Act 1: Intro/California

Part 1 – Painted Rock

Listens-to-the-River drifted amongst the long desert reeds of the River of Souls, feeling as one with the gentle flow of the liquid spirits of his ancestors beneath his feet. Progressing cautiously, as a breeze rippled through the water, his eyes focused downward - aware of the fatal danger that a misstep on a Gila-lurk brood could bring.

The voice ahead remained his primary concern, however, and he would stop suddenly when it would cease, only to continue when it resumed its rhythmical smooth tone. Crouched, he ensured that his head never reared above the height of the reeds, recalling the teachings of hunting mule deer - lessons that were interchangeable whilst stalking human prey.

The sandy pebbles slipped between his hardened toes and he felt the stimulating touch of brown reeds on his outstretched fingers. He stopped, forgetting where he was for a moment and closed his eyes, feeling the wind on his face, and pleasingly accepting the current state of affairs.

The voice was clearer now. It spoke of words that Listens-to-the-River did not understand or care for. Through the reeds, he could now see the rocky and red embankment ahead - the cliff-side above in microcosm. He isolated the source of the sound that originated from behind the jutting sedimentary rock that was nearest to him. A silent climb over the rock, that roughly matched his height, and he would be ready to pounce. He placed his coarse hands on the rock, pulling himself up as quietly as he could, resisting the urge to release his effort with a grunt, and steadied himself with natural footholds.

The distinctive brimmed hat was now visible, and so he determined that she must be sat alongside, hidden from his view, patient and studious as usual during the lectures. Now was the time. With two quick movements, he leapt onto the rock and then over the source of the voice, landing on his feet releasing a war cry that echoed throughout the surrounding gorge. The man, who was sitting against the rock reading a pre-war book, let out a brief but terrified cry, a flinched in alarm hurling the book into the air. Listens-to-the-River turned rapidly to face him, and caught his alarmed expression, laughing as he panned to the man's right and then left. Vacant. His grin disappeared.

The man managed to stop himself from cursing with a babble of sound. He composed himself quickly, however, and measured his tone and words.

By the cross! Must you do that, River?

The man rose with an effort and collected his reading materials.

She is not here. Stated River dumbfounded.

A laugh resounded from the rocks above. River searched for the source, until he saw a girl peering over an overhang, clapping joyously. River sighed and resigned himself dejected from his defeat.

I saw you from the river bend! She shouted down. Wait there, I'll come down. She chuckled.

You never miss his lectures. River shouted back.

I was listening but from afar.

She clambered down until she was face to face with the aspiring warrior-hunter.

Oh, don't be disappointed River, you may be a good hunter, but I know you well – too well.

He smiled reluctantly.

And what's more, I have the smarts.

As she made this revelation she twirled her braided hair, cocked her head to one side, and looked to the sky.

River retaliated: he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder as the girl shrieked, threatening that she could easily join the ancestors in the river ahead of schedule.

Okay, okay, cut it out you two. A hunter and an academic: I don't know who to fear more. Just give me some peace and quiet.

River released the girl.

Peace, Peter? This is peace! River outstretched his arms and slowly rotated. The beautiful land of the souls!

Beautiful? Yes. Peaceful? Your people have much to learn about peace.

Have you come to listen, River? You will learn something from the land beyond. Enquired the girl.

River yawned and stretched in reply, and the girl playfully struck him in response.

Well if you have not come to listen, would you make yourself useful and carry my bag back to the cave? It is getting late and you must get back.

River accepted the challenge to validate his masculine prowess, taking the rucksack over his shoulder. Peter smiled surreptitiously at his victory.

Yes, we must prepare for the night meal. Said the girl.

Next time maybe you can call ahead so that I do not risk dying an early death? Peter requested, in hope more than anything.

You are smart Peter, but not strong. You can learn much from me - like being brave.

The girl rolled her eyes at this boast as they began their ascent up the trail that led to the head of the clifftop; the girl at the front, Peter following with a limp, and River at the rear.

That may be true, but there are times to be brave, and there are times to listen. Your name indicates this, no?

River made a face in return, yet unseen by Peter.

Peter is right River, you can learn much about the lands and wastes beyond. Someday we will have to leave this place.

Why? Our lands are safe from the other tribes, they fear us and we fear no one…

The girl stopped and turned halting their progress.

We make too many enemies, one day we may have to leave this place. It will be up to our best scouts to seek safer lands. Such as you.

I do not want to be some lowly seeker, I want to be a brave warrior!

And join Mother and Father in the river, is that it?

River studied her solemn demeanour for a few fleeting seconds, before gazing defensively across the ravine. The girl shook her head and continued. Peter placed a hand on River's shoulder.

She cares for you.

Peter indicated briefly that he wanted to say something more, but he turned back and made his way after the girl. River stood motionless for a moment before eventually continuing.

He knew what was expected of him. He liked to hunt, scout and explore, and therefore was a prime candidate for a "seeker" for the tribe. But the Painted Rocks were a proud tribe, with many traditions and a history of brave warriors that River wished to join. They had never been beaten in battle and had never lost their lands around the River of Souls. This river was his home and it was where his family was. And now there were rumours, strange tales of another tribe from the east. Mighty and terrifying. The Painted Rocks would fight if needed, but they were pragmatists also. The sacred lands were nothing without the people of the tribe. As the elders say: the lands may die, but its cultivators must live.

Dusk was now falling as they reached Peter's cave. Peter engaged what he called the "generator", breathing life throughout the small grotto. A solitary bulb that hung from the rocky ceiling illuminated the hollow, revealing a bedroll unfurled next to a table, atop of which stood a strange contraption that River failed to recognise: a box with what looked like a window. Near the entrance was another table littered with an assortment of strange objects. River set the bag down and instinctively picked up and curiously studied one of these unfamiliar objects.

Peter removed his neckerchief and hat and queried his student.

So, Miss Walk-Among-the-Stars: what have we learned today about Pascal's Law?

Um, if pressure is applied… to confined fluid, then equal pressure will be exerted throughout to another surface.

Which means?

Something small can move something big.

Peter smiled approvingly.

And what have you learnt? Asked Stars in return.

I learned… he sighed looking towards River. Not to be afraid. That there is a time and a place for everything. Okay, school time is over. You should both be getting back, it's getting late and I want to avoid upsetting your elders again. Tomorrow I will test you on the lessons from the week.

River put down the strange object turning towards the cave exit with Stars in tow.

And I shall test you on my lessons! Stars responded.

Peter escorted them, beaming as he walked, and began a sentence but stopped after he had only uttered a few mere syllables. They both regarded him, searching for the rest of his statement, but his eyes were fixated on the horizon. They followed his gaze to determine what had taken his interest. Smoke. Black smoke rising in the distance, joined by more smouldering columns that split the skyline.

The village. Mouthed River, audible enough to be a whisper.

Both River and Stars stood motionless, unsure of what they were seeing and unclear of what they should do. Peter meanwhile retreated, as quickly as his leg would allow him, back into the cave, opening a footlocker and removed a hunting rifle from within. He returned outside cocking the bolt of his rifle.

Stay here and don't move until I come back.

Where are you going? Asked Stars after him as he made his way back down the path that led to the river.

Stay here! He shouted as he hurried downwards.

For what felt like an eternity they had obeyed his command, studying the increasing levels of smoke for answers, until finally, they made eye contact.

Come on. River gestured as he started after Peter.

He said for us to wait.

River ignored her, and after hesitating for a moment she followed.

Once they made their way to the river basin they continued upstream towards the village, until they came to the mutfruit plants that grew on the floodplain. Night had now set in and multiple raised voices could be heard throughout the darkness, including Peter's. They made their way closer to the source, discovering a clearing that had been lit by a number of torches, taking cover amongst some of the undergrowth.

Peter was an instantly recognisable figure as he was closest to their hiding place. His rifle was drawn but not aimed at the torchbearer strangers who had established a semi-circle around him. Each of which held something in their free hands, which at first River discerned in the dark as short wooden planks, until he saw them glint from the light of the fires. They were machetes - familiar weapons that the Painted Rocks warriors had wielded in battle. The men were odd looking: they wore skirts, leather chest plates, and helmets from the old world. River recognised these from the finds he had made scattered throughout the big paths – or roads - that led away from the sacred lands.

There was much shouting; Peter repeatedly asked to see the chief of the tribe, whilst the strangers told him to relinquish his weapon. Then one of the strangers shouted a word above all the others that puzzled River.

Decanus!

Another man appeared from out of the darkness. Dressed similar to the others, yet distinguishable due to feathers which protruded from his helmet, like the tail of the strange bird that Peter had called a turkey. He did not have a machete like the rest, instead, he had a great fist, a glove that was made of metal. This man they had called Decanus ambled towards Peter, and the instant he made himself apparent the rest of the men fell silent.

The Decanus met Peter at eye level and after a moment of silence, circled him counter-clockwise studying his appearance.

My… my name is Peter Lowell. Please, I must talk to the chief of the tribe…

What tribe? Interjected the Decanus.

The Painted Rock tribe.

By this point, the Decanus had completed his circular journey.

I know of no such tribe.

Peter stuttered slightly over his words and blinked often, but he took a deep breath and made eye contact with the Decanus.

They're the tribe you're enslaving right now.

There is no tribe of this name - no longer.

The Decanus moved closer so that he was within touching distance of Peter.

And you, Peter Lowell. Who are you? A neighbour? Trader? Troublemaker? Dissolute?

I… I'm a friend of the tribe. A Follower. A Follower of the Apocalypse.

He indicated to his jacket shoulder sleeve revealing the symbol that displayed the distinctive cross within the circle and brought his arm around for the Decanus to see more clearly.

The cross! The Decanus shouted as he turned to face his men. The dissolute wants the cross!

Yes… the cross. I am from the same place as your leader. The one you call Caesar. If I can just talk to the chief, we can avoid the bloodshed…

The Decanus slowly rotated back to face the Follower, slumping his shoulders and bringing his head in close proximity with Peter's.

No. Not dissolute. A Profligate. Blasphemus. He asked for the cross, and we shall oblige.

With this, the Decanus raised his great fist which "fired" at Peter's trigger hand. The rifle broke and span away. Peter screamed and nursed his damaged hand. Two men took him by the arms into the darkness towards the source of the smoke.

ABSOLUTUM DOMINIUM! Screamed the Decanus as he raised his fist to the dark sky. The men cheered in response.

TRUE TO CAESAR! They chanted in unison.

Stars began to weep silently, but only anger festered within River.

Stay here. River whispered.

What are you doing?

I'm going to get Peter.

Stars took him by the arm.

You are stupid. They will kill you!

River wrestled free and fell slightly against the brush. He gave her a disapproving look and then left to make his way around the clearing. However, before he had departed from the outskirts of the clearing for the village, he noticed that the Decanus had remained alone in the glade. Yet, from what he could tell the man was now searching close to where River had just been with Stars, having perhaps heard him when he fell during his tussle with her.

River resolved himself and stepped out from the cover of the undergrowth. The Decanus saw him immediately and narrowed his eyes, but this look of determination quickly gave way to a sneer. He went down on his haunches and analysed the boy. River made a fist with his hands but remained still. The Decanus beckoned for him.

Come. Come to me and defend your honour.

River remained, building up all his hate as was the way of the warriors before they went into battle.

The Decanus' expression changed and he rose to his feet.

Or am I mistaken? Are you merely the frightened runt of the litter?

River ran in hard and within moments he was in striking range of the Decanus. He unleashed all he had - blow after blow reached up upon the exposed face of the Decanus. He must have thrown a dozen punches before the Decanus' mighty fist came down into his stomach, throwing him backwards: dazed and defeated.

Weak, but your spirit is strong.

The Decanus took River by his long hair, dragging him away from the clearing. River struggled briefly, but then quickly turned his attention to the undergrowth, scanning the darkness for Stars until he was taken out of sight and into the village.

All around him flames rose like monsters in the darkness. He heard a familiar voice, but pained and emphatic. Looking to his right he saw Peter crying in agony, lashed and nailed to a cross, among others, including the elders, who had met with the same fate, moaning and pleading for mercy. A pungent smell took hold of his senses, unfamiliar but sickening. River traced the cause to his left and identified a burning pile of the Painted Rock braves who had perished. Unceremoniously their souls were being cast to the sky, to be separated for eternity from their ancestors.

The Decanus released River; his head fell hard to the ground. For a moment, he was stunned. He sat up and found himself surrounded by all the boys of the tribe: from babe to adolescent. Tearful and terrified the boys looked for guidance and answers from the chaos around them. River searched desperately with his eyes and found another group - the girls of the tribe being hoarded into a distinct assembly away from the males. He got to his feet in order to make his way toward them, but after a few mere steps, a blow to his stomach felled him to the floor. The assailant and invader screamed at him to stay put. After catching his breath, he began to cry and called out desperately for his friend.