All the Dead Are Here (32 page)

The tall figure of the Teller stood before the assemblage, not quite straight but still imposing.
“Boy, your sheep are safe. I would suggest, on my next visit, you tend to your flock first,” the muffled voice spoke with a light, almost amused note and yet it had a surprising warmth and timbre. Thomas was standing in awe at the figure as his father clapped him round the back of his head.

“Answer the Teller, Thomas,” he growled.

“Yes Teller. Thank you Teller,” Thomas said quickly, in a trembling, squeaky voice.

As was an unspoken tradition, the children stood in front of their parents in a rough semi circle around the Teller. And, as was tradition, the Teller scanned their faces looking for the most fearful. A young lad of about five summers stood shaking, he pressed as far back into his mother’s skirt as he could. The parents looked amused for they knew this trick and it had been played on one of them when they were young. The Teller’s gaze fell upon the boy, whose shaking increased in line with the size of his eyes. The Teller reached into his pocket and drew the boy’s gaze towards his fumbling hand. The children stood terrified. The elders stood amused. Slowly, he withdrew his hand and boy looked fit to scarper but his Mum held his shoulders in place. Then the Teller held his hand out in front of the boy and slowly opened his palm. The boy stared in wonder at the small yellow box in the Teller’s hand. The strips of leather that crisscrossed his faced curved to the approximation of a wide smile and the boy visibly relaxed. Thomas reached out and took the toy.

“What is it? It looks like a cart,” the boy said in a quiet voice.

“It is called a car. It is like a cart but required no horses. People used to sit inside here,” the Teller said, his voice quietened. He pointed at the window of the yellow plastic toy. The boy peered inside.

“But watch.” The Teller manipulated the toy until a small head appeared, then an arm, and finally it flipped open to reveal two legs, “It becomes a mighty warrior.” The children gasped at the magic of the Teller.

The boy took the figure from his hand and stared at it. “What is his name?” the boy said.

“His name?” The Teller had not expected this question. He bowed his head to one side, looking at the ground in thought. After a moment he looked back at the boy. “Honeybee, I think.”

The boy held the figure aloft. “Hail Honeybee the warrior cart!” he cried before wrestling free from his mother and sprinting off.

“What do you say, Alistair?” his mother called after him.

“Thank you Teller!” the boy cried as he disappeared around the corner. The adults laughed and the children ran off after Alistair. They watched the children disappear before the Teller turned to face the adults.

“And where is John? Is he still leader?”

“That I am Teller, although I am not the man you remember,” a grey haired figure said, stepping forward. He was once a powerful man, and his width was testament to that, but his light was fading with age. He wore skins and a long silver chain of office as was the custom in these parts. The Teller approached him and grasped his hands with both of his own. He shook them with the warmth of old friends even though the Teller had only come twice in John’s lifetime.

“John. You look no different to my eyes. Your village does now resemble a town, though. What is next? When do you start work on the Cathedral?”

“It is said, Teller, that you can never lie. Perhaps the truth of it is that you cannot lie well!” John said, smiling warmly. The Teller laughed heartily.

“Well perhaps you are right,” the Teller said as the adults dispersed. For tonight would be conference and there was much preparation to do.

John led the Teller to one of the stone buildings. It was constructed with a combination of dry stone and concrete shards, of bricks and breeze blocks filled with straw and mud. Inside it was warm and a small fire was all that was required for illumination as the summer nights were warm and doors left open for air. Slowly the Teller removed his pack and placed it by the chair. Then he grasped both arms and lowered himself gingerly into the chair. John did not think the last time the Teller had come he had moved so carefully. They talked for a while and the Teller was offered food, which he eschewed except for a single apple which he pocketed for later. The Teller talked of the news of the villages to the East and he talked of places John had only heard of in passing. The conference was part of the tradition and bringing the leader up to date with the news was the other. John then asked if he could talk to the Doctor, for he had some new ailments he wanted the Teller’s advice on. He also asked if the Teller could speak to the apprentice of the scribe. He was a good student but wild and John thought the Teller could remind him of the importance of the scribe’s job and how the responsibility was an honour that should be respected. Finally, the Teller asked to speak to John privately again afterwards, for he had a request. Then it was time for the conference, so John and the Teller left for the Big Hall.

The Hall was full of laughter and talk. It warmed the Teller’s heart, for sometimes, during famine or in the deep winters, the crowd would sit in quiet suffering. Food would be scarce or a failed crop would make life hard and then they would listen to the Teller’s stories in sombre moods, distracted by empty bellies or dying relatives at home.

They sat in family groups on the floor around the hall, with tallow candles illuminating the round room, while the Teller took the objects from his bag and placed them on the low table in front. First was a large cloth of stunning white. This was given to the old ladies who knew the ceremony. He thanked them and they busied behind him. Then he took four small clay pots into which he placed different coloured metal rods connected with strange coloured twine. John appeared with the jar of lemon juice which was poured into each of the four pots. While John did this the Teller removed two small square objects and placed them on the table with twine connecting them to the rods and to each other. The adults continued talking but the younger children watched with sleepy distraction as the mysterious figure worked. Finally, he lined up the bigger box as one of the old ladies tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see that they had hung the sheet behind him and he looked at it before nodding for them to return to their seats. Then he turned to the assembled crowd and raised his hands for silence.

“Thomas, come here my boy. Time to redeem yourself.” The crowd turned to look at the reddening boy as he walked to the front. Teller bade him sit before the small arrangement of boxes.
“Thomas, you are to press this when I point at you,” Teller whispered as his thin fingers pointed at the position on the smallest box. Thomas nodded seriously. The Teller pressed a small button on one of the boxes and a light brighter than that of a room of candles illuminated the white sheet hanging behind him.

The Teller drew himself up to his full height, head bowed, and spread his arms wide. His voice was voluminous yet soft. Accompanied by images from his strange machine he told of the birth of the universe, and of the planet Earth. He told of the ascent of man, and how the dead appeared throughout history, hidden yet relentless. He told of the two Great Wars between men. He told of the mocking of the Dead, where the living dressed as the Dead, and how they walked the great glass cities of the earth. With sombre tones, he told of the Golden Age, the black emperor, and how the first fall was averted by the science of the great ring and the many scientists. He told how the second fall came and how man with all his power and science could not stop it again, when faced with a man in love. He told of the black times and spoke of how man fell and preyed on one another in the darkness. He told of how man fed the beast of the fields with human flesh. He told the legend of the music man and how, in the far lands of the West, the Devil walked the land. He told of the legend of the Dead Soldier and the Dark Priest, and how the Dead Soldier was fixed by the last of the great science and how he went on to defeat the other Zombie Lords, before walking into the East. He told of the Empire of the Marquis and how it stretched from the Great Isle to the Dead City of Instantbull and how in the end the Marquis was defeated by the Rising. He spoke of the plagues and of the blasted lands where the flesh fell from you as you walked. He told the stories of many things since the Fall. Then he told how the Dead rotted into the Earth and how man would be Golden again. Finally, he told of the Teller and how he travelled the world and told the stories and helped with the learning of the old things. As ever, it was a message of hope after all the darkness and a message that the future of man was bright again.

The light of the sheet turned to white once more and the Teller sat, clearly exhausted. The crowd collectively breathed and he could see the wonder in the eyes of children and the tears in the eyes of their parents for worlds lost, and worlds yet to come. After a while the crowd spoke amongst themselves in hushed tones, and the younger ones were taken to bed, although the parents knew they would not sleep. Some asked questions of the Teller and he answered. Eventually, John and the Teller were left alone. The Teller thought John looked tired, he looked his age.

“It was as I remembered, Teller,” John said mournfully.

“Exactly?” the Teller asked.

“My memory is not that good.”

“That makes two of us,” said the Teller as he gazed into the fire. He continued, “It saddens me that I must change the words as they are lost. The words that were taught to me... by my Teller... mean nothing to you.”

“But the stories are the same. That is what is important,” John said as he joined the Teller and offered him a cup of water. The Teller refused and didn’t answer.

“I was not due here for a few months, John. Yet I have heard on my travels of one in your village with a gift for telling.”

John looked at the Teller in surprise. “Maisy?”

“I am heard she is called Little Teller.”

“I... er... she mocks you, sir. I am sorry. She has brought dishonour.” John looked at the floor, embarrassed.

“Fear not, John. I am not offended. I hear that she tells a fine tale. Lift your eyes.”

“She tells them well but they are fanciful tales of dragins and monsters. They are not the true stories of old. They are not the stories of the Fall. I don’t understand why this should interest you?”

“As you get older so do I and soon my time comes. I am in need of an apprentice,” said the Teller, flatly.

“An Apprentice?” John exclaimed. The leather that wrapped the Teller’s head smiled.

“Is that so surprising? I must have been an apprentice once,” said the Teller.

“I suppose this is true.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirteen summers.”

“A good age. I would speak with her in the morning. And I would appreciate it if you would ask her parents tonight so that they may consider my proposal before I call for her. If they refuse I will respect their decision, for she is young to know her own mind,” said the Teller.

“She knows her mind, Teller,” John smiled.

“This is good, for my way is the lonely path.” John looked at the leather wrapped figure that sat uncomfortably in front of him. It was thin and old. John could tell that. Yet it exuded a strength that made all who met him know that there were legends that walked. It was a permanent thing yet it had never occurred to him of the loneliness of the Teller’s life. How he walked unceasingly from village to village, telling the truth of the ways of old, helping with medicine and writing, with science and engineering. John had never travelled to a place where the Teller was not mentioned and although he had never been across the sea, he had heard that the Teller was known there as well.

“I will ask them tonight. I will show you to your room and go speak with them.”

“Is my room prepared?”

“It is Teller, and I would have the honour of guarding you.”

“Thank you, John.”

“You came and told the young the truth of the old ways. There is nothing to thank me for.” The Teller bowed.

John saw the Teller to the windowless room they had converted from one of the pantries and left to speak to ask Tam and Janat, Maisy’s parents, if the Teller could take their daughter as an apprentice. On the way to their home he watched how thin clouds scudded from the hills, and how the wan glow of the half moon illuminated the village.

In the morning the Teller emerged from his room to find John sitting outside. John yawned and rose to meet him.

“Did you sleep well, Teller?” John enquired.

“I did, yes, although it was late when I finished my records. Tell me, did you talk to the girl’s parents?”

“I did. I would leave you with the Doctor and see them again for their decision.”

“Thank you,” the Teller replied.

Together they walked to the Doctor’s house as the village awoke with the smell of bacon and oatmeal filling the air. The Teller spoke with the Doctor for nigh on two hours. He showed him that the strange diseases that afflicted the injured here were down to a general uncleanliness. The Teller left the Doctor cleaning his house from top to bottom with strong smelling soap.

Next he was taken to see the scribe and his boy. The scribe complained vociferously that the boy was frequently late or drunk or both and although he was talented in remembering and writing, it was not good enough. When the boy spoke, he admitted his wildness and his desire to drink with the men of the village. However, he also told of the cruelty of the scribe, and how he beat him or denied him food or rest. A compromise was reached. The boy was allowed time off as long as he promised not to turn up drunk and was diligent with his studies. The scribe must not beat him as the boy was empowered to defend himself. However, if the boy’s behaviour did not improve, then John the leader would decide further sanctions. The scribe and the boy were uneasily happy with this, and offered the Teller gifts of paper, ink and quills, which he took with gratitude.

The Teller went to find John and was told that the girl’s parents had agreed she could be taken as the Teller’s apprentice. They were reticent about it but said if it was what she wanted then she was mature enough to make the decision. The Teller waited in the windowless pantry for her to appear. He sat knees up on the bed, resting his large book on his thighs. He wrote the names of changed things since he had last been to this village. He did this so the next time he came he could treat the people like long missed friends and not strangers.