Cover

Dedication

To my mum, Erica

– a belated birthday pressie!

Chapter 1: The Stranger

THE STRANGER

On the bright side of the valley, ten furrows from Lane End and some twenty furlongs from the village of North Owlcot, in a place where the great metal city of Medlock was just a dream, there was a small farm. The farmhouse was a time-worn cottage nestled in barley-swathed fields divided by drystone walls. Wayward geese busied themselves near the pond and sheep grazed around single-standing oak trees. Automaton farmers sowed seeds, while scarebots kept the crows at bay.

Prue watched from the upper field, her elbows perched on the back of a broken mechanimal plough horse, oily hands clasped together, as a speck of a figure wound his way up the lane. Even from this distance, Prue could see there was a smart uprightness to the stranger’s walk unlike anyone she knew from the surrounding farms. As he neared, he paused and looked into the lower field where the automated potato digger ambled through the furrows, and Bess, one of the mechanimal dogs, patrolled, waiting to be called for evening herding. After a few moments, the stranger continued onwards and took the path towards the farm. When he turned, he looked up in Prue’s direction. She ducked behind the mechanimal horse, which in retrospect was pointless because she was certain he’d already seen her.

A sudden ping, followed by the squeak of metal, drew Prue’s attention to the ground in front of her.

“Darn it!” she said as the hoppity wrench sprang merrily down the hill. Barley whipped her calves as she chased after it, its little steel jaws bobbing up above the golden tops before disappearing again. “Come back here, you little metallic monster!” She dived and wrestled with it for a moment, as it battled to jump away. This particular hoppity wrench not only seemed to have a loose restrainer, but a faulty homing device; it should’ve been able to make its own way back to the tool shed, but she had often found it hopping its way down the lane towards North Owlcot. Francis had tried to fix it last year, but he said some things just didn’t want to be fixed.

She breathed out heavily and clipped the loose restrainer back in. “There.” It bobbed its legs for a few moments, then gave up trying. When she peered above the barley, the stranger was nearly at the farm doorstep. Prue hurried downhill, through the tracks towards the house, keeping out of sight by stooping low, the hoppity wrench clamped firmly under her arm. She slowed her pace as she approached, then, after another quick peek to make sure the stranger wasn’t looking, she hurried behind the water butt which was beside the farmhouse, close to the door. There was a sharp knock. After a few moments the door creaked open.