The Last of the Runners
Chapter 3

Gan shivered. He was hungry and his whole body ached. As much as he longed for light, he was glad to be in the dark. He could not see the bruise on his cheek or the swollen lip. He had answered back once too often as the Magister had shouted at him to say where he had been. The Magister had been in a foul mood. He had not enjoyed pursuing Gan through the warm days of summer and early autumn. While he was away chasing Gan, another three had run – they had all been caught quickly, but the Magister had been made to sweat. It was not something he cared to do often, as even he hated the smell. After that slap, Gan had been thrown into the dark and left. He was not sure how long he had been there, as he had slept a lot. Weeks dodging through the countryside had left him exhausted, until, at last he had run into the Watchers at the foot of the pass through the Myddlyn Mountains.

He had been perhaps a couple of day’s walk from Villombre, avoided and escaped from groups of Watchers for weeks and then to run into them on a narrow road in the mountains! If he had been just a few minutes quicker he would have been through the pass and off the road again. He had tried to run, but they had set one of their steam dogs after him.

There was only so long that human legs can outrun the clattering, clanking cacophony of the hissing mechanical beast. If he had met them in the forest, he would have stood more of a chance as the beast struggled with swerving between the trees and changing direction quickly. He had managed to get one to crash into a tree near Racontour. In the pass, there was nowhere to hide, nothing to dodge behind, and in a straight race, it was only a matter of time before he felt the steamy breath of the hound on his ankles. When its jaws closed on him, he knew there was no escape, for a steam hound has no soft spot to push or punch to gain release. All you could do was surrender.

He had heard nothing while in the dark cell. A single mug of water and a crust of bread had been thrust through a panel at the bottom of the door maybe twice, but whether that meant that two days had passed, Gan did not know.

He was puzzled by his treatment. From all he had heard, runners were usually put very quickly back into class – to start to benefit from the training regime – although they were shackled to their desks and made to stand through lessons to deter others from following the same course. He had never heard of anyone being locked away – but then why would he? He had been seen by no one apart from the Magister since he had been captured. If this had happened to anyone else, who would have known?

There had been just one clue – one hint that something was different. As he had sat on the floor, nursing his bleeding lip, he had heard the Magister wheezing to himself as he paced round his office.

“This one,” he had wheezed, “This one got so close and was out for such a long time he will know many more of the rat holes these runners use. This is the one I have been waiting for. Let me break him. What a difference he will make!”

In his cold, dark isolation, Gan had tried to imagine what difference he would make and what it had to do with the Magister but without success. To make a difference for good or ill? What a puzzle! What a choice!

In the days after Gan said goodbye, Kyrin began to wonder whether his world was as sunlit as he had imagined. First, his mother had given him a beating for not saying that Gan had gone to run. He had not been missed for two days as his mother had thought he was with Kyrin, which must have given him quite a head start over the Watchers. Then he had had an unpleasant interview with the Magister. Three hours the fat man had persisted with his questions and the more he perspired, the less inclined Kyrin was to answer any of them. Besides, all he knew was that Gan had been talking to Mrs Bruntler – but he didn’t tell the Magister that, as he did not see that talking to an old woman counted as helping Gan to run. Anyway, Gan had told him about Mrs Bruntler in confidence and you did not betray what a friend had said, no matter how important the questioner. This loyalty and the fact that he honestly knew nothing made him seem very dull and irritating to the Magister, who eventually wheezed away, muttering menacingly about the hard task that awaited him when Kyrin moved onto the Training School.

The second beating Kyrin received from his mother for upsetting the Magister did nothing to improve the impression this ugly man had made on him. It seemed monstrously unfair that he had been punished for not knowing what the foul smelling man had wanted to find out. You did not tell on your friends. Everyone knew that. Nobody liked a snitch and Kyrin was not going to be one, however unfair his punishment. His sense of virtue went some way to easing his discomfort, although he found he had to read lying on his stomach for best part of a week!

There had been no news of Gan by the time the bruises faded, though Kyrin had been forced to glean this from conversations overheard through a door, as any direct question would have provoked further punishment. Not that he needed further punishment. His summer holiday had been particularly lonely. Not only had his best friend left, but once everyone knew that Gan had become a runner, none of his other school friends were allowed to be with him, their mothers no doubt fearing that he would pass on the running infection.

So he had spent many hours lying in the long grass dreaming: dreaming of what he might become; just dreaming and letting his imagination run through forests and into castles, but most frequently dreaming of where Gan might be. How often had they lain there and talked about what people said lay between Villblanche and Villombre. Was it so different in the villages further away from Villblanche where the Watchers were rare visitors? What were the miners really like in the Mountains of Myddlyn? Were they really such misshapen creatures, who hated the light and sang cruel songs? And what about the mysterious Story Weavers, strange men and women they said were descended from Arun the Weaver. The Weaver had come through the Curtain Mountains to safety, creating the Weave that made the world turn. His followers wandered the forests and it was said they could weave such a spell with their stories that you believed they were real and never left them. Did they really exist? Gan said now he believed in them and knew how important they were. What had he meant?

For Gan and Kyrin who had loved to tell each other stories as they lay in the grass, the Story Weavers fascinated them most. How did these wanderers keep the errors out of their tale telling to perfect the enchantment? And what happened to those who fell beneath its charm? There were very few details about the Story Weavers themselves and they usually came third or fourth hand from those who claimed to have almost fallen under the spell. Even fewer tales existed of those who had succumbed to the power of the Story Weavers – usually in the form of a distant cousin or uncle by marriage who had never returned from his journey and who it was assumed had been taken by the Story Weavers. However, as Kyrin’s mother had once observed, in a rare reference to his absent father, “Story Weavers! The only Story Weaver he fell for wore a short skirt on the Villombre road!”

Maybe the Story Weavers did not really exist. Yet if they were not real, Kyrin wondered, why were they spoken of so much? It did not make sense, try as he might to work it out.

Something else he could not work out was the question of the runners. Why were they so feared? Mothers would whisper the names of those who had run, even just mouth them as if to say them would pass on the idea to another child. They would sympathise with a mother whose child had become a runner and hope they did not get caught because then their existence could be forgotten. They would all scold any child who could be linked to a runner – as Kyrin had found to his cost. As for any adult who might be linked to runners, they were to be shunned and avoided like any carrier of the plague, lest the infection pass on again. His village was so close to Villblanche that many hoped their children would seek an assured career in the City. The runners threatened the security such a move would bring and all knew of the countless nights that parents of captured runners had been made to scrub the walls of the Council House. It was hard to get work or promotion if your child was a failed runner. It was difficult to get served in the best quality shops or restaurants. Failed runners and their families became third class citizens.

To Kyrin, runners had just seemed characters in an adventure story; youngsters keen for one last adventure before growing up. He had never expected to even know one and now to have one as a friend! He had never had the slightest idea why runners ran. Gan had not told him why he was going – not clearly – but since he had left, Kyrin had found a few reasons of his own. Would more become clear in the autumn? He was sure that was when Gan had started to change the previous year – after they had come to talk about moving to the Training School.

In the dark and cold, a voice began to whisper to Gan. He tried not to listen to it. He did not want to listen to it. However, after such a long time in the silent dark, his ears welcomed any voice as a long lost friend. For all his efforts, he could not keep its words out. It told him a story, a story in which he achieved fame and fortune, in which his cleverness would win rewards beyond his imaginings, simply by remembering the places he had stayed when out on his run. The story kept being whispered to him and the price demanded in return seemed more and more reasonable. All he had to do was agree to remember and he would be out of the dark and the cold and walking along the sunlit path to fame. Was it so much to ask? A simple “yes” would get much closer to his goal than all those weeks of running. A simple “yes” would end his isolation. It was not much to ask.

Was it?

There was a crack in the plaster above the chalkboard in Kyrin’s classroom. It snaked its way across the wall like a great river making its way to the ocean of the window. Kyrin had discovered it soon after moving into the senior classroom, but had not had the opportunity to explore it and its many tributaries until that wet afternoon.

His teacher had seemed flustered as she hurried them back into their places for the afternoon’s lessons. Then the door opened and a woman in ash-grey robes was shown in.

She stopped in the centre and turned to look at the class. Behind her glasses, her magnified eyes blinked. Her head swivelled, owl-like, above her collar, as she surveyed the children who sat silently behind the desks. Then she smiled, a sweet smile that oozed sincerity, a smile designed to disarm, to remove any fear or mistrust. Kyrin sensed all his classmates relax. He wished he could relax too, but the more the owl-like woman smiled, the more uneasy he felt. He did not know why he felt like that, but this smile designed to ooze sincerity appeared to Kyrin as a lopsided leer, turning into a snarl. It was like looking at a bird of prey – calm when at rest but totally destructive when it stooped on its prey.

So while his classmates began to smile back at the owl woman and to be reassured by her words, embraced by her profession of caring for their well-being, Kyrin heard just the screeching hunting call and felt the talons clawing at him. Every fibre of his body seemed to be screaming to him to get away from the owl woman, to get to safety, to run.

Run? Where had that thought come from? Even with Gan’s disappearance, Kyrin had never really considered running before that moment. Yet the same instinct knew that any movement at that instant would be fatal. It would draw the predator’s eyes, like a rabbit in the snow. So he sat still, explored the tributaries of the crack with his eyes while the owl twittered on about training strands and predictions and making a contribution. It all sounded as grey and lifeless as the owl woman’s robes. Without the comforting effect of her smile, Kyrin saw nothing but dullness in what was proposed. There was no joy, no excitement, no imagination in the training webs this Head Learner tried to weave around them. Not one thing attracted him. All he could see was years of boredom stretching ahead.

“So what do you think?” the Head Learner simpered. “Tell me your impressions. Don’t be shy now. You, boy.”

Kyrin was dragged without warning from a winding crack into face to face questioning by the Head Learner who had swooped down onto the second row.

“It all sounds,” he said, without reflection, as the Head Learner broke into a beneficent smile, “incredibly dull.”

The smile froze on her lips.

“What do you mean, dull?” she asked sweetly.

“Not interesting. Boring even.”

Kyrin could almost feel the atmosphere freezing around him. He had spoken without malice, having been startled into an honest reply. It was not something he had intended. The Head Learner’s face swooped close to his, the glasses magnifying her eyes alarmingly, the smile still frozen on her lips, the treacle sweet voice not above a whisper.

“You think that the Training Programme devised by the elders of our fine state is not interesting?”

“It seems so, yes,” said Kyrin, not finding it possible to lie to get out of trouble.

“And why do you think that?” the Head Learner said smilingly.

“Well, there’s nothing creative among the list of subjects,” Kyrin blundered on. “It’s just all toil and industry.”

“And you don’t think that is important?”

“Not if it stops everything else that makes life happy,” said Kyrin simply.

“Well,” said the Head Learner, straightening up, “We will have to hope your attitude improves before you join us at the Training School.”

Kyrin said nothing and watched the Head Learner stalk out. Nobody looked at him. Nothing was said. The teacher returned to the lesson on calculus and normality reigned once more – at least until he got home.

“How could you?” yelled his mother, her face red with embarrassment and anger at the letter he had brought home. “How could you draw attention to yourself like that? Getting a bad name before you even get to the Training School!”

“I just answered her question without thinking,” said Kyrin. “You keep telling me I think too much.”

“Don’t try blaming me for this,” she said, cuffing him sharply. “Haven’t I taught you not to cheek your elders?”

“I just answered a question truthfully!” protested Kyrin, bracing himself for the torrent of blows she rained down on his head and shoulders.

“How could you be so stupid?” his mother screamed. “How could you ruin your future so easily? Do you think you will ever get on now, after insulting the Head Learner like that?”

“But if the Training Programme was more appealing, do you think people would keep becoming runners?”

“Don’t you ever use that word in this house again!” she screamed, taking such a swipe at him that Kyrin was knocked to the floor. He tasted blood oozing from his lip and the left side of his face tingled.

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Kyrin hurried away, flinging himself down on his bed and letting the tears come. How could she be so harsh? Did she love him so little? Did it not matter that he was unhappy at the thought of going to such a grey place, for all its shining stone? She wouldn’t care if he ran! He wouldn’t care what happened to her if they caught him, she could go and scrub the walls of the Training School every night if she liked it so much! He stopped a moment. Where had that last thought come from? Perhaps Gan had been right and he started to cry again. However, it was not the blows that made him weep, nor the harsh words, nor even the looks he had been given at school. It was the sinking feeling that childhood was over, that it was impossible for him to be happy as he was, for the summer sun had faded and stormy clouds filled the horizon. It felt like his choice had been made.

In the kitchen, Kyrin’s mother wiped her silent tears from her eyes on her faded yellow headscarf. Though she hated herself for doing it, this harshness seemed to be working after all these years. The time was drawing near. The desire was coming from inside him and was coming naturally.

“Dear Kyrl,” she whispered to the ceiling, “Look after him when he runs.”

How many days was that story whispered to him? He did not know. In total darkness, Gan did not know how time passed. Days, hours, minutes, they were all the same when nothing helped you divide them. The story twisted and coiled round him like a snake, trying to find a way to convince him, draw him in, make itself believable.

How many times did he hear it and fail to be convinced? He could not remember. Then it changed for the umpteenth time. The success and the honour were still there but it came from helping a friend. Remember where you have been so you can help a friend. To help a friend – what an amazing idea – what joy! Be able to turn his failure into a success for a friend.

For centuries, she had lain there, calm in her enchanted repose. Now she was uneasy, almost awake. So much depended on this one young man, and the need to ensure he ran alone was creating a dangerous opponent. However, the boy had to start soon to reach the Lists in time. Maybe he needed a little encouragement.

School had, until that autumn, been a place where Kyrin felt happy. It had been exciting to learn new things and let his imagination run through the history and books placed before them. Since the return, however, the fun seemed to have gone out from the learning. The teacher was more serious and kept talking about the assessments they had to complete at the end of the year and how important they were for their future. Kyrin, who had always shone in lessons, found himself marked down harshly, especially since the visit of the Head Learner. They spent more time on calculus and serious writing – interpreting historical data or analysing the language used in different pieces of writing. Anything that might have fired their imagination was strenuously avoided. Even the historical events they were asked to consider were advances in farming or industry – the lives of kings and their wars no longer considered appropriate. Preparation for their final assessment and success in that was all that mattered now.

About four weeks into term, a rumour went round that Gan had been captured. Kyrin’s heart sank. Gan had been away for best part of two months. Surely he had made it all the way to Villombre in that time? What had happened to him? It stayed as a rumour though, as no one had seen Gan at the Training School and no one had been seen visiting his mother. The visit to the offender’s parents was the usual confirmation that a run had come to its end.

A booklet outlining all the courses of study at the Training School was sent home shortly after that. Kyrin’s mother had pored over it excitedly, suggesting course after course and the illustrious career Kyrin could follow as a banker’s clerk, architect’s assistant or merchant’s apprentice. Her keenness to push him into one of these careers felt just as cruel as the beatings she had given him. Nothing appealed to Kyrin, however, and so he just grunted or mumbled anything he thought would make her stop. He began to understand what Gan had meant about answering that question. There was nothing on offer that he wished to do. All the things that interested him, where he could use his imagination and be creative, the writing, the music and the art, were not available, were frowned on and put to one side. The city of Villblanche clearly did not want to train people to write stories or create a painting or a beautiful melody.

Was it time to visit Mrs Bruntler?

The whispering was increasing.

Help us and help your friend. Help your friend. Put your talents at our disposal and help your friend. Don’t let him struggle without the benefit of your wisdom. Don’t forget. Remember and the Elders will favour you and that will help your friend. Don’t be stubborn. Remember, help us and help your friend succeed.

“Yes,” said Gan in the dark, “I will.”

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