The Last of the Runners

The Proctor sat stiffly in the high backed chair topped with the coat of arms of Villblanche. The grey armorial could have grown out of his head, there was so little difference in colour between it and his hair. Indeed, he moved so little, he could have been carved from the same colourless wood. Throughout the working day, he sat and gave his opinions or consent with a nod or a shake of his head. Occasionally, his fingers would release their grip on the carved lions’ heads on the arms of his chair.

The slightest movement dismissed or allowed a visitor to approach.

The Proctor received reports on everything that happened in Villblanche. Motionless, he listened and then considered the information, comparing it to all he had seen in his long service. The Proctor knew much of the lore of the city, and having learned it, he had locked most of it away in the Index of the library. The lore was dangerous in the wrong hands and challenged the taught truths determined by the Council.

Today the Proctor was uneasy. A single fact in the Rector’s report, a sole runner, had made a connection in his labyrinthine mind. Just one runner? Did not a prophecy speak of a single runner? It signalled danger if he was not disposed of.

He pressed the button on the desk in from of him. A panel opened silently. A grey steel speaking tube glided noiselessly up to his mouth.

“Send the Rector to me.”

The Rector had not been summoned to see the Proctor for as long as he could remember. He visited the Proctor’s office every week to make a report on progress within the city, but to be summoned to attend immediately shook the Rector to his core. What could be so important for the Proctor to demand his presence at eight in the evening? The grey-panelled passageways that led to the Proctor’s chambers were hung with tapestries. Perhaps they showed some great scenes in the history of the city but they were so thick with dust that the images had been indistinguishable since before the Rector had taken up his post. The candles flickered as he passed and a mean draught made them all dim as he approached as he approached the Proctor’s door and knocked.

“Enter.” A sepulchral voice echoed on the other side of the door.

The Rector turned the heavy handle and oozed his way into the room, with none of his usual confidence. Without that, his jowls took on the air of a guilty man who just wishes to hear his sentence and get it over.

“You sent for me, Proctor,” he said obviously.

The pale eyes opened and turned their baleful gaze on the Rector.

“Why else would you be here?” said the Proctor, his voice like a steel blade, scraping on stone. A movement of his right index finger pointed the Rector to a chair, before it returned to its position on the lion’s head. A different rasp this time as the Proctor cleared his throat.

“You say there is but one runner this autumn?”

“Indeed, Proctor, indeed,” the Rector began to gush. “It just shows that our efforts have been rewarded.”

“Is it him?” The rasping sound set the Rector’s teeth on edge.

“Who, Proctor?”

“The runner. Is it him?”

The Rector had wandered for some time if great man’s mind was beginning to lose its grip on reality. He was quite perplexed by the question and he had no choice but to show it.

“Is it who, Proctor? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Idiot,” rasped the Proctor. “Do you believe your own pronouncements so much that you ignore history? The prophecy, man, the prophecy!”

“I admit I have paid little heed to this old gibberish, Proctor,” said the Rector with disdain. “It has so little to do with the future prosperity of the city.”

“Fool!” cried the Proctor. “A blind fool, blinded by his own pride! Let us hope you are not deaf as well!”

“Proctor, calm yourself.”

“Calm myself?” The rasping voice was beyond calming. “`When just One runs, the Weaver King comes, the City is undone and free runs the Sun.’ Have you not heard this?”

“Of course, Proctor,” said the Rector, trying to regain control. “It opens the lecture on the history of the city that is given to all trainee city officials.”

“And do you pay no heed to these lectures?”

“With respect, Proctor, these lectures are designed to alert the trainees to the myths that obsess the populace and against which they must strive for the good of the city.”

“Then strive, Rector,” said the Proctor, out of his seat all of a sudden and gripping the Rector by the shoulder. “Capture the one runner. Prevent the prophecy from being fulfilled. Strive to protect the future of the city. We cannot let the Weaver King take the power that is ours.”

“I have arrested the boy’s mother,” said the Rector, smugly, the icy smile returning to his thin lips. “The Magister and his assistant are hot on the trail of this one foolish boy. They aim to crush the network that has supported these delinquents over the years.”

“Arrested his mother?” There was a note of concern in the Proctor’s voice. “What do you hope to gain by that?”

“To encourage others to give up the boy. Perhaps it will bring the boy back to the city to free his mother. It is a standard practice where the delinquents are persistent, to imprison their parents.”

“But this one,” said the Proctor, “This one is different.”

“In what way?” asked the Rector. “He is just a boy who has decided to run rather than proceed to the Training School.”

“There is just the one boy this year. Is that not so?”

“Indeed it is, for our efforts to deter this plague are at last rewarded.”

“The prophecy, Rector…”

“Is nothing to concern the likes of us,” said the Rector. “It is a tale to amuse the common folk.”

“Catch the runner and prove the prophecy false,” said the Proctor, “for I have not your youthful disdain for such old tales. Therefore, I would proceed carefully against his mother.”

“For what reason should I favour the mother of this delinquent?”

The old man slumped back into his chair, wearied by his effort. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

“If you had paid attention to the lecture, you would not need to ask. It is rash, Rector, to pay little heed to the history and legends of the city. Be certain to take this runner and take him before the Solstice.”

“The Solstice? Is this some other superstition?” The Rector was almost laughing.

“Read your history and do your duty.” The rasp was little more than a whisper. The index finger moved again and the Rector withdrew, not daring to challenge the Proctor further.

Back in corridor, his temper rose again. The old man was raving. His time was running out, he was sure, and with him gone, the city would need a new Proctor.

“Read your history,” he muttered. “That Sub-Magister has been doing that. Why should I waste my time? I’ll pick his brains in the morning.”

In his dark chamber, the Proctor was still slumped in his chair. The Rector’s lack of care alarmed him. He had not realised the significance of the single runner. Each year, he had crowed over the decline in the number of runners, unaware of the danger that was coming when the number reached one. The runner must be found and taken. The arrival of the Weaver King must be prevented. The future of the city depended on it.

The words on the page screamed at the Sub-Magister. For all his tiredness, he understood at last. He had forced himself to read, hoping to find some solace in the old words for what he had just done. It had been less than a page from where he had stopped, written in red ink and set in the middle of the sheet. The prophecy that was suppressed by the Council of Elders. Their formal interdictions and threatened punishments for passing on the prophecy surrounded the red in heavy black ink.

How important was Kyrin now? Year after year, more than one boy had run. This year it was just Kyrin. And who was the Weaver King? Did it matter if Kyrin was successful or not? Yet again, one answer posed many questions and demanded more research. There had been one sentence that stated blandly that the Weaver King was crowned at the Tourney of Tales, giving Gan a second answer to the questions posed by Mrs Bruntler, though it too added to the list of additional unanswered questions.

“I see you have not yet returned these manuscripts to the Index.”

The Sub-Magister jumped. He had been so absorbed in the manuscript he had not heard the Rector come in.

“I have not had the time, Rector,” he answered politely. “We have been much occupied with this runner.”

“Well, see they are returned soon.”

“Of course, Rector.”

“By the way,” the Rector tried to sound as casual as possible. “Has your reading revealed anything about a prophecy?”

“I have just read it, Rector.”

“Did it make any sense to you?”

“Apart from the fact there is only one runner this year, it makes no sense,” said the Sub-Magister. “There was something about the crowning of the Weaver King at a Tourney of Tales.”

“What is that?”

“It didn’t say, Rector.”

“You may continue your research, Sub-Magister,” said the Rector. “Report your findings to me. It may be of significance.”

“I will, Rector,” said the Sub-Magister, delighted with the new responsibility.

The Rector moved to the door. He stopped, his head to one side, listening.

“What’s that noise?”

“It’s the prisoners,” the Sub-Magister said quietly.

“What a strange sound!”

“They are gagged, Rector,” he said. “It was the Magister’s will.”

“Gagged?”

“To stop them singing. They have been singing since they were arrested. Nothing would stop them.”

“So you gagged them?”

“Yes, Rector,” said the Sub-Magister.

“Who are the prisoners?”

“The Bruntler woman, the old woman who shelters runners in Contefay and the runner’s mother. And… my mother.”

“Women? They are women and you gagged them?”

“I had no choice,” said the Sub-Magister. “I was instructed.”

“Show me.”

The Rector led the way to the cells and the Sub-Magister had no choice but to follow. They went down the winding stair and the rhythmic grunting of the gagged women grew louder. It was recognisable as a tune, and it hurt the Sub-Magister, undermining his adult exterior.

“Is that a tune?” asked the Rector.

“It is…,” said the Sub-Magister, through gritted teeth. The sound was making him feel faint. “A song.”

“A song, you say?” The Rector was intrigued.

The Sub-Magister could only nod.

“I seem to remember it. What are the words?”

The Sub-Magister recited the words and though he tried not to, he fitted them to the muffled tune the women were grunting. Only his dark glasses guarded his red eyes from the Rector’s notice. When he finished the words, he took a breath and leaned against the wall.

“Those words?” asked the Rector. “They use those words?”

Another nod from the Sub-Magister.

“They provoke us with those words? Those words! They provoke us to uncivilised actions. They force us to gag them and insult our civilisation. They challenge us with fictions. Let them fear this one!”

The Rector was angry, icily angry.

“Listen to me, you hags,” he cried to the cells. “This childish story will have no place in our city. It has no power here. The power of this superstition had ended – for the runners are eliminated and Villblanche can move forward soberly to greater riches. Cease your noise and we will be civilised.”

The grunting stopped. The Rector went and looked in at each door. Each cell contained a defeated woman, hope gone, all defiance sucked from them. The Rector smiled again, his familiar icy smile.

“That’s better,” he said. “That’s much more civilised. Now we can return to our natural behaviour, as you see there is no point in this childish defiance. It has ended this year. At last. And we all rejoice.”

His voice echoed round the cells and silence fell. Perhaps a stifled sob came from one of the cells.

“The Magister will deal with this final miscreant and you will be able to return to your villages and lead useful lives. Ungag them, Sub-Magister.”

He turned to leave and found the Sub-Magister still leaning against the wall. He leant forward and whispered so that the Sub-Magister felt the icy breath on his cheek.

“Do as you are told, boy. Then back to your office and make my words come true.”

The Sub-Magister nodded and the Rector left. There was silence in the cells. The Sub-Magister began to breathe again. With the tune stopped, he could stand up again. Every now and then, a sob could be heard, but he took his time, allowed his shell to harden again, before he went to the first cell.

There were tears on the faces of all the women, tracing fresh channels in the grime. Worst of all, the fire had gone from their eyes. The old woman said nothing. Mrs Bruntler said nothing. His own mother said nothing. Kyrin’s mother allowed him to remove the gag. The Magister had used her own faded headscarf to gag her. The Sub-Magister handed it to her shamefacedly but she seemed hardly to be breathing. Each one looked crushed.

Inside his fragile shell, the Sub-Magister finished the task mechanically, held back the childish instinct to apologise. He had not been able to look at Kyrin’s mother he felt so ashamed.

“Is it true, Gan? Have they caught him?”

She whispered the question just was about to leave the cell. He stopped at the sound of his name, his real name. He did not turn round. He could not. In spite of himself, in spite of the searing pain behind his eyes that took his breath away, he shook his head and shut the cell door.