The ferry blows its horn to announce its arrival at the concrete shore and the crowd begins disembarking. A long, narrow bridge slowly moves toward solid ground, allowing the flood of people to spew forth from the vessel. Ulric and I navigate our way through a crowd of sailors, crewmen, and whores, all going to their own destination. As all depart and disappear into the sea of people, we both stop and stare at the sight in front of us.
These buildings must have been thousands of years old and yet there was hardly a crack on them, only an orange hue which had caked itself onto the façades of these structures. They are all ornate. Carved with pictures of events from the past. Armored warriors defending against an unstoppable wave. A pact between two men holding up a single document.
Above these structures loom great statues, which remain as pristine as the day they were first constructed. Images dedicated to Führers of the past, Reich heroes who fought in the Kiln, or even depictions of eagles. In every area of the Edge, red-and-gold flags wave about, gloriously.
It truly is a magnificent sight; however, it isn’t the sight that I have come for.
We stroll through the crowd. Sailors bumble past us on their way to their designated ships. Guards in their large metal suits lumber by with a metallic clank at every footstep. Smaller soldiers march about, waiting to be loaded onto a ship destined for some Eagle Nest out in the Kiln.
As the minutes roll past, we move away from the pungent odor of the sea. The sound of the waves crashing against the Edge disappears in the noise of the human traffic. With every step, dust becomes more prevalent on the white, ancient floor. Wind begins to howl and cry as hot, dry air overtakes the smell of the sea.
There is no horizon in front of me. Instead, the blue sky simply meets a small white barrier. It’s a wall that goes up to my waist. On this wall is a line of flagpoles, each flying the flag of the Eternal Reich, a swastika emblazoned on each and every one. This simple wall is the only thing preventing onlookers from tumbling down into the world below.
After about ten minutes of navigation, we had made our way to the literal edge of this concrete place. As I looked down past the white barrier caked in sand, I could see the desert world that stretched endlessly onward. It was the edge of the great concrete dam that held in the entire sea which we had just traversed by ferry.
I look down the curved face of a structure that has remained stable and intact since the days of the first Aryans. This dam is the arrival point for most people traveling into the vast desert beyond.
Through the rippling desert air, I locate the vast array of ships lined in a row against the dam’s edge. Those were the true docks. Each ship packed with special cargo, preparing to sail forthright into the vast expanse of desert and salt.
From the bottom docks onward, there was nothing more than endless rolling hills of orange desert. I take in the sight of ships curving over the dunes. Going off into the horizon. Long strings of dusty clouds trail behind them as their treads slowly carry them south into the basin beyond.
“Welcome to the Kiln,” I mutter to my brother, reaching out a hand to the magnificent sight.
“It sure is different than how I pictured it…” Ulric remarks, peering over with me, “It’s far more… arid.”
“Well, it is a desert,” I laugh. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know what I expected… so which ship is yours?” Ulric asks, gesturing a hand toward the ships lined against the dam far below.
I point to the largest of the hulking masses of steel. “There she is, there’s the Howling Dark.”
“She’s quite a big one,” Ulric remarks.
“Well there’s a reason we’ve never needed to call in the Drop,” I say.
We stay there for a while, simply gazing out into the orange expanse of sea. After that, we turn around and head to the statue that has loomed over us since we first arrived at the Docks. Its façade has been worn down by centuries of dust and sand, but that didn’t stop it from being magnificent.
I look up upon the calm statue that for centuries has looked off into that endless desert world. Sharp cheekbones define a strong, handsome face. It has wavy hair, similar to that of the ancient Greeks. Its tall body is draped in garments and chains, yet still remains composed. One hand points toward the sky, as another clasps onto the documents that created all the dams of Atlantropa.
We were always taught that he was truly the perfect, ideal Aryan. The man who started our entire race. Standing here underneath this statue, I can’t help but feel a warmth inside my heart. It simply gave off the aura of a father, like he was looking down at his people who are prospering.
“What do you think he would have thought of this?” Ulric asks me.
I squint and wrinkle my brow to get a clearer view of the statue’s face. I take in the meticulous details of the robes. Every inch tells a story through a series of symbols and images about the people of Europe. It is story that culminates in the Reich and the rise of the Aryans. The people.
“I don’t know how much he would think of large statues of himself,” I reply.
“I mean, what do you think he would have thought about this desert… you think he would have still gone through with constructing the dams if he knew the sea would just become one large desert?”
My eyebrows rise, and I look back down to Ulric, his face still turned upward.
“I assume so,” I guess, not really knowing much of what he would have wanted. “Peace was assured, everyone came together. So it worked out,” I reply, gazing up once more.
We then look to the stone engraving that stands at the base of the statue. It’s a mural of two men, the one in the statue and another man, the Architect, both grasping a stone tablet with one hand. Rays radiate from the stone as a group of men look on in the background. On the stone is a single phrase: “The Atlantropa Articles.”
Underneath the depiction of the two men is a short poem, engraved onto the marble:
“He’d be proud that a kid is so ambitious about his message,” I say to Ulric, his eyes analyzing the poem before us.
“You really think so?” Ulric asks with a smile.
“Of course,” I reply, smiling back. “Sieg Heil.”
“Sieg Heil.”
The Howling Dark
The dam scales across the desert like a towering cliff. Its sheer size makes it appear more like a natural formation than a manmade construction, as if the Reich had nothing to do with this dam and Earth had formed this cliffside herself. The journey down to the desert below is a long one, even in an elevator. I feel cramped inside this small metal box hugging the face of the dam on a slow descent into the Kiln.
Such a long journey leads my mind to wander. I imagine the sea that is behind me, all of the water held back only by a thick barrier of centuries-old concrete. If this dam weren’t here, I’d be surrounded by whales and fish. Ships would be sailing above my head instead of below my feet. It’s a strange concept to ponder.
Sunlight peeks in through a thin row of windows along the cabin’s ceiling. In a slow meticulous fashion, rays of light from the setting sun crawl down the walls. White specks of sand glisten as they meet.