The Iron Spine
Category B: Highly Commended (2026) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Jagan Vinod
Mateo’s pen curved gracefully along the parchment, his head often shooting up to survey the mountains that surrounded him before returning to the founder’s codex that rested on his knees. The lush grass, which he’d meant to trim weeks ago, tangled around the length of his bare legs, pricking and prodding at him. He shifted continually but to no avail. He only had time for his cartography duties as the sun set, and so he’d begun to resign himself to this.
It was a new job he had been given by the master. He hadn’t wanted them to know about his history as a cartographer, and yet they found out, and stole from him his last secret, the last piece of his life before entering this secluded valley.
It wasn’t all bad, Mateo thought, as he stretched his arms expansively and took a bite out of the slightly larger than usual portion of bread he had been given for first meal, undoubtedly a result of his increased status among the slaves. To a cartographer, it was a gift to map such an impossible place - a valley sealed by the Iron Spine on every side, save for the distant Founder's Gate leagues away. He savoured the bite, in all its bitter glory, and then it was back to work, his fingers clasped tightly around his instrument as he began detailing the paths up and around the valley.
This cartographer had been assigned a tedious task, yet one that could be performed by very few; Mateo was to map out the entirety of the valley. His work was very valuable - the fading colours of the old codex, which seemed to be held together by nothing more than sheer willpower, made that abundantly clear. His improved status as a result of this made him almost feel like a person again, but the Kaho assistants behind him who watched him like a hawk made him painfully aware that he wasn’t quite there yet.
Mateo’s hand twitched at the thought, the scars on his back remembering the blows they had taken only the night before, and his brush slipped. Black paint smudged across the canvas and Mateo froze. A moment passed, and then he began moving again immediately, ignoring the fear that was enveloping him, the feeling of lightheadedness that threatened to drag him under. Had the Kaho seen it? Did they understand the gravity of that stray brushstroke? Mateo blinked away the darkness that was seeping into the corners of his vision. He couldn’t be discovered for wasting paper.
Where had he been? Yes - the Iron Spine - that is what he had been sketching out. A cold, spindly arm reached out from the abyss and slid its porcelain appendages into the gaps between his bony ribs, tightening its grip ever so slowly. Mateo searched desperately for a way to turn this smudge into an approximation of the actual landmark before it dried. He steadied his jittering hands and moved towards the map with his grimy fingernails, preparing to disperse the stain into a more intentional shape. He looked toward the codex, and cold washed over him. The Iron Spine was a smeared, indistinct mass - its true shape lost to the fading ink. Fear made Mateo move faster, and he forced his eyes up, ditching the codex completely.
He squinted through the waning twilight, frantically searching for a shadow or rockfall that could salvage his mistake. When the codex’s fading ink failed him in the past, he had found it a blessing, allowing him to inject his own artistic spin into his interpretation of the topography he saw before him. But now, each second in which he painstakingly measured the landscape before him brought him closer to the ink drying.
Mateo glanced up at the actual ridge, expecting the usual jagged impassable rock to show him where to bend his ink. Instead, his brow furrowed. The silhouette in the distance didn't look like the sheer rock he expected at all. Mateo blinked hard, squeezing his eyelids shut. Was it his age, his vision failing him? Yet to Mateo’s trained eye, the dip of the faraway crest into a wide shallow curve leading to an open horizon was unmistakable. There was a pass. There was an escape route. Was there a chance?
He sat there, in silence, and as his gaze lingered on the opening. Some feeling that he had long thought dead began to stir within him again - until a shadow fell across his page.
Its long, thin frame stretched over Mateo, rippling over the canvas like another dark stain. Fabrics rustled through the grass, and the stench of pressed flowers wafted to Mateo. The rest of the world receded as he felt chilled, rickety fingers descend onto his shoulder as lightly as a feather. He was weightless, paralysed by its touch.
“A heavy mark,” the Master drawled, his eyes resting on the mistake before slowly tracing Mateo’s gaze to the pass. “Your eyes are remarkable, Mateo.” There was a lull, a silence that lasted for eternity, a life hanging in the balance. Then the master spoke again, with a suffocating sweetness. “It seems you need new parchment!”
Then he was gone, as abruptly as he had arrived, his voice barking at the Kaho to fetch fresh parchment. There was just Mateo, alone, his eyes fixed on the impossible strip of open sky that should not exist.
This rousing spirit within him was dangerous. The shrieks of countless others he had tried to forget filled his head, bursting from where he had buried their memories. Phantom blows rained down on him - not from just last night’s thrashing, but the recollections of every scar alight in succession, one after the other, until they all merged into one singular inferno crawling across his blistering back, consuming that stirring before it could draw breath.
Mateo set his finger to his canvas and drew a sheer rock wall over the open horizon.