The Last of the Runners

Kyrin was sat in front of one of the biggest breakfasts of his life. The plate was piled with bacon, sausage and egg. On any other morning, the mountain of food would have filled his mind and he would have revelled in the excess. Today, though, his mind was already filled with mountains of a different kind; ones of cold grey stone, riddled with caverns where dragons dwelt. He had not been able to keep dragons out of his dreams. They had not frightened him, they had fascinated him and he had dreamt of them in every detail; the glint of the sun on every scale; the way the colours changed with the light; the claws, teeth and eyes and the fire, that transforming, lethal power that came from within. He had slept, for his body was refreshed and yet his brain hurt more than it had after an afternoon of calculus.

“Come on, eat up,” chivvied the old woman. “You’ve a long road ahead of you, especially as you have to go the wrong way first.”

Kyrin left the dragons in the mountains of his mind and attacked another sausage with his knife.

“Why have I got to go the wrong way first?” he asked between mouthfuls. “And where am I going anyway?”

“I thought you were a bright boy,” she grumbled, putting more toast on the table. “You go the wrong way so people that see you leave don’t know the right way and you are going to Racontour.”

“That’s the right way?” asked Kyrin. “I’m sure that road takes me back towards Villblanche and I don’t want to go there.”

“That’s the road you are to take, my boy, though we’ll set you off towards Jerdemaux.”

Kyrin went to protest but the old woman silenced him with a wave of the toast she had just buttered.

“We trusts no one, boy, not even this far from Villblanche. You never knows if one of them city folk has got at your neighbours, persuading them to call the Watchers if they sees a runner. So we makes sure they see you going one way, so if they do go blabbing to those grey hounds, they send them after the wrong hare.”

“Be seen sometimes so as not to be seen,” said Kyrin.

“What’s that?” She sounded irritated at the interruption.

“It was on one of the warning notes I found at my house,” he explained. “It makes sense now.”

“Course it does,” the old woman said. “Got a clever friend, whoever it is. Now…”

“How far do I go in the wrong direction?”

“That’s what I was going to tell you,” the old woman snapped. “Eat, and don’t interrupt.”

Kyrin did as he was told.

“You will need to stay on the Jerdemaux road for about two miles,” she said, “maybe more – to make sure that anyone following you believes you are going to stay on it. That’s when they’ll head back to tell the Watchers.”

“And I double back to get on the right road?”

“You never comes back ’cos they’ll find you. You goes round. After that couple of miles, you’ll be deep enough in the woods to head north and make your way round to Racontour. You’ll probably have to stop off in a couple of safe house on the way, but you have the book of signs to help you find them.”

“But why Racontour?” said Kyrin. “I don’t understand.”

“You won’t understand, boy,” said the old woman. “In fact you mustn’t understand until you reach the end. Only when you have created who you are will you be able to understand. Understanding without creating yourself is what happens in Villblanche.”

Dragons, staffs that held memories, going in the wrong direction and not understanding till he reached the end! Kyrin felt totally confused. Yet there seemed no choice but to go on so that he could understand the whole story.

“I mean, is there a reason I need to get to Racontour?” he asked. “It still seems too close to Villblanche.”

“You have to see the staff hewer, that’s why,” said the old woman. “Find Ash Couper, one of the last of the hewers, maybe the last one of all. He’ll know what you’ll need.”

“He’ll make me a staff like the one last night?” Kyrin was excited at the thought.

“Ash Couper will find you the right piece of wood. Only if you become a true Weaver will the stick become a Weaver’s staff.”

“And he lives in Racontour?”

“That’s what they say,” she said. “But you’ll find him, I don’t doubt. Now you’d better finish you breakfast and get ready. You need to be seen leaving for Jerdemaux and the best time is in about half an hour.”

The sausage in his mouth stopped him questioning the precise timing of his departure and the old woman was busy packing food into his haversack. However, she must have noticed what he felt must be a permanent look of incomprehension on his face.

“Yes, the nosiest women in the village will all be out then, sweeping their steps and gossiping. They won’t fail to notice you leaving my cottage and striding off on the road to Jerdemaux. Don’t talk to any of them. We don’t want them to know too much. Whistle, if it helps you not to talk.”

“Whistle?” mumbled Kyrin through the mouthful of sausage. “What?”

“Anything you like,” she said. “Tunes your mother sang to you when you were little. Now, eat up.”

Kyrin worked his way through as much food as he could manage. Finally he got up from the table and collected his bag from the bedroom. With that on his back and the freshly packed haversack on his shoulder, he stood ready at the door.

“Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”

“I’ve waited for this opportunity to serve,” she said, with a tone in her voice that Kyrin did not recognise. “Waited many years indeed.”

She opened the door a little and peered out.

“It is time.”

The door was opened wide and the old woman launched into an elaborate and loud farewell.

“Goodbye, my dear. Travel safely. Don’t talk to any strangers. I’m sure a boy like you will have no problem getting to Jerdemaux. Remember me to your aunt. Goodbye, my dear, goodbye.”

As Kyrin turned the corner, she stopped waving and went inside, wiping real tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron.

“Let him be the one,” she whispered to the empty room. “Let him make it safely. We have waited so long.”

There was balance and calm in the chamber beneath the oak. The Weave was content that the journey, and all the discoveries it would entail, had begun for the One Runner. The Last Runner.

The knock on the grey panelled door had been an announcement of, not a request for, entry. The Head Learner had just the time to look up before the Rector entered.

“So, Head Learner,” the jowls quivered as he spoke. “How many?”

“Many?” Disturbed in the middle of her revision of the programme of learning for practical writing, the Head Learner did not immediately grasp the meaning of the Rector’s question.

“Runners, Head Learner,” quivered the jowls. “How many runners must I report to the Proctor?”

“Ahh…yes…well,” The Head Learner was twittering on her leather-upholstered perch. “I believe it is just a single runner this term.”

“A single runner? He has been apprehended of course?” The Rector’s question did not expect a negative answer.

“Well,” the Head Learner swallowed hard, the words sticking in her gullet like a pellet. “He is being pursued.”

“Pursued?” The Rector was not impressed. “Actively pursued?”

“Indeed yes,” she answered, too quickly. “The Magister is following many leads.”

“Many?”

“Indeed, Rector, and following all of them actively.”

“Many leads? For one boy?”

“There are sightings, you see,” The Head Learner’s eyes were wide with panic. “Sightings from different places: some true, some false and they all need to be investigated.”

“How many Watchers does he have to help him?”

“Sufficient… I’m sure sufficient. And this year, the Sub-Magister has provided invaluable support.”

The Rector smiled, if the slight upward curve of his lips could be considered a smile. The Head Learner smiled back, hoping that the worst had passed.

“Let’s go and see them,” the Rector said.

“Who?” Her head was swivelling on top of her collar, her owl-like eyes wider than before.

“The Magister and his assistant,” The thin smile was still there. “Let’s see how actively they are pursuing these leads.”

“Shall I summon them?” The panic in her voice was barely masked. “Save you the trouble.”

Her hand reached for the small brass bell, but he intercepted her, picking up the bell himself as if to examine it.

“It’s no trouble, Head Learner,” the Rector said, still smiling, and placing the bell back on the desk. “I’m not so old that I cannot walk to another office. Besides, I would not wish to stop them working. Shall we go?”

He held the door open for the Head Learner, who hopped from her perch and led him meekly from her office. She shot a furious glance at her mouse-like secretary, who scuttled behind a filing cabinet, horribly aware of the anger that would be vented on her for not delaying the Rector’s arrival. They moved along the corridors without a word and down the staircases that led to the Magister’s office, just above the cells. The Head Learner was desperately trying to regain her composure but the Rector’s thin smile made it impossible, so her head was still swivelling, owl-like, as they swept into the Magister’s office.

The Sub-Magister looked up from behind the pile of ledgers and manuscript rolls on his desk, his dark glasses hiding any expression of surprise or alarm. He smiled and stood up.

“Head Learner, Rector, what an honour to have you visit.”

“Where’s the Magister?” asked the Rector.

“He’s just stepped out to stretch his legs, sir,” the young man said calmly. “He suffers from cramp at times and has to walk down to the Gatehouse to relieve it.”

“Fetch him,” snapped the Rector.

“Of course, sir,” said the Sub-Magister, making to move.

“Not you.” The Rector turned his head to the Head Learner, the thin smile frozen on his lips. “If you would be so kind.”

The Head Learner smiled back, straining every fibre of her body not to show her discomfort, and left the room. The Sub-Magister sat down and made to continue with his work. The Rector walked round the office, running his eyes across what lay on the desks and shelves. He stopped behind the Sub-Magister.

“What is it that you read?”

The Sub-Magister did not look up, continuing to read.

“Words. As you can see, sir, it is one of the ledgers that record the movements of past runners.”

“Why do you read such history?” The Rector ignored the slight insult in the Sub-Magister’s reply.

“To understand the pattern in their running, sir, so as to better prevent it.”

“Yet you have just one runner to apprehend at present.”

“So I understand, sir.”

“Would it not be better to be out in the country, following this one rebel, not wasting time musing over past events, ancient history and myth?”

The Rector had unrolled one of the manuscripts that lay on the Sub-Magister’s desk.

“Complete understanding of the motivation of runner will, in my opinion, facilitate the ending of this trend.”

“In your opinion,” the Rector sneered. “The Council of Elders tells you that running is against the interests of the city. The Council tells you that runners are idle dreamers who choose to shirk their responsibilities to contribute to the city that has supported, protected and educated them. What else is there to understand?”

The Sub-Magister looked up at the Rector. He could see the jowls reddening and wondered how much he could say without provoking the Rector’s anger.

“It is to be wondered, Rector,” he said calmly, “what incites these individuals to rebellion. It is too simplistic to accuse them just of being idle and good for nothing. Many show interest in alternative …”

“There is no alternative to the will of the Council of Elders,” said the Rector from behind his frozen smile. “There never has been an alternative and there never will be. So put these ancient fictions back in the Index where the will of the Council says they belong.”

Further discussion was prevented by the sweating, wheezing arrival of the Magister, shepherded back into his office by the Head Learner.

“Magister,” The icy smile was turned onto the shambling man. “I trust your cramp is eased?”

“Yes, Rector, thank you, Rector,” he burbled uncomprehendingly.

“Good, for we need to see you more active in your work. How many Watchers have you?”

“Thirty, Rector, that’s all.”

“And these thirty cannot apprehend one miserable boy? Thirty men and these fabled steam dogs of yours? Why can they not catch him?”

“Well, Rector, they would be able to do it if we just knew where he was,” the Magister blurted out, panicked into the truth. The Head Learner choked, as if about to regurgitate a pellet. The Sub-Magister stared down at his desk to hide his amusement at the Magister’s discomfort.

“Enough of this,” snapped the Rector, the last trace of the smile disappearing. “There is just one runner. Perhaps this is the last runner. Make it so. Catch him. Drag him back to Villombre in a cage. Make an example of him, his family and anyone who helps him. I don’t care how you do it. The end, the benefit to the city, justifies the means. The curse of these runners must be ended. Earn the praise of the Council and do it quickly. There will be nothing I can do to prevent their wrath at your failure.”

The Rector swept out of the room and they heard his high boots echoing off the flagstones as he went up the stairs. As the last echo faded away, a grim silence descended on the Magister’s office. Hardly a breath could be heard as they looked at each other, trying not to catch another’s eye. The Head Learner was the first to move.

“You heard him,” she said. “Just do it.”

With that, she was gone. Silence fell once more, broken only by the gentle wheezing that came from the Magister, slumped in his chair like a slowly deflating balloon. The Sub-Magister continued to pore over the ledger in front of him with a calm concentration designed to irritate the Magister.

“Arrest his mother,” the fat man wheezed at last. “Take two Watchers and don’t be subtle. Take the dogs too! Let’s get the message out that we are not going to mess around. Might encourage others to turn the brat in.”

The Sub-Magister looked up from the ledger.

“What do you think you’ll gain from arresting her?”

“I think you had better stop questioning my instructions,” The wheezing had taken a threatening tone. “Get out of that seat and go and do what you’ve been told. And be quick. I want her in the cells in two hours.”

The Sub-Magister chose to obey the Magister. It was not an argument he could win. He would have to continue to try helping his friend by other means. Besides, his headache had not subsided. If anything, it was getting worse.

Kyrin had found the walk through Contefay on the road to Jerdemaux an unnerving experience. Many doors were open and the women of the village were sat on their steps or leaning against the door posts, enjoying a rest after finishing the first chores of the day. As he walked down the street, he felt each pair of eyes notice him, examine him and follow him until he was out of their sight and a new pair of eyes locked onto him. Many of them called out to him, asking him where he was going or where he came from, but he just smiled and kept walking.

As he got out of the village, he became aware of a pair of women, walking a short distance behind him. He kept going, ignoring their questions and trying to put a distance between them, without making it obvious. Five or ten minutes, Kyrin pressed on, concentrating on walking as straight and as quickly as possible. Still the pair seemed to be following him, though they were chatting and not apparently trying to catch up to him. There was no one else on the road now as it went straight into the forest, slicing a path through the trees to the horizon. Even if they stopped, they could watch him walking for several miles and see if he turned off.

So he pressed on, forcing himself not to worry that he was getting further away from his actual destination, casting an occasional glance back over his shoulder to check on the two women. About an hour out of Contefay, he noticed that they had stopped following and were sitting at the side of the road. However, he had no choice but to carry on. They had reached a part of the forest that must have been felled in the recent past, for a swathe of trees had been cleared either side of the road and little had yet regrown. It created a wide avenue between the tall oaks that ensured he would remain visible to the two women for a good way yet.

The trees were pretty bare now, with just a few dry golden leaves clinging to the branches. These last memories of summer rustled in the breeze like the pages of old books. What stories could they tell of the past season? Who had they seen pass? Now they revealed the delicate pattern of the branches against the sky. Why was it, thought Kyrin, that he had only begun to see the mystery and beauty of the trees since he had left home? How the fine lattice of the branches fascinated him, how each twist and turn of growth traced lines against the sky. He took in every detail, wondering what tale he could tell of these trees and the creatures that must inhabit those high pathways through the branches. His imagination had started to run as freely as his legs as he travelled away from Villblanche and the touch of the Story Weaver’s staff had whipped it to a gallop. The excitement he felt made each step light and carried him along the road until the two women had disappeared from view.

Kyrin stopped and looked around. He’d just gone over a slight ridge that had finally hidden him from the two women. The trees had closed back in on the road, the wood cutters having retreated towards the village. Some of the trees were so large that the top branches met above the road. It felt welcoming, reassuring to be back under the tree canopy after the miles in the open. That was another way is life had changed. He had not thought much of the forests before he had started to run. Now he was beginning to feel at home among the trees and to appreciate the different shapes created by the trunks and branches, each tree as distinct from another as people were. The leaves lay thick between the upright pillars like a carpet that swished and crunched beneath the delicate tracery of the vaulted ceiling of branches they had once adorned.

Kyrin had also become more used to travelling through the woods, picking out the slight path worn by a fox or badger to make it easier to move through the undergrowth. A sense of direction was gradually coming to him in the deep shade of the trees as he traced a large circle round Contefay and, as evening drew on, he was heading for Racontour in search of Ash Couper, the hewer of staffs.

The Sub-Magister was back at his desk. His head was throbbing again, worse than ever. He had not felt so tired and dispirited since he had been sat in the cart that brought him back to Villblanche when his run had ended. He stared disconsolately at the manuscript on the desk and tried to ignore the singing coming up from the cells.

They had taken a wagon with a cage back to his village to arrest Kyrin’s mother. The Magister had insisted on it and had increased the number of Watchers going with the Sub-Magister to six, along with four steam dogs and their handlers. He had been able to do nothing to explain or comfort her as the Watchers burst into the cottage and five of them dragged her out and threw her into the cage. Two of the Watchers had then to go back into the cottage to bring out the sixth of the number who she had laid out with her heavy frying pan.

She had screamed defiance at them all, but particularly at the Sub-Magister, using his name and cursing the day she had let him into the house. To make things worse, the noise had brought his own mother out into the street, calling him such names and insulting his official status to the point where he had no choice but to have her arrested and thrown into the cage with Kyrin’s mother.

It had been an uncomfortable drive back through the village and onto Villblanche. The two women had shared the task of scolding the Sub-Magister all the way, much to the amusement of the Watchers. He had no choice but to bear it in silence, hoping the Watchers would see how he could distance himself from even his mother in the service of the city.

Now they were down in the cells and they were singing. Kyrin’s mother had started it. The Magister had gone to interrogate her. The Sub-Magister had heard the questions and he had heard the slap the fat man thought would encourage an answer from her. Kyrin’s mother had made no reply. The questions had been repeated and the Sub-Magister’s knuckles had been white as he clenched his fists while the Magister tried again to encourage her to give an answer.

He had heard him wheezing as he caught his breath and then the softer voice began, the voice the Sub-Magister had heard in the dark. Kyrin’s mother had started to sing and to sing at the top of her voice, repeating that old ditty that Gan had first heard while she had cooked pancakes for him and Kyrin. It drowned out the Magister’s soft voice and Mrs Bruntler joined in. So did his own mother and they turned it into a round that filled the cells with a warm harmony and colour that he had not sensed before.

The Magister had raged and had buckets of water thrown at the women, but it did nothing to dampen the spirit with which they sang, and he had stomped off towards the gatehouse, sweating and wheezing. The Sub-Magister had gone silently up the steps to his office. His head was throbbing and his eyes were stinging behind his dark glasses He tried to focus on the history manuscript in search of information on the Tourney of Tales. Try as he might, he could not keep their song from his ears.

“Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons both green and both blue.

Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons will always be true.”

Gan used the cuffs of his grey robe to stop his tears from blotting the manuscript.