Did you know 90% of Australians live on the coast? Those other 10 % must be hardy folk!
John'stown
Aran's head hurt, his mouth was dry, he could feel the grains of sand in his eyes, but he had to press on. Wearily he heaved his weight on to his equally tired horse's back to continue his search. The day was still, even if it was bleak and cold, a light dusting of snow flakes slowly drifted down from above.
Aran bone weary, was not paying attention, the clomp of his horses hooves striking a hard surface causing him to look suddenly down. Finding he was on a broken edge of a bitumen road that headed into the distance before him. Drunken telegraph poles teetering at impossible angles still lined it, the wires broken and trailing uselessly on the earth.
He followed the blacktop, its double white lines faded to an insipid gray. The countryside had changed subtly, the shifting orange sands giving way to flat, rock strewn clay. Scattered over this landscape, stunted leafless trees, and low clumps of equally dead grasses, interspersed with the occasional dilapidated fence line, consisting of rusted star droppers, and barbed wire.
There were older sections of fencing here too, built completely of rock, the stones all tightly fitting together with complete absence of mortar. A legacy to men of another time. Scattered ruins stood here as well, mostly just the chimneys remained, and the tight rectangle of the foundation stones. These had been simple stone cottages once, but they had been abandoned long years before any war.
In the distance Aran sighted what appeared to be a traditional country town. Something from memory. As he rode closer he could distinguish a neat cluster of stone structures that still lined the paved roadway. The signs of war and chaos were not apparent here.
Before the little town, set off to one side on a gently sloping incline was a stone church, complete with a little graveyard set to its side. An ornate wrought iron fence bordering it. The double arched doors made of wood stood closed and intact, as were the windows and the iron roof. A well traveled dirt trail led up to it. The original road sign sporting the town's all but forgotten name had been replaced with a hand painted one on plywood. John'stown it advised, in bold black letters.
Further in he could sight a building that would have once been a hotel, its large windows boarded up on the ground floor, and another that would have housed a general store. The rest of the town consisted of the usual standard four room cottages with iron lean-tos on the back, and a front veranda. They too all crafted of the same bluestone.
Smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys, and as Aran got closer a black and tan dog barked its warning. Many vehicles were still parked in the streets where they had at last ground to a halt many years ago, their tires flat and shredding from their long disused and rusted rims.
Wary, Aran advanced, determined he would not be surprised again, his horse's hooves resounding loud on the pavement. The dog continued its strident warning, trailing behind him annoyingly, growling at intervals. Making his tired horse jittery on the slippery black top as it attempted to kick the harrying canine.
He could sense he was being observed, doors were pulled partially open, the inhabitants assessing him from afar in the shadows of their dark homes. Aran did not know if appearing threatening would help or hinder his cause. For all he knew they had rifles trained on him, but he had to drink, today.
There was a long cement trough in front of the hotel, it was full, but frozen over. Aran dismounted and led his horse to it, the loud rending of the ice as he shattered it with his sword obscene in the silence. The animal took great gulps of the frigid water imprisoned below, he could see the water level dropping before his eyes. Aran did not hesitate this time, it was most unlikely this well kept town would have a poisoned water source in its midst. He drank from the body of water beside his animal until his belly could hold no more.
Thirst had dulled his senses. There was a low laugh nearby, Aran looked up with suddenness, reaching for his sword under his cloak.
"Well, well, look what we have here? A heathen from the outside."
Before him stood a gruff, bearded man aged somewhere bordering on fifty, his hair thinning and gray, with a wood cutting axe clutched meaningfully in his hand. His clothing was neat, and for the most part hand sewn. He wore no hides nor fur as Aran did.
Doors opened, the hinges squeaked, the people of the town had come out on to their verandas to better observe their visitor. There were many. The men were armed, but he could see no guns, their women stood behind them dressed in long skirts in dowdy colors looking equally dour, there appeared to be no small children. They looked to be simple people, farmers perhaps, Aran saw no evidence of deformity anywhere.
"My name is Aran." He offered, removing his hand from the sword pommel and placing them in clear view of the man before him, that he might see he had merely come for the water and nothing else. It felt most odd for Aran to feel like the hunted and not the hunter. "I only stopped here to get a drink, and to water my horse, and then I'll be gone."
The older man was examining him closely, he appeared to be the town patriarch, his three sons standing behind him, the resemblance was unmistakable.
"What brings you to these parts?" The sturdy man questioned.
Aran his head fuzzy with a headache suddenly remembering the original purpose of his mission. "I was looking for someone. I was wondering if you had seen her? A tall woman about twenty or so with red hair, she was probably riding a plow horse as well. An archer."
The man laughed, Aran was unsure why, so did most of the other men in the town. The women remained silent.
"Nope, can't say I've seen anyone like that." The man answered, not looking at Aran directly, instead his eyes trained on the gold rings that adorned his hands, and the further abundance of gold about his throat. "But I'm sure that before you travel on, you might wish to come in and rest a while?"
He gestured to one of the larger homes across the roadway. Aran's green eyes followed the man's pointing finger to the opened doorway, alighting on the older woman and her young daughter framed in it.
"My woman's got some stew on the stove, you are welcome to eat with us."
Aran looked back at the man in his neat white shirt and well made brown coat. The warrior had not been ready for the invitation of hospitality, he had expected to be driven off.
"I would." Was all he could think to reply.
The authoritative man led the way toward his home, Aran flanked by his young sons. All who had been silently observing drifted away to resume their lives. His horse lingered by the trough grateful of a rest. The warrior stepped up on the wooden floored veranda, the floorboards moved and creaked under his weight, and was motioned through the deep walled doorway.
"My name is John, head of this town, and yes it is named after me. Welcome to my home." The man announced proudly.
