The Last of the Runners

“How could you fail to catch him?”

The Magister was furious. Red in the face, his moustache covered with sweat and spittle as he screamed at the two Watchers.

“You had the woman tell you he was in the house and you failed to catch him? Two of you and he got away!?!”

“He jumped out of the window,” the Watcher said lamely, “as I was going in the door.”

“And where were you?” The Magister turned on the other Watcher.

“I was in the street, waiting in case he came out, and to stop him getting out of the village.”

“So you saw him running towards you?”

“Yes, Magister, but then he cut down between the cottages and we lost him in the allotments.”

“How?” The Magister was livid with rage. The Watcher made the mistake of explaining how Kyrin had got away. The game of hide and seek among the bean poles did not impress him. The fact they had not followed him into the forest caused him to explode again.

“Why didn’t you follow him? It’s what you are supposed to do!”

“Well,” the Watcher blundered on, “you don’t go chasing around a forest you don’t know, particularly when it’s getting dark. Stands to reason, don’t it? You never know what you might find.”

A wordless explosion of rage steamed from the Magister.

“We checked all the roads that go through the forest,” the Watcher said, “Keeping an eye out for the boy without getting lost ourselves. We were out till after three.”

The Sub-Magister had said nothing all the while, silently enjoying the Magister’s frustration. Kyrin had not been caught at Racontour, despite the Watchers getting there first. Perhaps it was a good sign. He had to believe it but not think it or his head would hurt. Now they were headed for Tournemittes: him, the Magister and twenty Watchers. The other ten had been sent to scour the woods around Racontour. The steam dogs had been split between the parties. They would reach Tournemittes long before Kyrin and would have plenty of time to prepare their ambush.

How would he get past them? Could he do it alone?

Who would help him against such a number?

Who could help him? Could he? He was beginning to doubt it.

Ash Couper was a strange companion. He had not moved from his stool since Kyrin had arrived or said another thing that Kyrin could understand. He had just mumbled. His green eyes had darted from stack to stack and his mumbling seemed to be some sort of counting, as if reading from a list or catalogue. Was it when each stack was cut and what lay in each pile? It could have been, though not one word that would have made it clear could be deciphered. Kyrin had sat on the floor of the cave and, lulled by the mumbling, had let his tiredness take him and he had slept, his bag under his head.

When he awoke, Ash had moved from the stool. He was crouched near the entrance to the cave, peering out, his head to open side, listening. There was a stout stave in his hands. He must have heard Kyrin stir, for he turned and put his finger to his lips. Kyrin lay still and watched Ash, tense and alert yet not moving, like a figure hewn from the trunk of a tree. After a time, he moved carefully out of the cave. He returned quickly and set the dark silence weave over the entrance. No one coming into the cave would see or hear anything unless Ash allowed it, as he had when questioning Kyrin. He sat back down on his stool. He looked concerned and started to talk, discussing what he had seen with himself.

“That’s lots of Watchums for a wet morning.”

“Looking for the running boy they are.”

“Won’t find him, will they?”

“No, cos he’s safe with old Ash.”

“Stupid Watchums can’t find this cave. Can’t see through the weave.”

“Still, too many Watchums for one running boy. Need to keep him safe.”

“Not let the Watchums find him. Not till he’s made his choice.”

“He has to make his choice, then go.”

“But he can’t go if there’s too many Watchums.”

“He’ll have to go. He can’t be late.”

“But the Watchums will take him!”

“He has to make his choice, then go. That’s what always happens.”

“And if the Watchums are still there when he has to go, what then? How’s he going to find his way?”

“The shadows only watch, that is what is set down in lore.”

“So they’ll see him taken, caught by the Watchums and taken back?”

“They only observe!”

“What does it say about hewers, eh? Can we only watch?”

“It doesn’t say. It’s not our job. Our task ends when he has made his choice.”

“He doesn’t know these woods like old Ash, does he? He won’t know which is the best way.”

“He has to find his way. That is what is written.”

“Well, he can ask old Ash, can’t he? It’s not written that he can’t. Old Ash’ll get him past the Watchums. He’ll take him right under their noses and those stupid Watchums wouldn’t fall over him.”

He stopped talking and sat there, rocking back and forward, hugging himself, uncertainty draining away the delight he had felt at working out what he should do.”

“But who’ll look after my staves if I goes to help the runner past them Watchums? What if them Watchums find the staves? Thirty years I’ve been picking staves for the Weavers, saving them for the hands of the right Weaver. What would the Watchums do with all these?”

Ash stared lovingly round at the piles of staves before continuing his conversation.

“Use them for firewood, no doubt, they’re that stupid. Thirty years picking going for firewood! Going to feed their dreadful machines, all steam and iron.”

“Who’s to say they’ll find them?”

“But the weave won’t last if I’m away and then it’s just a cave with stacks of staves. I don’t know what to do. Maybe he should just make his choice and go.”

“What choice?” asked Kyrin, understanding that this at least referred to him.

Ash looked round, amazed to hear another voice, unsure almost as to how to reply, he had been so lost in his thought.

“You’re here? ... Yes, you came. You rested. Now you need to choose.”

“But what?” asked Kyrin. Listening to Ash’s solitary rambling had confused him. He wasn’t sure whether he had to choose to leave, to stay or ask Ash to help him avoid the Watchers. Or was it to do with firewood?

“Your staff, little master,” said Ash, clearly and reverently. “You must choose the staff that will be the tool of your trade.”

In an instant, the hewer of staffs was calm and composed. He got up from his stool, took Kyrin by the hand and helped him to his feet.

“A Weaver’s staff is not just a stick,” he said. “It is the shuttle he threads through the warp and weft of his tales. It is his most faithful listener. It collects his best work to free his mind for creativity. Thus it must be matched to the Weaver, now and forever. The right staff will allow the Weaver to grow. The wood must suit him, the grain and the knots be knit with his imagination. Around you, little master, you see every stave I have found in these recounting woods these past thirty years. Each one could make a staff for the right Weaver. Come now, they are just waiting to be chosen. Take your time, little master. Pick them up; see how they feel in your hands. Choose your staff.”

His speech ended and Ash bowed to Kyrin, indicating the piles of wood with a sweep of his hands. Kyrin took a step forward.

“The choosing has begun,” said Ash formally. “Let no man speak.”

Kyrin looked round, as if expecting to see the people Ash was addressing, and then made it look as if he was scratching his head when he saw they were alone. There were thirty piles of staves, meticulously stacked. How was he to choose? Should he look for one like he had seen in Contefay? It had been an amazing staff. He saw a grey staff and picked it up. He saw no dragons this time. Indeed it felt nothing like the other staff. It felt just like a stick. He put it down carefully so as not to disturb the pile.

He wandered on, circling the piles of staves, looking without knowing what for, while Ash Couper watched with intense reverence. Kyrin picked up a stave every now and then, only to put them back. They all felt like sticks, the sort he had picked up on an ordinary walk in the woods and dropped in the wood pile when he got home. He wanted to stop, but the intense way the hewer of staffs was watching kept him looking. Year after year, this man had hunted through the trees, looking for what he thought would make a Weaver’s staff. There had to be one here.

Kyrin had circled every pile and seen nothing that had looked or felt right. However, he had to admit, he had looked at just the surface of each stack. As he started a second tour, he looked at the ends of each pile, to see what lay at its heart.

The first pile didn’t seem to be any different, nor did the second and Kyrin’s heart sank. What if he couldn’t choose a staff? What happened then? He crouched down by what must have been the fourteenth stack and saw an almost golden piece of wood at its heart. It was thicker than many he had seen. His hand could not close around the wood as he pulled it a little way from the stack. It was a piece of oak, stripped of its bark, and rubbed with wax, which added to its beauty. He drew the whole piece out of the stack. It was straight, tapering slightly at the top, which stood a good two feet above Kyrin’s head. The grain was tight and straight and it was free of knots. Running his hand over the waxed surface, it felt as smooth and soft as silk. It seemed heavy and too tall for him at the moment, but Ash had said it must allow him to grow. However, it felt powerful in his hands. This was not just a stick. He clasped it in both hands and it seemed to vibrate in his grip. The cave was lit up as the vibrations sang between his fingers. He closed his eyes and images flooded into his mind: his mother, crying in a dark room; Gan sat despondently on a bumping wagon; figures in brown cloaks waiting in the trees; the Magister, standing in front of a gate, flanked by Watchers. Yet with the staff in his hands, the images did not frighten or upset him. Where they came from or how accurate they were, he did not know. Were they part of his weave? If so, this staff would help him complete it.

“This is the one I choose,” he said finally. He released his grip on the staff and the light faded.

Ash Couper dropped to his knees. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and they were tears of joy.

“Little master,” he whispered in awe. “Little master. Twenty years that one has been waiting. Such a beauty and think it was waiting for you.”

“I don’t see why you think I’m so special,” said Kyrin.

“You will, little master,” said Ash, “and soon. But let old Ash help you. Let him help you find a path through the Watchums. I can leave my staves for firewood if need be, for you have chosen the rarest of thirty years’ pickings. Let me help you be on time.”

“Lead me,” said Kyrin, humbly, “for I do not know where I need to go or when I need to get there.”