All the Dead Are Here (33 page)

There was a sharp rap at the door. “Enter!” the Teller shouted.

The girl entered the room to see the Teller still writing. She came and closed the door behind, and stood in the centre of the room. She could not discern through the glasses of the Teller if he was still concentrating on the page, or on her.

He was, of course, studying her. She was tall and slender. This was a good thing as it meant she could be imposing. She was also rather pretty, with a fine nose and long black hair, which may present a problem. She also showed little fear and had a sort of defiant confidence which the Teller thought was admirable for one so young.

“Tell me a story,” he boomed. She visibly jumped and went to open her mouth before stopping. She bowed her head.

“It will not be a true story, Teller,” she said. He liked her voice, it was still a child’s voice but it had a pleasant timbre.

“It matters not. Now speak, girl,” he said gruffly.

She thought for a moment before stumbling into a story. In moments she was into the story and relaxed. She spoke of a great Queen and a dragin that would threaten her kingdom. The girl’s words were spoken with a flourish and her actions gave the tale meaning and context. Her pacing was superb and her face was full of expression as she acted the different characters. The Teller had intended to let her speak while he finished his writing but he let the book fall to the cot on which he sat. He found himself taken from himself, enjoying the fantastic tale she wove. She did indeed have the gift of telling. After a while she concluded the tale with the dragin defeated and the Queen finding love and happiness. It was a fine tale.

The Teller raised his hands and clapped, leather gloves muffling his enthusiasm. “Very good. It lacks finesse, that is to be expected. Tell me where did you find this tale?” She scowled at his words, cheeks reddening.

“The tale is my construction, sir. I have wrote it and learnt it myself, and I am told I am your equal.” The defiant confidence of a thirteen year old girl shone from her. He admired her youthful arrogance but ignored the comment.

“So you can write?”

“My Mother teaches all her children. Her father was a scribe.”

“Good. Good.”

“Have you been told why you have been called to me?”

“I am told you seek an apprentice.”

“That is the case,” he said, rising from the cot to stand in front of her. He towered over her, for the Teller was taller than most in the village.

“And would you be my apprentice?”

“I would, sir.” She took on a look of great seriousness as she gazed at her reflection in his black glasses.

“You agree too readily my girl. It is a lonely life. One must spend all one’s days in study and walking and all one’s nights in reading and learning. You must walk in winter and summer, never having friends excepting those you have just met. You will never find love nor will you bear children of your own. However, you will return home one day but even that will be full of pain as you must just as soon leave again. If this is the life you choose, then I will take you as an apprentice,” he said, standing over her.

“If you had asked me before your Telling last night I would have refused, and I speak honestly. I see now that the old ways are close to lost and I see for the first time the importance of the stories. Their way is the truth and a way of passing the wisdom of ages through to the present. I thought them mere tales, now I see their worth. I would be a Teller, if you will have me.” It was an intelligent answer, and an answer that showed wisdom beyond her years. The Teller turned and took a page from the book on the cot. He passed it to her.

“This is a list of things you will need. We leave in the morning.”

She stared at him for a long time, as if questioning her own decision, then she turned and ran from the room.

The Teller spent the afternoon sitting in the shade of John’s house. The man himself dozed in a chair. The Teller wrote in his great book until some of the children fearfully approached and asked him questions. He found his heart light for the first time in many years. The thought of having a companion cheered him and yet scared him. He had walked alone for so long that the responsibility gave him the jitters. To alleviate this he decided to do something he had not done for a long time. He gathered the children together and as John snored, much to the amusement of the boys, he told the story of the Dark Vader and the Skywalker. He even had the boys act out the parts. At the end they clapped and whooped and hollered until he found himself happier than he had done in a very long time. Occasionally he saw Maisy dart about with the list in her hand, followed by her mother, and, on one occasion, a large man he took to be her father. He ran after her with armfuls of equipment, sweat forming on his brow.

John watched the Teller again that night, but truth be told he did fall asleep for an hour before dawn. In the morning the Teller packed his great backpack and sword, and waited by the village green for his apprentice to appear. She did not make him wait long and he saw her, her parents and siblings approach down the path. There were so many siblings the Teller wondered if they would be on the path before midday.

As they approached he saw that she was dressed in a wide brimmed leather hat, leather trousers and a long frock coat. The village had obviously contributed things to make her look the part, for the coat was too long and the trousers were of a man, turned up at the bottom. Instead of a sword she carried a walking stick and on her back her pack was stuffed with many more things than had been on his list.

They stopped in front of the Teller.

“Nice outfit,” he said. Tam, Maisy’s father, spoke.

“You take my firstborn daughter from me,” he said. John joined them.

“There will be times I will hate you for it but she will not be dissuaded. So all I can ask is that you look after her, and keep her from harm, for you will find her a handful,” he said with dark red eyes.

“I will treat her as my own and I will lay my life to protect her. I will give you this oath.” The Teller bowed before the man. He seemed satisfied.

The Teller asked to see her pack, and as she said her goodbyes to the multitudinous siblings, he went through, removing things she would not need. He did this much to her mother’s chagrin. Finally, he removed three thick books from his own pack and placed them in hers. Eventually, as the goodbyes were said and the tears subsided, the Teller made peace with Maisy’s mother.

As the sun rose towards its zenith they left the village and walked across the low hills where they joined a path following a wide, brown river. The sun shone and dragonflies flicked over their heads in flashes of green and blue. The day was fine, hot, and Maisy removed her coat but kept her hat in place. Thick gorse covered the hills while rabbits scurried from view as they approached. They walked along an old road, made from the broken black stone they used to use. As they walked, Maisy bombarded the Teller with questions. He answered with a kind of amused detachment. She also, and unexpectedly, began to test the boundaries with a feisty comment here, and a belligerent look there, until, by mid afternoon, and the third time she called him ‘old man’, he called for silence. It was only then Maisy realised that he spoke differently to her. His language had changed through the day as they both relaxed into each other’s company. She wondered why she found herself having to ask more often about the words and phrases he used.

The track left the river and wound its way into a wood. Light dappled the path and so the shade meant the air was cooler. Butterflies and gnats caught the light as they flew through the beams and Maisy found herself bothered by skeeters. They had walked all day and Maisy was beginning to tire but she did not want to stop. The Teller’s pace was not swift but it was relentless and she looked forward to camping for the night.

They approached a rise in the path and as they reached the top they looked down to see a body lying in the path. They stopped. The Teller stared at it for a moment.

“Stay behind, child,” he whispered.

“Do not belittle me old man,” she quietly spat.

“Do as you are told,” he hissed.

They approached the body and the Teller drew his sword. Maisy noticed it was grey like stone and not the silver of other swords. The Teller reached it out toward the body, as if to poke it with the tip, when he heard a voice.

“Hold fast there, raggedy tramp,” a gruff voice said. Four men stepped from behind trees. They held rapiers and swords, except for the large one who spoke. He held a vicious looking spike about four foots in length.

The Teller drew to his full height, tip of his sword to the floor. “Who is it that disturbs the walking of the Teller?” he boomed. It had the right effect as the two scrawny fellows, who had approached from the side, whispered to each other. Then they whispered to the large man, that this was a mistake to fight the Teller. Emboldened by each other they ran back up the path. The two men who remained had the mean look of bandits. The largest, who had the tattoos and the muscles of a smith, spoke. The smaller one leered at Maisy with rotten teeth and drink addled eyes.

“You are not the Teller, tramp. The Teller travels alone. I would guess you are one of those who meddles with young girls, judging by her.” He flicked the end of the spike towards her.

“No-one meddles with me you bastard,” she hissed, eyes ablaze.

“Step back,” the Teller whispered to her. She ignored him.

“Even if you are the Teller, I hear you have trinkets that I can trade. Either way you are mine, old man, you and your little bitch. Drop your toy sword,” he growled.

“No,” the Teller said flatly. This was not the time for quips.

The smaller of the two lunged at Maisy, who was standing ready with her walking stick. The Teller’s hand shot across her chest and shoved her back onto her arse. Unfortunately, this meant the Teller leaned towards the rapier’s tip and it caught him in the neck. She heard the sound of ripping cloth. As the bandit went to recover, he felt something touch his belly and looked down to see the Teller’s sword draw across it and the contents of his belly spill onto his shoes. He looked at them in surprise as he started to fall.

The larger man had not had the honour to wait his turn and engage the Teller, but had driven the spike towards his heart. The action of half turning, to draw across the smaller man’s abdomen, meant that the spike entered under the ribcage and out the other side. The Teller’s sword sung past the bandit’s face by inches. The bandit drove forward, impaling the Teller further. Maisy gasped in horror. The bandits face closed on the Teller, showing nothing but hatred in his wind-worn, bitter features. Unfortunately, driving the pike deeper through the Teller brought the bandit in range of the sword and the Teller drove it deep into the fellow’s eye. They both toppled backwards onto the floor. The larger man was dead before he hit the ground, the smaller gave two final rasping gasps and expired.

The Teller lay on his back with the spike sticking up in the air.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, gasping. He tried to pull it out but couldn’t. Maisy stared at him open mouthed. She was dumbstruck in terror.

“Get this fucking thing out of me girl!”

She jumped to her feet and grasped the spike with both hands. She pulled hard enough to lift the Teller from the ground slightly. The spike came free, and she looked to see that the spike was bloodless. In confusion, she started to speak to ask why but then she looked and saw the Teller’s neck. She dropped the spike in horror as she realised there was little flesh, certainly not the flesh of an old man. There was a split in which no blood flowed and inside she could see the tendons and ligaments look like string made from the dried ligaments of deer. Beside those, she could see silver cables of metal joined to the man with small connectors of untarnished steel. Then, as the Teller sat up, she saw the skin of his throat stitched in place like a wound but where the colours of the flesh did not match, as if parts of different men had been used.

She stumbled back with the spike, brandishing it like a club. She spoke with a tremulous voice.

“You are one of the Dead. One of the old horrors!” she exclaimed. The Teller sat up, holding his gloved hand to his neck.

“I am,” he said flatly. Then she looked again, seeing the sword that stuck from the eye of the attacker. She saw the criss-crossed pattern, and the impossible thinness of the blade, and her eyes widened, for she had heard the tale only last night.

“You are the Dead Soldier!”

“I am.”

The Teller watched her as she shook in terror. His next words would determine both their fates.

“After I defeated the Min… The Dark Priest I was operated on. Surgeons repaired my throat using the vocal chords and ligaments of another Zombie. Then they embalmed me and coated me with chemicals to prevent putrefaction. I was given artificial lungs and metal joints. They did this so I could help them find the other Zombies. The ones I could see in the grey. I don’t think they expected me to last as long as I have.”

“And that is how you know the truth?” she exclaimed, not knowing all the words he used.

“I know the truth because I was there, although my memory isn’t as good as it was,” he said. She stood there shaking for a long time, coiled like a frightened beast.

“Did you lie to my Father? Do you intend to make me like you or eat my bones?” she quivered.

He wanted to laugh but gave her the respect of answering her straight.

“No. I wouldn’t hurt you. I will die soon though, or not be able to move. When that happens I don’t want to go alone. I want someone to separate my head from my neck and burn the body, and I want someone to pass on the things I’ve seen so people don’t make the same mistakes again. That’s why I need an apprentice,” he said.

Tears welled in her eyes and the spike dropped to the floor. She cried for a while, sobbing gently into her hands. The Teller took some strips of leather from his pack and repaired his neck covering. Then he retrieved his sword and separated their attackers’ heads from their necks. She stopped crying and wiped the tears away from her red eyes. The Teller looked up the path away from her, towards the setting sun and when he spoke it was with melancholy sadness.