Editorial
The Hinterlands. The great western frontier of the Neath; a place where few have ventured before, and certainly not in a leisurely capacity. A place so inaccessible to the common Londoner in the past… and now, merely a train ride away.
Without further ado, let us explore the Hinterlands in this special edition of The Goosey Gazette.
The Great Hinterland Illumination
We bring to you an exclusive! The first-ever interview with the Hinterland Illuminator themselves – the Duke of Westshire! Read the full interview at the centre-page spread!
Ealing Gardens
Correspondent R. J. Frogvarian
Through the time machine of poetic license, let us take a sightseeing tour through the ages. Ealing Gardens, once a parish, a rural village; after the fall, a geographically disadvantaged once-district of London. Its before-twee disposition filled to the brim with picturesque architecture is now replaced with patchwork of reconstruction. Buildings of many styles clump together in defiance of tradition, while the surrounding landscape boasts vast mushroom farms which have replaced all that was entirely irreparable.
Ealing is now home to the outcasts who had little else to turn to. The poor, the bohemian, and, of course, the rubbery. Here congregate those who London shuns, but who desire still to live in its presence. Here, the largest population of rubbery folk make their mark on the landscape of the Neath. Here, mushroom farmers toil for our nourishment. Here, artists come for inspiration.
Helicon House, the rising star of the Neath. A safehaven for rubberies and their supporters. Behind its walls, art is birthed. Movements rise and fall and enter renaissance as the rubberies ennoble themselves through the calling of the soul – self-expression and creation. An exclusive community, one which we have spoken of before in this very paper, and one which we are certain any and all of our readers would be not only delighted to visit, but find themselves delightfully welcome to explore.
Yet more of Ealing’s delights await us. The many factories under the gentle touch of the Tentacled Entrepreneur where rubbery folk can find employment without judgement and agreeable wages. The butcher of Mr. Hearts, readily selling and processing the excellent menagerie of meat one can find only below the Earth’s crust. A spa, so long ago promised by former Lord Mayor Virginia. The guild of Paleontologists. In the station building, endless amenities – the clinic, the chapel, the notary offices, the lounge right next to Mrs. Plenty’s Rubbery Pie Outpost.
Ealing Gardens, the first step on the grand exploratory journey westward. A small piece of home for Londoners, so familiar and yet so fresh. A must-stop destination before venturing further towards the gates of Hell.
Ticket fare only ten pence. Trains of the Great Hellbound Railway leave every hour on the dot.
Jericho Locks
What We Do In The Fogs Of Jericho
Correspondent Maxwell Hastings
The fog of Jericho-Lock was thicker than what you’d find in London. Sometimes, if people hoped hard enough, they could convince themselves that they weren’t underground, trapped beneath a ceiling of uncaring stars. Arkson wasn’t the kind to pine for the surface. Why miss a place he’d never been to?
The Gondola he procured a few hours back bobbed pleasantly in the waters, although the person he obtained it from wouldn’t be very pleased about it. On the whole, it was hard to be pleased about much after you’ve just suffered a vicious strike to the back of the head. They’d get over it. Hopefully.
Arkson pondered the waters as he drifted along the currents of the canal. As fine a day as any, as far as he was concerned. A part of him wondered if the mandolins held by the proper Gondoliers were meant as a form of beacon. An audible lighthouse in the veil of fog, warning others to stay away or suffer the consequences of collision. If so, he’d be providing no warning, not that he minded. His business was best conducted without attention.
Soon, his eyes were drawn to the water. Ripples came, echoes of their origin. No mandolin. Either another smuggler, or his client. Or both, it didn’t matter. Business was business. The Ripples came closer, stronger, until he could focus on another figure in the soupy fog. They were hatted, tall with a large brim. Sleeves were rolled up. The outline of a heaved coat. They moved with purpose, but grace. They must have been used to the pole.
The figure came further into view. Their hair was grey, and wires, having fled from his scalp and onto the rest of his head. There was a heavy beard that gave his head an oblong look, and eyebrows that could be used as scrubbing brushes. Dressed in tweed with leather patches that could possibly be authentic leather.
Arkson surveyed them up and down eyes narrowing. “Not your typical licentiate, are we?”
The older gentleman puffed up. “Academic, I’ll have you know.”
“A Surface born?”
“Indeed! From Ox… from the old university.”
Arkson rolled his eyes. Another dusty scholar, he thought. “You have the payment, then?”
The scholar gave a hesitated nod, as he retired something from inside his coat. It was wrapped in silk, and oval shaped. About the size of a large hand, in all. They unwrapped it.
The silver sheen caught the light first, like a new breath from a smothered youth. The features were elegant, well defined, noble. Black accents helped to line the face, giving it a sullen look. It was the mask of a captain of the Gondoliers. To Arkson, it was a priceless ticket to freedom from the locks.
He’d been stuck here for a while now. When the lock marks an enemy of you, there’s little chance of escape. More organised than the men of the Cheery Man. More ruthless than those of the Gracious Widow. A tight-knit mob of Gondoliers and wayfarers and thugs. Slights never forgiven, unless at the bottom of the canals.
The mask would get him out. The toll-men of the Guild wouldn’t dare question him, and he’d slip right out, towards London. Towards civilization. Towards “home”. And the Gonfaloniere wouldn’t know, and what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
The scholar coughed to his hand, noticeably uncomfortable. “As promised. It won’t be enough to fool most of the higher echelon of the Guild, and not many of the lesser without a good act, but it will work as you need.” He recovered the mask as he withdrew it from view. “And it’s not free, either.”
Arkson reached inside his own pockets and produced a small leather bag. Took him about a month to assemble, but it was going to be worth it. Poisons, toxins, reagents, all more than illegal. Waters from the Sere Palace. Remnants of a Lily Candle. Suppressants from Station VIII. All carefully bartered for with smugglers from the lock. Cost him near everything he had, but that was the usual asking price for freedom. He tossed the bag over with a carful hand.
The scholar coughed it, gingerly, and looked inside. “This is indeed, everything?”
“Are you doubting my integrity? We could sit here all day as you analyse each, if you want. Plenty of time for the rest of the Guild to find us. Ever been in a cell? Ever met the Fathomking?”
The scholar went flush, but acquiesced. The mask changed hands. The deal was done. No hands were shook, no pleasantries exchanged. They began to part.
At last, as Arkson neared the fog, the scholar reached into his coat once more. His words were quite, professional. They were carried just before something louder.
“The Gonfaloniere sends his regards.”
Arksons last thought were of home, and escape, of his family at Mutton Island, of what could have been. He pitched into the water as the new hole in his lungs took the last winds out of him.
The Last remnants of Arkson Brigshore would be a mask gripped tightly, and a gondola left in the middle of foggy Jericho. The owner of the gondola wouldn’t have approved, but he never did when it came to Arkson.
Magistracy of Evenlode
Correspondent Captain N. Lime
See the MAGISTRACY OF THE EVENLODE! Watch as your FAVORITE POLICE CADETS prosecute PITCHED BATTLE with RANDOM DROWNIES! Witness the ASTOUNDING MONOTONY of COUNTLESS COURT CASES! DIVE DEEP into the BASEMENT! Participate in GROSS ABUSES of RULE OF LAW! Hear about SOMETHING that is occurring SOMEWHERE ELSE! The possibilities are ENDLESS!
My first arrival in the Magistracy all those hours ago was decidedly marked with some consternation. It is a most dreary and damp monument to the practices of law, in all of its exciting and plentiful guises. I had hardly a moment before I was ushered off my train, having only been mildly be-speckled by bullet holes on the sojourn, before I was greeted with some of the station’s delights. Policemen! A lot of them! It was just a few moments later that I was planning to return to the Jericho Locks for a pint or two, and to plan my trip to another locale. Fortunately, I found that most of the other passengers had already queued at the branch of the Tracklayers' Union for their return trip, and no seats remained on the next train.
Oh, how wrong I was to disparage this place! Those unfamiliar with the concept of legal tourism should make a special note of visiting the veritable judicial paradise of the Magistracy of the Evenlode. It is many modicums more diverting than many may think. Within moments I witnessed a most amusing occurrence of what I believe to be the sport of choice among the locals. After the episode of police brutality had concluded, I endeavoured to find what else one might do when leaving is not a possibility. Pleasingly, I found a fellow who was willing to overlook the circumstances from which some grave insults to my character arose and expunged the results as if I had never been imprisoned that time – the great Captain Nicholas J. Lime, his character somewhat restored. And since, I have made a special note to visit the Magistracy, to have my reputation continue its incremental rehabilitation.
The local attractions amaze and bewilder – in an abandoned basement, if one wades through the waters and avoids any wayward drownies, one can take a dip in a pool of surprising depth and intrigue thanks to the benevolent indifference of the local coppers. The waters are delightful, if one finds clammy, malodourous, and murky waters delightful (and you lot are all Londoners). One could swim for many hours exploring the pit. I, myself, indulged deeply and found myself with a new respect and admiration for sea monsters since. I spent the rest of the afternoon with the lamp-cats, a charming afternoon indeed.
However, the true primary attraction can only be the courts themselves. In fact, thanks to legal loopholes, all manner of law and argument can be had here from unending jurisdictions. I have engaged in countless legal debates, some of them even honest, with various tomb colonists, khaganians, and devils. Some of you may have even heard of my most recent victory - I am told that two parliamentarians and an admiral are devoted admirers of my work - in the Iron Republic Canning Company v Iron Republic Canning Company suit. My legal dissertations on the several hundred cases of the peculiar corruptibility of honey importation have earned me quite a great deal of respect in Old London, not to mention a tidy profit. I intend to make use of much of my hard-won knowledge on my expedition to the Elder Continent.
And this is all to say nothing of the architecture. In fact, I shan’t.
If I were to leave you with nothing else, then let it be this: Do not judge the Magistracy too harshly, lest it judge you! The Magistracy of the Evenlode is more than a waystation on the way to Balmoral. It has its own benefits and attractions. And one can find accommodation there so that one does not need to sleep on a train, a perk that one oft overlooks when one is not immediately confronted with it.
Balmoral
A Visit to Balmoral
Correspondent Gobbo Lin
I would first like to extend my congratulations to the Goosey Gazette for getting this new issue past the censors – since its last publication on the first day of the new century, it has been sorely missed by its readers.
I have been approached to write a few paragraphs on Balmoral Castle and its surroundings – I have been there several times and enjoyed every visit, and was more than willing to venture back out into the Hinterlands once more. The trip was taken in a 9-hour journey by sleeper on the Great Hellbound Railway – the ride was relatively smooth, and the tickets affordable.
Balmoral Castle, or Balmoral for short, is the residence of our Empress and her late Consort. On the Surface, it was set against a backdrop of wide vistas of pine trees and gently rolling hills, a fraction of which still survived after the Fall.
As you exit the unobtrusive station, the magnificent façade of Balmoral is the first to greet you. The castle stands upon a pinnacle of rock in the middle of a wide, moonlit underground lake. A meandering path leads you across a rushing river, providing excellent vistas of the grand residence as you move towards the castle, and one cannot help but be awed by the airs of splendor and majesty. With the appointment of the Castellan of Balmoral, one may enter the castle if one wishes, to marvel at the opulent ballroom bedecked with some of the Empress’ old paintings.
Attentive readers will have noticed that I have mentioned the lake is moonlit, you have indeed read that right. Balmoral and its vicinity are illuminated by moonlight – not the false moonlight of Port Cecil’s inconstant moon, but genuine moonlight. As moonlight is simply sunlight reflected off the Moon, it naturally contains some of the effects of sunlight. Your correspondent is pleased to report that these effects pose only a mild lunacy. In fact, it casts the castle in a new light – viewers can see what Balmoral was, what Balmoral is, and what Balmoral aspires to be. Though I can gush long about this subject, a picture speaks a thousand words – I implore you to take the trip to see it for yourself.
There are other attractions about the castle. Crathie, a sleepy hamlet by the foot of Balmoral, is home to aspiring artists. Visitors may pick up a brush and canvas, and join them in quiet contemplation of the surroundings. Some Londoners, moved by the sight, are inspired… I have watched one in the throes of creation, the moonlight in their eyes a lens to the might-have-beens of London and Balmoral. The end result is breathtaking, and was said to have stunned even the Veteran Privy Counsellor. It currently resides in the Empress’ drawing-room in the Shuttered Palace. If you want to see the magnificence of the artwork for yourself, it is relatively easy to access. The vestibule window two corridors away can be easily unlocked by thumping it below the latch. Take the first left and seventh right. The “guard” is fake – it’s actually a bust.
The Moonlit Woods, a forest of pine trees around Balmoral, are home to a rare sight: Surface animals. They say there are no foxes in the Neath – they are wrong. The exceptionally fortunate and discerning may catch a glimpse of these elusive animals. Though some may call them devil-spawn, many Surface travellers nostalgic for home can interact with these animals without fear.
Most Railway posters end here, but as a responsible Londoner I feel I should warn you of some potential troubles: the old church has had its pews filled by Revolutionaries. They mostly participate in reading the texts of Mr. Pages however and pose no significant threat to one’s safety. That noble savage, the Clay Highwayman, is also based near Balmoral. However, reports from the kidnapped say that their captors have been treated with civility and respect, though “some o’ their accents are a wee bit strange, ye ken?”
With that, I conclude my spiel. To sum up, Balmoral is a perfect place for a day-trip, suitable for the patriotic, the nostalgic, and the adventurous – a large proportion of the readers of the Gazette. A definite recommendation in my books.
Station VIII
Correspondent Riley
A Tasting Flight Of Reviews
Local Canteen The Zee’s Bounty
Disillusioned Railroad Worker
“The boss was dressed really strangely, but I’ve never felt so full! I had some sausage, crackers, and cheese. You’ll hear no complaints from me!”
5/5
Zeesick Zailor
“Moved out to Rebels Bluff after a bad run in with a devilish zee-beast cost me my leg to settle down, stopped here for some food on the way. It was some shark zzoup… it made me nostalgic for my time zailing. It’s a kind of funny coincidence considering my repeated nightmares about the damn beast ended last night.”
4 / 5, Croutons were soggy
Overworked Engineer
“Got out of my shift and checked out what they were serving today and it was some fruity jam. The brandy was a nice touch, although it didn’t help my foul mood and poor temper, and I ended up getting fired for yelling at the boss.”
1/ 5
Daring Artist
“When my friend D_____ G___ told me I could find inspiration in the food here I told him he must be bullshitting me. Well – he was right. I had some sorbet and it was wild, I had stars in my eyes, literally. Costs an arm and leg but cannot recommend enough.”
3/ 5, Please lower the prices
Wandering Orphan
“Nicked myself some kind of bottle off a table, it had some funny symbols on it that caught my eye and it gave me an awful headache to look at but the drink itself was decent, tasted faintly of cherries and it’s pretty strong.”
5/5, Would rob again
The Factories Of Station VIII
An Account Of An Anonymous Worker
Let not the lies of Fires sway you; working here is hell. Last week my friend got fired after he yelled at the boss because a tank of acid burst and he got severe scars. I wish I could truly describe my hate for the conditions here but the ministry wouldn’t allow it. The workers here are some of the most innovative and crafty people I’ve ever worked with and they take well to the organizational structure. I’m sure others would find any of the people recently laid off to be very commendable and not easily swayed by union organizers. I find working with all the chemicals quite cool and despite the danger they pose Mr Fires makes sure we are safe.
Burrow-Infra-Mump
Correspondent Quicksand
I had heard of Burrow-Infra-Mump, of course. One does not spend time with Theosophists without hearing about some place or other that is supposedly chock-full of enlightening truths or mystic scripture or some other such nonsense. Supposedly, if one were to believe all they heard, every tiny speck of land above and below the earth was home to some great sage, who dispensed their wisdom to some drunken traveller before vanishing from this world forevermore. But I digress.
Burrow-Infra-Mump was and is a small, unimportant little village, built around a church. As it would be as good a place to cut my teeth on xenotheology as any, I began my pilgrimage towards Burrow.
Most pilgrims would be in for a rather awful time. Thankfully, I could simply purchase a ticket, and I got one for the 9:15. Third class, for a taste of true hardship. It was not an unpleasant journey. The benches made for an adequate bed and I did share a lovely bottle of Greyfield’s with a fellow passenger on the first night. Eventually, though, I arrived in the afternoon the next day, and managed to get a room in a small lodging house. Local rumour had it that the proprietor was the Head of the Great Hellbound Railway, but I didn’t believe it, myself. If the GHR was bankrolling the place, the biscuits would be better.
After unpacking my meager luggage, I decided to examine the town itself. There was a rather fetching statue near the Burrow Station, showing some sort of many-headed, many armed, many-winged beast. According to the old Tracklayer in the ticket booth, it was a representation of the new church’s saint. Apparently, they hung their saint from the rafters.
The church was rather lovely, I suppose. The stained glass was quite nice, even though I couldn’t understand what the messes of chitin and limbs represented. The sermon was incomprehensible, something about “the twelfth chapter of the Book of Glassworkers”, and I suspected the Communion wafers weren’t supposed to taste like candlewax and drumbeats. I remained in my pew for a while after the sermon and managed to see the aforementioned saint. I must admit, smearing the bones in amber did make it look more life-like. Although I tried to speak with the priest about a few of their saint’s miracles, they had deferred me instead to the outpost of God’s Editors, where everyone was busy. I instead took some of their recovered texts from the Pile – most of it incomprehensible rubbish, or worse, Bazaarine poetry.
I had heard that the Museum of Souls was worth a visit from a few of my Infernal… let us refer to them as friends. They had suggested that I could find more worth there than anywhere else in the entirety of Burrow, but I could not honestly say that I expected that when I first saw the Museum. It was a smallish building with a few brass fittings on the outside, which fit in very well with the rest of Burrow but did not bring to mind any sort of Infernal influence whatsoever. The inside, however, seemed to be vaguely mocking the institution up on the hill. The “pews” were rows of souls, each one supposedly displaying various traits. I couldn’t tell the subtle differences between a soul with a lack of humility or a lack of sloth, so I asked the proprietor, a Curatorial Devil, for a guided tour. He was very kind and accommodating, if a bit irritated at my seeming lack of appreciation for the souls. Most were uninteresting, but the centerpiece of the museum was a sparkling, otherworldly soul. According to the Curatorial Devil, it’s a Judgement’s Egg, so a God or Star-Seed. According to him, this is the seed from where all oppression grows, and then he proceeded to tell me what he claimed was an abridged version of the history of Hell. I believed not a word of it, as it seemed far too fantastical. After all, the High Wilderness is understandable, but settling in Parabola? Preposterous.
I had originally planned to leave the next morning, but that night in the lodging house I heard a deep, reverberating thudding from the walls and the ground, and I dreamed all night of drums made from my skin. According to one of my fellow guests, a surprisingly jovial devil of the Brazen Brigade, these dreams stem from the influence of a Hellish saint: the Drummer. Naturally, I decided to poke around the church in the morning to see if there was anything to the claims of Hellish Saints buried in the church’s foundations.
The next morning, I entered the church just after the morning sermon. I waited for the other parishioners to leave the building before I approached the priest and convinced them to bring me under the church. They agreed with only a few threats on my part, and led me down a flight of stairs to some dank catacombs. As we walked, I could feel a beat that got louder, and louder, and louder-
I awoke some time later, head buzzing as if filled with bees. I had communed with the thing under the church and gained some understanding of the mysteries of the world, it seemed, so I can gladly call this trip a success from a Theosophistical standpoint. The ordinary traveller, of course, may not want their mind to be shattered by unearthly wisdom careening about their head like a cue ball, but sadly all there is to do for the casual tourist stopping by Burrow on their way somewhere else is to visit the museum of souls or admire the church. For those seeking to obtain deeper truths, I heartily recommend speaking with the Curatorial Devil on the true nature of souls or visiting the catacombs under the church. My final verdict is two out of five stars for the average traveller and four out of five for those looking for esoterica.
Moulin
A Trip to the Moulin Wastes
Correspondent Charles Fortescue Worthington, Esq.,
Cultural Undersecretary to Z____a Mr Cards
Don’t let the name, or conspicuous lack of windmills put you off! The Moulin Wastes along the Great Hellbound Railway are a delightful place to while away the hours. Stepping off the train, you’ll find yourself in a small village, the handful of shops totally dwarfed by the imposing and impressive Archaeological Institute, built using Railway funds.
Your first port of call, however, should be to view the magnificent statue, dedicated to a Legendary Zee Captain. Admire the stunning work of sculpture, and perhaps draw a sketch if you are so inclined. Your next stop is of course, the pub.
The pub (known locally as The Pub) is the focal point of this disparate and eclectic community, and is well worth a visit. The comestibles are… sufficient, but your main purpose here is for the ambience (for a proper meal in the Hinterlands, your best bet would be to visit Zolana’s – a very fine dining establishment indeed, based at Station VIII – but please note, booking seven months in advance is required, given its universal popularity).
Anyway, back to The Pub. There is a certain beauty to be had – sipping away at a Magisterial Lager, gazing out over the mysterious wastes themselves. Visitors, of course, are not permitted beyond the cordon. That is of, course, under normal circumstances. Various locals, suitably incentivized (naturally!) are more amenable to escorting tourists through the desolation Beyond.
Your intrepid author was able to procure such a team of ruffians guides for just such a purpose (anything for you, dear readers!). Gingerly crossing the barbed wire fencing, we entered the Wastes Proper. The Wastes themselves are relics from London’s War with Hell, and the terrain is most treacherous indeed. Mud abounds, and mysterious phenomena await those who venture forth. The unusual terrain is perilous, and being anatomically malleable will be most beneficial in these situations. Not only that, but the Is-Not has a tendency to bleed through into the Wastes as well, further complicating matters (and that’s before we even get onto the topic of unexploded Hellish Ordnance). All sorts of artefacts accumulate throughout the Wastes, and it is these which my motley crew were most interested in (primarily for their monetary, rather than historical, value).
Eventually, however, we navigated our way (relatively) safely, to our destination – the source of all the strangely flowing water out here – the Wellspring. Deep inside a cave, far from the cordon, lies an enormous mirror. Your dear author was not brave enough to venture through to the other side, but I have been reliably informed that the strange wood on the other side of the glass is none other than the Waswood of Parabola, which certainly explains the strange behaviour of the waters of the Wastes. Collecting a small phial of water as a souvenir, we quickly retraced our steps (no mean feat by any stretch of the imagination), returning to The Pub. The Wastes did leave their mark on me, and, inexplicably, I was struck down by a deeply unpleasant coughing fit, which eventually resulted in my coughing up of several Moon Pearls of all things (which my guides were more than happy to accept as payment for their services).
Somewhat disturbed by the entire experience, I departed The Pub, and made my way over to the Archaeological Institute. Established by Mr Cards (a most keen and accomplished historian), it seeks to examine and research the artefacts excavated from the Wastes, and to compose authoritative historical works on the findings. The building itself is magnificent, and is well worth a visit. The library is particularly well stocked (for those with an interest in all matters historical), and many interesting items are on display.
Finally, no visit to Moulin would be complete without a perusal of the shops. The first belongs to the Exiled Antiquarian, and is home to an impressive array of books, artefacts, both true, and… less grounded in reality. The other shop’s proprietor is the Unassuming Bookseller, a denizen of Hell whose wares range from the pedestrian, to the prohibited. One (if suitably wealthy) may even procure a [REDACTED BY THE MINISTRY OF PUBLIC DECENCY]!
A day out in Moulin is certainly a marvellous and exciting affair, and I thoroughly recommend it. However, it is still wonderful to be boarding the opulent First Class carriage of the Great Hellbound Railway to return to the Great Smoke.
The Hurlers
Correspondent Implicative Mathematician
“Mathematics, rightly viewed, possesses not only truth, but supreme beauty — a beauty cold and austere, like that of sculpture, without appeal to any part of our weaker nature, without the gorgeous trappings of painting or music, yet sublimely pure, and capable of a stern perfection such as only the greatest art can show.”
– Bertrand Russell
I have stood upon the hilltop overlooking the frozen lake, attempting to count the stones that stand here. Has merely keeping count always been so difficult? Perhaps my eyes glazed over. Perhaps they slid past the stones as I slowly spun around my axis. Twenty stones, perhaps.
My assistant entertained himself by tending to the fire. That is, tending to the fire whenever it decided, in its infernal stubbornness, to actually be lit. Most of the time, it refused. Every once in a while a Goat Demon passed by, cackling at the two of us. No, seventeen stones.
That day I let my mind go of my formulas, diagrams, theorems. After all, that was the entire reason behind my trip to this frozen wasteland. Clear my head; focus my thoughts; gather inspiration. Twenty one stones.
I sat on the cold ground then, letting my mind wander. I imagined a castle castle of stone standing over the ice, me – the king. I observed its spires and calculated their angles. I breathed in the circumferences and the weights of the foundations. Thirteen stones, I muttered under my breath – What if there are no stones at all? my assistant unhelpfully mocked me.
I waved to my assistants to pack the camp. They complied, perhaps more leisurely than would be fitting. Nevertheless, the bags were soon ready to be carried back to the nearby encampment, then to the station of the Great Hellbound Railway. We took advantage of the natural hot springs to help our nearly-freezing bodies.
We left there that night, turning our backs onto the gorgeous whiteness of the wastes, to return to the vastly different coldness of London.
Today, I wager, I could still not count the stones.
Marigold Station, the end of the line
Excerpts from a decoded message
Correspondent Benjamin T. Barker
–project I have been working towards will more than excuse the lateness of this report and the next.
The Moloch Line lies atop the graves of those who led the charge forty years ago, and Bessemer Steel of the Great Hellbound Railway is forever slick with the blood of its Tracklayers. Arriving at Marigold Station where these converge, I was struck by the absence of a third road to Hell, paved with Good Intentions. For that is what we have been told to expect from those who keep us in bondage. We are instructed to believe our oppressors have Good Intentions, all: Parliament, the ministries, the royal family, even the Masters on occasions when they think us unfathomably stupid.
–soul trade in London is the consequence of those in power, unsatisfied with the workers’ suffering, seeking to put a collar round the Devil’s neck as well. Small wonder that he bit. Those educated in the Neath’s history well know that the infernal princes abused those they governed and were toppled. I have learnt that today Hell’s only governing body is the Revolution- through their fervent devotion they devised a means for it to govern the city! Now, any rule or ruler that grows stagnant or does harm to the people is burned within so-called law-furnaces! If even the slightest bit of a thing could be approximated by to our comrades, they might yet free this cesspit of a city from the whims of decadent highborns and cloaked despots and yes, those exiles who even now live in the Brass Embassy, claiming to be the true Hell while preying on Londoners to eat their souls…
–convinced a watchman to allow me inside. Perhaps a spy or dullard might fear to be announced so, but I know that if I labour as long it takes, I can prove my intentions are true, that our own Cause is a friend to their Revolution. My next report could be a few months in the making, as I earn the trust of the White City. The owners will rue every time they cursed us to Hell, when we bring the best of Hell to London!
Sent by an Wide-Eyed Partisan to a Crathie address. Dated the 9th February 1901. No further instalments.
The City of Tracklayers
A short walk from Balmoral is the Tracklayer’s Union City, founded by an improbable love, built on heartbreak and deception out of Furnace Ancona and her passion. It broke the hearts of at least two people far older than even London’s ground foundations, and likely many more besides. It was built on the denial of the wishes of many. It was built on the denial of our established laws and order. And, it was built on the denial of the very core of modern society.
Here, humans work alongside caretaker monsters in the Prehistoricist-Emancipationist City, another union of the unlike in body but kindred in spirit. Here, they welcome anyone regardless of politics, physical qualities, or any other things of the sort. Here, you’re one of us, all equal. We work as one, and none among us holds the leash.
Yes, Masters’ Trackville and its resident Saint, the Drummer, presided over by the Bishop of Watchmaker’s Hill. He does his best to use his wealth to help the town wherever he can and often spends time integrating among the citizens. The gray man was killed in the law furnaces, in anger for their transgressions against their best friend and for disrupting the peace.
All come see the newest City that denies it is of the old. Come bare witness to the city today, before its no longer a city tomorrow. Stay as long as you like, there’s room for any and all here.
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