Sons and Daughters of the Solitude: Prologue
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people or locations is unintentional.
Prologue
Present time: The Rise of the Alpine Republics
Where do we go from here?
Humanity shivers, and we barely remember how to dream.
Standing on the splintered deck, breathing smoke and memory breath by breath, as stars glow faint through thick pollution. It still felt unreal to be alive. Long and long ago, she cast her mind back to the small girl toiling on the sun-burned grassy hills, dreaming of dragons and giants and the small deaths of childhood.
The shape of the world had changed. The seeds were planted.
She pulled the blanket tighter, wool scratching her bare shoulders, pulling on old scars. Marveling at the pleasure of warmth, bare feet pressed into the old boards, she rubbed the letter in her hands. Briefly resisting the impulse to crumple it, she ran through the words again.
Against all hope, I am here. I found the supplies we buried, and it is enough.
We never thought we would survive. Maybe I'm something of a monster now.
By the time you reach the old Trestle place, I'll be west in the mountains, hunting. Come find me.
Please.
It was too dark to read, but she had turned the words over enough times, her fingers found the blurred shape of the last word.
A sharp exhale marked her decision and she turned back to the dark opening where the french doors used to hang. The wreck of wood and glass was nothing more than a weathered blur, but her mind filled the dark shadows with color and scent.
The click and whoosh of propane catching a spark brought a surprising surge of emotion. It was the quiet moments of nostalgia that struck like a rattlesnake and left her disoriented.
Wild mullein, comfrey, horsetail, and stinging nettle simmered in the water with a handful of thimble berries, and she leaned back on her heels, listening. The down-slope wind off the high country was soft and full of musk. Her mouth watered and she quickly popped the last piece of vacuum packed pemmican on to her tongue. She winced as the salty fat washed over the gaps where her left molars used to be, and pulled the lid from the pot of tea for a scalding sip.
Sleep came slowly. At last the sounds of a successful wolf hunt in the old alfalfa fields reassured her. Nothing human stirred. It was safe to let go.
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Elk whistling and clicking outside the window brought her to full awareness. Bone deep weariness was forgotten in the primeval sounds, penetrating the walls of the ruined house as if they were tissue paper.
An instinctive stalk across the stained carpet was cut short by stiff joints and the sudden recollection of when and who and where.
Elk calves nibbled on the tree bark nearby, teeth grinding at a quick rhythm, with their mothers in the trees and the irrigation ditch above the abandoned homestead. Patience and slow hands made it possible to pack and dress without alerting the herd as it slowly drifted away from the creek bottom and up to the mountain paths, swirling in the hundreds past the scattered remains of buildings and broken-down fences.
False dawn gave the world a silvery glow as she slipped out the french doors and across the deck, dropping over the fence in slow, smooth movements, timed to the feathery gusts of morning air.
Warmth crept into her bones. The sky turned and dawn broke as she stepped into the shadows of the first canyon and began climbing.