He came in on the spring wind, when the snow had melted and revealed again the pallid stone from which the skeleton spires of the Lost World reached skyward. It had been a harsh winter and a fair number of the Junkfolk had gotten their fires snuffed out by the cold, Fyn’s pa among them. It had soured the spring for many of the tribe. But when the man came jangling down the alleyway that morning, he seemed to carry a sweetness on the air with him.
The city was quiet, just like all the others. And when the morning mists receded to reveal that all they’d hidden were more mammoth, empty buildings, RJ’s heart sank a little. There was something nice about the haze, the boy thought. It was almost like he couldn’t tell how different things were. He’d been young then, but on the foggy mornings before the bunker he could remember the city being washed in that same eerie calm, that same solemn silence that now haunted the world’s empty shell.
It was back in the days before the Prophet came, when the World Before was still slowing down and the beasts that had hidden in the shadows were just beginning to rear their ugly heads. That was when the Plantin’ Man sowed his tale.