Of course,” Bray said, familiar with the approach.

  They continued down the road until it flattened, watching several people walk to and from the houses on the island. More stared in the direction of the approaching group, unable to pry their eyes from the horses, the strange weapons, and the equally strange riders. Bray felt like he was a street performer in the center of Brighton, hopping on one leg for coin.

  Steering from a dark conversation brought up by the flooding, William said, “Flora said you have goats.”

  Bartholomew smiled. “We do. We have several herds, and some sheep. They live on some farms farther in on the island. We use the goats to get cheese and milk, but they are like pets to our children. Perhaps when you are feeling better, you can see them.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “How long do you think you’ll stay?” Bartholomew asked.

  “We’re not sure yet,” Bray said. “That depends on how William is feeling.”

  “You are welcome to stay as long as you need. Unfortunately, Deacon isn’t here to greet you. If you leave soon, you won’t see him.”

  “Deacon?” Kirby asked.

  “The ruler of our people,” Jonathan explained.

  “Is he a General?” William asked.

  Bartholomew smiled. “In a way, yes. He trains our people for battle. He hunts. He makes the decisions that keep the island running.” Bartholomew watched William a moment. “You seem surprised by that.”

  “I haven’t heard many Generals hunting among The People,” William said as he thought that through. “At least, not regularly. They fight wars, and they command those beneath them. That takes up most of their time.”

  Bartholomew explained, “Deacon does what he needs to keep our people surviving. We’re in the middle of winter, and as you can imagine, we need help from every hand. Deacon left for a hunt this morning. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  “It would be great if you could meet him,” Jonathan said.

  Bray cleared his throat. “We’ll see how William is doing. Perhaps we will.”

  Bray glanced over his shoulder as they walked with the horses down the road, unable to help some nervousness as he saw the length of road, the bridge, and all the guards that stood between them and the wild.

  Chapter 23: Bray

  They traveled the road for a while longer, crossing through the beginning of the first island, passing rows of stone houses with smoke drifting from the chimneys, homes that Bartholomew and Jonathan said were used for soldiers, and getting to an area that looked like it was used by tradesmen. Trees surrounded most of the houses, but in several places, Bray saw stumps where the trees had been cut down, most likely for building houses, or for firewood. Wooden pushcarts that wouldn’t have looked too far out of place in Brighton sat next to a few of the buildings. Bray saw faces in a few of the glassless windows, whose shutters were open despite the cold temperatures. The islanders watched them with the same interest as the guards at the front gate. Few looked away when he met their gaze.

  Through an open door of one larger stone house, Bray noticed a burning forge and several men fashioning some of the flat metal swords that Flora and the rest of her people carried. One man glanced over his shoulder, giving them a curious glance. In another house women skinned rabbits.

  “Whatever resources we can’t find here, we get from the mainland,” Bartholomew said, noticing Bray’s gaze.

  “And you disburse what you need throughout the island from here?” Kirby guessed.

  “That’s right,” Bartholomew said with pride. “Most of our dwellings with families are farther back, where they are better protec
ted.”

  “A good way to manage things,” Kirby said.

  Keeping the focus on Kirby, Jonathan said, “We haven’t heard much about you. As you can expect, we have questions.”

  Kirby looked hesitant, and Bray knew she was working through what was obviously a difficult subject.

  “What kind of buildings do you have in your settlement?”

  “My settlement is mostly made of wooden houses, some taller than the buildings here, but not many are left now.”

  “What is your settlement called?”

  “My settlement is—was—called New Hope. My people are dead. Most burned from a fire in our settlement, or died at the teeth of those you call the Savages.”

  “I’m sorry. What about where you came from, across the water? Is that where you made your weapons?”

  “Yes, we made the weapons in my home land,” Kirby confirmed. “We don’t have the materials here to construct weapons like these. Not that I’ve come across.”

  “How do they work?” Jonathan asked, looking curiously at her guns.

  “They kill a man as quickly as you can look at him,” Flora said, unable to contain her excitement at what was probably a spectacle to her, and was still a spectacle to Bray.

  Bartholomew and Jonathan looked amazed. “Can anyone use them?”

  “Only Kirby,” Bray quickly cut in.

  “But you have more?” Jonathan asked, in a curious tone a child might use.

  “The people from Halifax took the rest,” Kirby said. “These are the only ones I have.”

  “As I understand, Kirby is the only one who can use these weapons,” Bray said. “Our people are going to help her get them back.” Bray didn’t want these people to get any ideas about recovering them.

  “Didn’t you leave your township behind?” Flora asked, a quizzical look crossing her face.

  “We’ll be back to Brighton eventually,” Bray lied.

  Bartholomew and Jonathan fell silent as they processed what was clearly a confusing story. Even Flora furrowed her brow. After a moment of thought, Jonathan asked, “How far away is your home, Kirby?”

  “Far, far east.” Kirby beckoned over the houses and trees in that direction. “Across the ocean.”