The Walker

14

Trotting along nicely, he thought, as his horse picked its way steadily along the old West road. It was still early in the day, but he could be at Windcombe in no time. Old Jenner down at the cider press would pay him extra, and maybe throw in some good, proper scrumpy too. His cart bumped and rattled, but his wife had insisted on packing the seats with rags and old clothes, turning the old hardwood bench into a fairly comfortable cushion.

He glanced over at his wife, Mary, who was reading one of her old books, silvery hair tied into a soft bun atop her head. She was rocking slightly with the sway of the cart, but seemed to be alright, considering she never usually made the trip out.

He smiled and looked over to the trees to his left, which marked the beginning of the fringe forest, separating the town from the main highway to the city, way behind him. They say robbers and bandits hid in there, awaiting people who looked like they had anything of value. But old ‘Apples’ Ollie had nothing of value, and therefore, Logic dictated, or so his wife told him, he had nothing to worry about. He’d never heard of this Logic chap, but he sounded nice enough, if a little dry, and so this didn’t worry Ollie either.

He began to whistle, an old piece his wife had played back when she was still at work in the big city. As his cart rumbled merrily along, the sun rising behind him, he nibbled the food that Mary had packed for them. Fruit and bread mainly, but there was a bit of the ham left that they had had for dinner the other day. The thought of ole Jenner’s scrumpy, along with the ham and the crusty bread, made him happy, and he began to whistle anew, even as the trees thickened, making the road ahead darker. Heather continued to trot along, slightly slower now.

The formerly merry sound of his cart bumping and shaking started to take on a more ominous tone; his merry whistling was sucked into the yawning shadows amongst the trees. He trailed off, leaving a single, last note hanging in the air. Normally the woods were quiet, as woods generally are, but today seemed different, as if something among the trees was trying especially hard to be quiet. Ollie tried to whistle another few notes and pulled his cudgel closer. It was only a twisted piece of oak, but was hard as hell and better than a kick in the teeth. For Ollie at least.

Mary glanced up, noticing the cudgel. “What is it dear?”

Ollie tried to grin. “It’s nothin’ dear. Just being safe. Pop the book away a minute though, dunno who could be watchi—”

There was a sudden crack, causing him to yelp; Ollie grabbed the cudgel and looked about, breathing hard.

Mary clucked reproachfully/. “Oh, stop worrying, you old goat. It’s probably nothing, just an animal.”

She chuckled easily, turning back to her book, “No one would bother robbing us, everyone around here knows you.”

She was right, of course. Bandits never bothered him; he knew a lot of them from the village, in fact, but quietly, of course, on the down-low, as they liked to say. Still, say it was some other lads, not from his neighbourhood? Or someone worse?

There was another crack, snapping Ollie’s thoughts back; his grip on the club tightened as something approached... he breathed a sigh of relief; it was a deer, looking more startled than he was.

He chuckled to himself and replaced the cudgel to the bench next to him. As he retook the reins, about to urge his horse on, he heard Mary gasp; there was a clunk and an evil metallic whir. He gulped.

“Easy now, old man” a soft voice said to his left.

He started moving his hand, slowly, toward his weapon, but was interrupted by a gravelly chuckle off to his right.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, fella,” the gravel voice laughed, “She’s fairly hungry, and liable to do strange things, being a woman and all.”

He heard Mary whispering, but couldn’t hear her over his own heartbeat. He didn’t recognise the voices; so much for not being robbed.

He looked over at the first voice to his left and saw a young girl, dirty with travel and no older than twenty, skinny in her rough jeans and jerkin under a leather coat, short around her waist. She was holding a battered monster of a pistol.

She looked tired, from what he could see of her face; her eyes were covered by a slightly blinding shield of silver, and although her shoulders slumped, the pistol never wavered.

Ollie swallowed, terrified, but managed to speak, trying to sound brave. “What is it you want, then? Ole Apples got nothing o’ value on his cart! You leave me an’ the wife be, alright?”

The girl tilted her head to one side and motioned away to Ollie’s right, amongst the trees, “You’ll want to talk to him. He’s the boss”.

Even through his fear Ollie could sense the sarcasm. He stammered, “I... I...”

The gravel voice laughed again, and a man stepped from the gloom of the woods, causing Ollie’s horse to shy and snort anxiously. He glanced at his wife, whose hands were also in the air, one still holding her book. It’s funny, he thought, the details you remember when someone is pointing a gun at you. She was re-reading her old musicology books; the page had flopped open onto a bloke called Beethoven, which sounded like a vegetable to Ollie. He was sure he could remember Mary playing it to him, back in the day. Oh how he used to love her playing...

He was brought out of his badly timed introspection by the man’s voice. Ollie’s eyes flicked back to him, taking him in. He was rough looking, tall too, wearing a weather stained leather cloak about his neck, where it was fastened beneath a clasp on some battered military armour, which was scratched and rusted along the plates that led down his chest. Ollie could make out a dark shoulder bag, bulging with heavy, square shapes. The man was wearing a visor too, like the girls, but darker, and an old, wide brimmed hat on his head. Ollie’s eyes widened, “You... You’re one of them? A Walker?”

He glanced nervously back at the girl, who was still holding her gun up, pointed at his head. He turned back to the Walker, whose face had widened into a smirk.

Ollie continued, desperately, “I ain’t got no books, or nothin’! Just fruit, honest!”

The Walker continued to beam at him and beckoned them down. “Come on now, Sir, Ma’am.”

He took his hat off when he spoke to Mary, showing short dark hair, curly and dirty looking. The visor over his eyes went back along his head, disappearing into the matted hair.

“We’re not gonna hurt you. The girl is new to this, hence the gun. Why don’t you come down off that cart, we just want to talk.”

“Wait, I got ham too! You two can just take it, leave us be? The book the Wife’s got? Nuffin, just music and that!”

Ollie looked pleadingly at the man, who continued to smile disarmingly, beckoning him down a second time with another wave.

“Come on, Ollie.” His wife spoke, smiling at him, “Looks like we haven’t got much choice.”

She placed her book beside her on the cushioned bench and started to climb down. The rough man stepped forward.

Ollie yelled, brandishing his club. The horse started, snorting loudly. “Don’t you hurt her mister! Or I’ll whack you on the head so hard yer teeth’ll fall out!”

There was a loud whine, unnoticed by Ollie, and the walker looked up at him, slowly. He then offered his hand up to Mary, “Only offering the lady a hand mister; a fall from that height, she could twist an ankle, or worse.”

Mary looked at Ollie, and smiled again, “I’ll be alright dear. But put the stick down; the young lady doesn’t seem too impressed.”

Ollie looked back at the girl and, slowly, ever so carefully, put the club back down on the bench. She was still pointing the gun at him, but this time a red light was coming from under the barrel. The gun was whirring and clicking; it sounded like it was under quite a lot of pressure.

Ollie grinned nervously and climbed off the cushioned bench and onto the leafy ground. The man with the gravelly voice finished helping Mary down, and the two of them made their way around the front of the cart, past Heather.

She snapped at him, causing the man to flinch, momentarily losing his cool smile. The walker scowled at it, mumbled something under his breath and brushed his cloak. He resumed his course, albeit further away from the horse, giving the animal a wide berth. He reached Ollie’s side and nodded towards her.

“Horrible, stupid creatures.” he said amicably, looking down at the cigarette he was rolling.

Ollie thought about this, and began his reply, “Well, mister, Heather’s actually pretty clever, especially when it comes to readin’ people. F’r instance, she’ll snap at anyone who’s a bit of a bastar— Ouch!“

Mary leaned forward, smiling brightly, as Ollie swore quietly and clutched at his foot.

“Mr Walker, what I’m sure my husband meant was that Heather’s had a long old morning, and could’ve snapped at anyone.” She turned sternly back to Ollie. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

The man looked evenly up at them, nodding, “That’s right, Mister Apples, you’ve been doing well so far. Don’t upset me now.”

The walker lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. He suddenly resumed his smile and clapped Ollie on the shoulder in a gesture of open friendliness that Ollie was entirely sure wasn’t genuine.

Ollie nodded and made a zipping motion across his mouth and nodded vigorously.

The walker turned nonchalantly to the girl, who was still pointing her straining gun at Ollie. “Turn the overcharge off. The whine is annoying me.”

After a few moments the girl complied, flicking a switch on the side of her gun, which she lowered slightly. A cloud of something puffed from the gun, and the keening note died down, returning the previous quiet to the woods.

“Now, we don’t want trouble. Just a trade.” The man opened the satchel hanging from his shoulder, undoing the metal clasps and pulling the leather thongs loose. It was full of books, papers, scrolls; more than Ollie thought anyone would need. He had no idea what these people could want.

He interrupted, wringing his hands nervously. “I tole you mister, the book Mary had ain’t worth a thing. All we gots are me apples and me lunch. You’re welcome to both, so long as you don’t hurt us.”

The man ignored him, turning to his wife, “You like music, Ma’am?”

Mary glanced at the book on the seat behind her and nodded. “Yes,” she said, eyeing him quizzically, “I was a musical technician for a governor once, down South. A long time ago now.”

The walker began to whistle slightly, the same song Ollie himself had earlier. He rummaged briefly in the sack and produced some loose pages, along with a slim volume. He offered them to Mary, who took them, staring. The walker stopped whistling and waited.

Ollie strained on his tiptoes to see what was on the pages his wife was studying; they had groups of long straight lines going across the page, with little dots, dashes and other strange symbols. Below the bars were words. Although he couldn’t read it upside down, he recognised it.

“This is sheet music!” Mary cried happily, troubles momentarily forgotten. “Sonata no.14, in C-sharp! The nocturnes! Oh, the minor ones though. Oh, and look Ollie, a book on old world instruments,” She smiled up at the walker, “How thoughtful.”

He smiled back and turned to Ollie, who looked up at him, eyebrow arched. “First you threatens us, then you gives us this... stuff. What is it exactly that you want, mister?”

Mary had clambered back up to her seat on the cart, quite forgetting the current dangers. She called down at him, “Give him as many apples as he needs, Oliver Treach,” he flinched at the use of his full name, “These pages are worth more than your apples.”

Although Ollie severely doubted that pages, pages which he couldn’t read, could be worth more than a tonne of apples, he loved his wife dearly and decided not to argue. He also loved his life dearly, and decided that if she wanted whatever the heavily armed strangers in front of him wanted, then it was all well and good, and a happy coincidence too. He climbed back up to his seat, completely forgetting about the man, or the girl with her ramshackle gun.

He sighed. “Yes, dear. So what’s it you wanted then, fella? Like I said, only got apples and ham.”

The man opened his mouth to reply, but the girl cut in. “I’d quite like some food.”

Ollie looked down. She did look unwell. “How long’s it been since you ate, girl?”

He saw her mouth turn down in displeasure. “Don’t call me that. That’s what he calls me,” she nodded towards the big man next to her, who shrugged. “My name’s not girl, it’s Daisy. Sorry about the gun. Like Walker said, I’m new to this.”

Ollie smiled weakly, ignoring the venomous sarcasm, hoping it wasn’t aimed at him, and looked back to man. “So, you are a walker. With the Order?”

He saw Walker’s smile flicker briefly. When it returned it was no longer friendly. It was reptilian.

“Now Oliver,” he replied, emphasising the name, “You know it’s illegal to distribute information to people like you, out here, unless you’re a member. So what do you think?” He exhaled and flicked his cigarette away meaningfully.

Ollie thought about this and changed the subject, turning back to the girl. “Okey-dokey... Daisy, I have plenty of apples, as you can see.” He motioned towards the open cart behind him.

Mary was still engrossed in the pages Walker had given her, but she nudged him with an elbow. “Oh yeah, and the ham, I suppose,” he continued unenthusiastically.

Daisy stood up straighter. “I’ll have the ham then, thanks,” she said brightly. She grinned up at him from under her shining visor.

Walker smiled too, normally this time, and said, “And the bread you mentioned as well please, Ollie.”

Ollie nodded, glumly. He had been looking forward to that. But at least he still had the scrumpy to look forward to, later on. They couldn’t take that from him.

He fished around in his lunch sack and produced the crusty bread and the ham, which was wrapped in brown paper. He handed it down, where it was taken by the girl. Before she ate though, she offered the food to Walker. When he shook his head, she hungrily attacked the bread, pausing only to take bites of ham. Ollie watched, astonished.

“You were right, Walker. She was hungry. I’ve never seen a lady eat like that. Where are you two headed then?” he asked.

Walker had rolled another cigarette during the exchange. He lit it and puffed gently, looping his hands into his belt.

He looked up at Ollie and turned his head east. “That way, towards the next town.”

Ollie nodded. “Back that way’s my village, little place. We owns the orchard there. Treach Orchard, ’s’called. Had a book on it once, writ by my pa’s pa,” he glanced at Walker, “long time ago, ‘course,” he added hurriedly. “Very old buildings there abouts, very interestin’—”

Walker interrupted him with a wave, “I don’t care for old buildings. We need to get to the city.” He took another drag on his cigarette and turned back to Ollie. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Ollie didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, Mister Walker?”

Walker leaned on the cart, next to Ollie, and exhaled smoke. “We need to borrow your cart. Long way to the city, right?”

Ollie looked down at him, waving the smoke from his face. The man was a maniac, clearly. The city was, well, a bloody long way away and there was no way he’d take him for some poxy old pages, no matter what his wife said. He opened his mouth to object, but the Walker had opened his satchel again and produced a book.

“I know what you’re going to say, Ollie, and I agree. It is a long, long way to the city. And I would never ask you to take us all the way for some sheet music, no matter how valuable they may be to the lady,” he looked at Mary and nodded, who nodded back happily, before returning his gaze to Ollie. “What was your full name again, Ollie?”

Ollie paused, confused. “Oliver Treach. We would get confused at tea times, me and me pa, on account of us having the same name, sort of thing.”

Walker nodded and continued rummaging. “Well, you’ll be relieved to hear that I only want to go as far as the border of the local township, your village. And you can have this.”

He offered the familiar book up to Ollie, who took it gingerly. It had no writing on its cover and was heavy, bound in old, cracked leather. Mary leaned over him and peered at it.

“What is it, dear?” she asked.

Walker answered, as Ollie opened and leafed through the pages. “It’s recipes for apples. Cider, cider wine, vinegars, cakes, pies. Pretty much anything that can be done with an apple. Oh, there’s a nice cider whiskey in there, if you think you can make it. It’s yours. You should show it to whatever brewer or pub you were taking these too. Was originally written around here as well, if I’m not mistaken.”

He thumped the apple cart before vaulting in, leaving Ollie with the book. He couldn’t believe it, the chances this stranger, this walker having this book, this book, of all books...he hadn’t seen it for over forty years and... well... he noticed Mary was staring at him. He wiped his eyes and smiled at her.

“What’s the matter, dear?” She placed a hand on his arm, “What are you going to do?”

He turned to look at his passenger, “Thank you Walker, you’ve done me a good service. You two are certainly strange, but we’ll take you to the township all the same, as far as you need.”

Walker smirked and vaulted into the cart. As the girl scrambled into the cart, clutching what was left of the bread and ham, he tipped his hat and settled down amongst the apples.

Ollie turned back and looked at the book, which he’d opened to the first page. It was still there. His grandfather’s signature hadn’t worn away at all. Ollie smiled again and placed the book into his lunch sack, took the reins, and gently steered Heather around, carrying the walker where he needed to go.