The Last of the Runners

The official histories that lined the library shelves were of no use to the Sub-Magister. The leather bound tomes praised the achievements of Villblanche since the establishment of the Council of Elders and said nothing about the foundation of the city or the times before that. They said nothing about the runners or the antipathy toward Villombre. Everything in the history books was perfect. The perfect city had appeared complete and progressed without any hindrance. It had taken a lot of hunting and much persuasion to lay his hands on manuscripts that went back to the earliest times.

In between the tasks he had to complete for the Magister, he read how the Story Weavers lived in the great forests, quite independent of anyone, and created such a tale that all who lived among the trees were happy and content in the great weave of the world. Then two of their number began to weave a new tale where toil would be rewarded by gain and where the effort of many would benefit the few. To the Story Weavers who believed that no one should be compelled to strive except for the common good, such a tale was unacceptable and they determined that it should end.

However, before they could bring the tale to a conclusion, the two renegades fled from the forest, taking with them those who believed in their tale. They came to the fair city of Villblanche and they wove their story until all believed it and the gentle mayor was overthrown and replaced by the Council of Elders that enshrined the laws of trade and commerce the city was to follow.

Though led by Story Weavers itself, the Council began to persecute the Weavers, because they were the only ones who could have challenged the City’s Weave. So they drove them deeper into the forest, into the remotest parts, and the great tale was disrupted, till only a faint echo remained, leaving those who lived in the trees the choice between the dull industry of Villblanche and the feckless riot of Villombre.

After a pointless moonless night spent with a pair of Watchers and their hissing steam dogs on the main road out of Villblanche, the Sub-Magister returned to his study of the Story Weavers. It became clear to him that, despite the official ban, Weavers were still at work within Villblanche. How did the Head Learner exert such power over her students if it were not with the help of some of the Weavers’ skill? How had the Magister worked on his own mind – the Weaver’s art winning where cruelty had failed? It was also probable that the Magister owed his position to the same art, for, as the Sub-Magister had noticed in the course of his researches, he did not possess the necessary qualifications for such an elevated post.

He had suggested to the Magister that he be allowed to go to the village of Contefay to observe the movement of the runners, but the fat man had crossly said that it was too far away for any runner to reach on the moonless night. Of course, he was right, assuming that no runner had left earlier. So the Sub-Magister had accepted the decision gratefully and returned to the history of the Story Weavers.

In an extremely battered roll of parchment he had retrieved from the Library Index, the room where all books or papers considered unsuitable by the Council of Elders were kept, he found a particularly rich vein of information. It told of the rites of the Story Weavers in ancient times, when they exerted their power over the sun itself. It said that they would meet at both Summer and Winter Solstices to weave the story that kept the sun on its track through the skies. At those great festivals, it was said, boys at the end of their childhood would be enrolled as novices to learn the great art of the Weavers and serve the whole world.

Could that be it, he wondered? Was this the reason that runners disappeared at the Solstice? They would have been boys “at the end of their childhood”, running through the deepest forest. Had they been taken and enrolled as novice Weavers? Were they now training to keep the sun on its track? No wonder the Council of Elders wanted the runners eliminated! They were too much of a reminder of the past origins of the city and the way of life they wished to deny.

How much more could he discover? What was the significance of the three villages the boys passed through before they disappeared? How much of his discovery should he pass on to the Magister? One passing footnote to the manuscript persuaded him to say nothing.

“It is said,” the academic writing the paper had put, “that some powers of the Story Weavers remain within certain of the population, but there is no absolute proof. A few may have abused this half-forgotten skill to deceive and commit crimes, yet it appears that, without the proper training, they fail to weave wholly convincing tales. Were it not for the childish desire to run from the sober progression into the Training School and adulthood, the tales of the Story Weavers could be disregarded as mere myth.”

So, the Magister was committing a crime by using the Weaver’s skills. He would not want reminding of that. Besides, his weave had allowed the idea of helping a friend as a condition of Gan’s acceptance of his offer. Gan would not pass on any of his newly acquired knowledge about the Weavers to the Magister, as not to do so would be helping his friend. He would remain the Sub-Magister and continue to make a great show of assisting the Magister. The Solstice was three weeks away. All the questions would be answered then.

He rubbed his forehead. There was a pain behind his eyes. He must have been reading for too long.

Amongst the trunks of the trees, the two brown-cloaked figures were almost invisible as they came down the slope. They moved slowly and without the slightest noise, perhaps a rustle as their cloaks brushed against a bush. The methodical way they were covering the ground suggested that they were searching for something. However, the only creature capable of understanding the movement of the cloaked figures was fast asleep among the roots of the oak tree.

One of the brown shadows stopped by the oak. Raising a hand, he signalled to his companion to join him. When they were together, they went down the bank. Silently they peered at Kyrin, sleeping soundly in the cocoon created by the oak. Satisfied by what they saw, they climbed the bank again and moved silently back through the trees. Only when they had gone over the crest did they stop and speak.

“Do you think he is the one?”

“He is one who should join us, that much is clear.”

“But do you think…?”

“We will not know until he joins us. There is no point in idle speculation.”

“The signs are good.”

“He has shown an independent spirit, and he has come this far. There are more tests that lie before him. Tell the old woman to put the staff where he can see it.”

“So you don’t think that he…?”

“There is nothing to think at the moment. Like all those who come this way, there is a natural course for him to take. It cannot be hurried.”

“But he is your son.”

“Go and check on this one,” wheezed the Magister, dropping a document onto the Sub-Magister’s desk. “His absences from school so close to this fabled date warrant investigation.”

The Sub-Magister’s heart missed a beat as he saw the name on the paper, but he said nothing and got up from his desk.

“I’ll go right away, Magister. We cannot be too careful.”

“Do you need to take any Watchers with you?”

“I doubt it will be necessary, Magister,” he said politely and left the office.

The Magister watched him go. Then he went to the window. There was a Watcher sitting on the low wall of the fountain in the courtyard. He looked up as the window opened. The Magister nodded and the Watcher waited until the Sub-Magister had gone past him and out of the gate, before getting up in his turn and strolling off after him.

The Sub-Magister knew where he was going. Though he had the paper in the pocket of his robe, he did not need to consult it as he went to the house he had visited almost every day until earlier that summer. The shutters were closed. When he knocked, there was no response. Knocking a second time, he was sure he heard some movement at an upper window, but he did not raise his head. He knocked a third time and heard the bolts being drawn back. The door opened a crack and he saw the pale face of Kyrin’s mother.

“Yes?” She did not recognise him.

“I’ve come to speak to you about your son.”

“He’s not well.”

“Is that why he is not attending school?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, not meeting his eye.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He has a fever. I don’t want anyone else to catch it, so I’ve kept him home.”

“When do you think he will be well enough to return?”

“I couldn’t say. It’s hit him quite hard.”

“He’s been off school for over a week.”

“As I said, it’s hit him hard.”

“It’s not good for a student to miss so much schooling. Might I see him?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He may still be infectious.”

“I think I’d better come in for a moment,” said the Sub-Magister, taking off his dark glasses and allowing Kyrin’s mother to recognise him. He massaged his forehead. The headache from the previous night would not go away. “It will be easier to talk.”

She opened the door and he stepped inside, not noticing the grey shadow that emerged from the cover of the cottage on the other side of the road.

“He’s not here, is he?”

“Gan, where have you been?” said Kyrin’s mother. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t ask,” said Gan quickly. “But trust me, I want to help Kyrin.”

“What do you mean?” He could tell she was suspicious. Why should she trust someone in official grey robes when her son had become a runner?

“I don’t have much time,” he said. “I need to know a few things so that I can do my best to keep the Watchers off his trail. I can give no guarantees other than you know how long I have been Kyrin’s friend.”

Kyrin’s mother still looked unconvinced. The front gate creaked in the wind.

“I have to ask you questions in my official role and you have to answer. I would suggest you don’t make it hard for me,” he said loudly, trying to stop his head throbbing, before whispering, “Answer quietly and you have my promise that I will do all I can to help Kyrin. I need some information.”

She nodded. Gan heard one of the steps to the front door creak.

“When did he go?” Gan asked.

“Five days ago,” she muttered. “I knew he’d been to see Mrs Bruntler, so I knew it was coming. I went to my sister’s so he could decide for himself.”

“I see,” Gan said deliberately, carefully writing “two days ago” in his notebook and making sure Kyrin’s mother could see what he was doing. His head felt like it would split. “And you found him missing when you returned with herbs to help his stomach complaint?”

“Yes,” she said. “Do you think he might have been pretending to be ill?”

“It is possible,” said Gan in his official voice, as the step creaked again. “These boys can be most devious. Do you have any idea where he is heading?”

She shook her head. The door creaked slightly on its hinges.

“It wouldn’t have been towards the village of Contefay?”

Kyrin’s mother looked shocked for a split second before recovering her composure.

“I don’t know,” she said, before mouthing the question “Why?” at Gan.

“Many boys from this area head that way,” he said, jerking his head toward the door, “And we are trying to find out why?”

“You and the Watchers?” Kyrin’s mother spoke loudly.

There was another creak from the door. Gan shook his head and put his dark glasses back on.

“Why would I want to tell you and the Watchers anything but the time of day?”

“We are officers of the city, madam,” said Gan, writing swiftly in the chalk dust on the table. “As such, we have the right to ask questions and have them answered. Is that clear?”

He pointed to the message in the dust – Tell mother I’m well. See you again – before sweeping it away and striding to the door. He pulled it open swiftly and a grey clad watcher tumbled into the room.

“Imbecile,” the Sub-Magister muttered under his breath and stalked out. The cool air eased his headache a little. The Watcher picked himself up and followed, desperately trying to apologise.

Kyrin’s mother closed the door and sat back down at the kitchen table. Several letters from Gan’s message were still visible and she brushed them away. It had been a strange few minutes and she did not fully understand what was going on. If it meant that Kyrin had an ally, all well and good. He was beyond her help now. She had done everything she could to make him ready for this challenge – not that he might appreciate it, she thought ruefully. Others needed to guide him now.

On the edge of the village, Kyrin found a small pile stones. The book of signs had told him to expect one. He had to note which side of the road they were on and how many pebbles were in the pile.

The eight pebbles had been stacked on the right hand side of the road on a larger flattish stone. That indicated that a bed was available. If they had been piled around a round stone, it suggested that only food could be expected. The signs were easy to understand, just hard to find. He had been surprised that the stones had been so small, having walked past them three times before recognising them for what they were.

He made his way to the eighth house on the right hand side of the road. It was almost dusk and the few people he saw paid him little attention. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened. He was about to knock again when the door opened silently. It was dark inside the house and Kyrin could just make out the outline of a person behind the door and the hand that beckoned him inside. The door was closed quickly behind him and Kyrin struggled to become accustomed to the dark.

“You’re early,” said a woman’s voice.

“I left early,” Kyrin replied.

A candle was lit on the far side of the room. It was small with just a table and a couple of chairs. The woman standing by the candle was older than anyone Kyrin had ever met. She moved stiffly, supporting herself on the chairs and table as she came across to peer at him. The odour of lavender wafted across his face but Kyrin didn’t flinch.

“Why is she sending boys off early then?” The question was croaked into his ear. “She’s never let them go before the moonless night before.”

“Her house was raided by the Watchers. They’d been waiting. I only just got away. Then I got a warning to leave before the moonless night.”

“Who warned you?”

“I don’t know. There was a note stuck in the doorframe. But the Watchers knew about the moonless night. It was why I’d gone to Mrs Bruntler’s house. I’d been given a warning for her, that they knew about the night when runners left.”

“So when did you leave?”

“Two night’s before the moonless night.”

“Then you have travelled well, young man,” the old woman said. “Assuming you haven’t been followed.”

“I’ve seen no-one,” Kyrin protested.

“Doesn’t mean they weren’t there,” she said, “but, come what may, you must have food and rest. It is promised to all. Come through into the kitchen.”

She shuffled off dreadfully slowly towards the kitchen. Kyrin followed and his patience was rewarded by the warmth of the stove, the whistling kettle and the fragrant smell of freshly baked bread that enveloped him when he finally got into the kitchen. He ate with the relish of a truly hungry man, delighting in the fresh food and warm drink after three long nights and days on the road.

Thoroughly warmed through and fed, Kyrin found the time to look round the kitchen. It was a pretty normal kitchen, much like the one at home, with nothing unusual or interesting in it, except the long gnarled staff propped against the dresser. Grey, full of knots and cracks running up and down it, it was as full of life as any piece of wood Kyrin had set eyes on. What journeys had it made, he wondered? What hands had worn it to such a sheen? It drew him to it, holding his attention, calling almost, until he went across to the dresser and took hold of it.

The dragon that swooped out of the trees towards him made him flinch and made the staff to slip from his fingers and he was standing in the kitchen, looking at the piece of wood leaning against the dresser. He looked round. The kitchen was empty. Kyrin stretched his hand towards the staff once more. He could sense a tension, a vibration as his finger tips brushed against the wood. He glimpsed the blue and green tail of the dragon slip past out of the corner of his eye, but he did not flinch this time, allowing his fingers to close on the smooth surface of the staff.

Even though he was expecting to see something this time, the brightness and intensity of the images that flooded into his mind were startling. The birds were multi-coloured and their cries echoed through the deep forest he could now see and smell, with the sun filtering down through the leaves.

“What can you see?” It was the old woman’s voice, whispering right into his ear. Kyrin let go of the staff, but the old woman caught it and kept it close to his hand so that he could still feel the vibrations that pulsated from the wood.

“Tell me,” she insisted. “What did you see?”

“I… It… Beautiful…” Kyrin stuttered, unable to take it in.

“Tell me. I have to know,” she said.

“A forest,” he said. “Deep, sunlit forest. Beautiful birds, calling among the trees. It was so quick, but there was a dragon.”

“You saw the dragon?” she sounded very interested.

“It flew towards me as soon as I touched the staff. I was frightened so I let go. When I touched it again, I just caught sight of its tail. Blue and green.”

“Well, that is most interesting,” the old woman muttered, almost to herself. “No one has seen the dragon when they touched the staff for many years.”

“I don’t understand,” said Kyrin. “What is the staff?”

“It might be important, seeing the dragon. The forest is usual, the birds less so, but the dragon… that’s a rarity. And flying towards him.”

She had not been listening to Kyrin and her muttering did little to reassure him. He had just touched a staff that had been leaning against the dresser and his mind had been flooded with the most amazing images. They had been so vivid, so packed with detail that it had been impossible to recall anything but the simplest information. They were all so wonderful. Why was the dragon so important to her?

“Please,” he said, “what is this staff?”

“It’s a Weaver’s staff, boy, isn’t it?” She spoke as if he ought to have known. “A Weaver carries it as he goes about his weaving and year by year the stories he tells most and best come to inhabit his staff.”

“Why? How?” asked Kyrin, “I don’t understand.”

“How’s not for understanding, it’s for learning. A good Weaver knows how to use his tools and learns his craft. The why is simple, boy, ’cos it frees up your brain if your stories inhabit your staff. It gives you more room to weave new ones.”

“So why did I see the pictures – they’re not my stories?”

“Now that’s a question I can’t answer,” said the old woman. “That will be for others. I must just point you in the right direction.”

Kyrin did not know what to say. He had hardly understood a word the old woman was saying, and he was still trying to take in the images that had flooded his mind. They had the completeness that he had heard of in legend, when he had lain in the grass with Gan, trying to create their own stories. For the first time, Kyrin understood what a truly complete story was like, thanks to this glimpse into the art of a genuine Weaver of tales. It was a tale so complete you could live in it. The staff still called to him, urging him to grasp it once more, yet he did not feel strong enough to see any more of those stories.

“If you saw the dragon, you must head for the village of Racontour,” the old woman was muttering away, “but don’t look for the usual signs. You will need more than just food and a bed for the night. And you must go soon. You need to meet the right people and in good time, to be ready for the Solstice. You’ve got to find the hewer.”

“What is so important about the Solstice?”

“Questions, boy, always questions. Answers come in time and when you can understand them. It’s good you are early. You can stay ahead of the chase. Sleep now and travel on in the morning.”

“Isn’t it safer to travel at night?”

You are two days ahead of where you would be expected. You can travel faster by day, which is important now. Sleep, sleep.”

She ushered him from the kitchen and into a small bedroom at the back of the house, and Kyrin was too confused to say no. Even though he had been awake for a few hours, he could feel sleep stealing over him. Obediently, he took off his boots and slipped beneath the blankets. While half of his brain tried to tell him how weird it was to be settling down to sleep in this strange house, the other half told him how wonderfully normal it was. Everything had happened so quickly. His story was changing with every breath he took and he did no know what direction he was going in. For the moment, though, he understood at least that he needed to sleep. The Weaver’s staff in the kitchen was still calling to him. He could sense the vibration through the wall, but he would have to explore the story behind the dragon on another day. In the small room, everything said sleep, from the heavy curtain to the coloured bedspread, and the only way to stop these soft furnishings from talking was to do what they suggested. So he did.