by Terry Tyler
Chapter 10
Lieutenant August Hemsley
I'm just setting out for my regular Friday morning visit to the library before I inspect the south wall, when a young guard rushes up to me.
"Lieutenant Hemsley, they want to see you at the jail block. A lad you locked up last week―Lucas Short―he's disappeared."
"What do you mean, disappeared? In a puff of smoke?"
"No―his mum, she came to bring him some provisions and he's gone!"
"Well, he's probably escaped, then, with help from family and friends who paid off Fisher; won't be the first time. His mother's visit may be a nice little double bluff, to throw us off the scent. I dare say he's over the wall and far away, by now."
He looks at me blankly. "They said I've got to bring you. Now―she's creating merry hell."
I sigh, and tell the guard to bring me a horse. As soon as I arrive, the distraught Mrs Short hurls herself at me. Her distress appears genuine. I ask Munroe to lead me to his cell, and, as suspected, there is no sign of him having forced his way out.
Lucas is a nasty piece of work who was locked up two weeks ago. He was consistently late for his wall maintenance job, and punched his foreman when challenged. Following his suspension, he got drunk and attempted to set an ex-girlfriend's log shack on fire. Arson or attempted arson is a level three misdemeanour; Blackthorn is better off without him. In the past he got away with much wrongdoing because of his deceptively angelic appearance, but I was not fooled.
"If he hasn't returned home, I imagine he's gone over the wall rather than complete his sentence," I tell Mrs Short, as kindly as possible. "Young men of Lucas's age are often daunted by the prospect of a lengthy sentence, and, for this reason, slipping a guard a payment for release is not unheard of; I will make enquiries, but I'm afraid your son is probably long gone by now."
I study the slate by his empty cell, on which his details are chalked:
Lucas Short, 18
Level:3
Start: 21/9/39
Release: 21/1/40
Munroe and Fisher glance at each other.
"Nothing to do with us," Fisher says. "He never gave me any money, and I can vouch for the rest of my men on that account, too."
"Could be he made a different sort of trade," mutters Munroe, with a nasty grin.
Fisher's lips twitch. "Aye. It's been known."
They're not looking at Mrs Short, though. They're looking at me. They're trying to goad me.
"What do you mean?" Mrs Short's tears stream down her grubby face, leaving paler tracks. She's beside herself; she grasps handfuls of her hair and grabs at her clothes, as though she's trying to get hold of something that will help her. "He can't have paid―he's got no money―"
As Munroe and Fisher suggest various lewd methods by which a prisoner might avoid spending four months in a cell, I guide the poor woman away; I will reprimand that pair later.
"Mrs Short, please accept my assurance that no offences have been committed towards your son by anyone in Blackthorn. If no one accepted a bribe to leave his cell unlocked, I imagine he gave his warders the slip while buckets were being emptied or while he visited the shower block, and he headed over the north wall by way of the upper branches of the trees, under cover of night, in which case he will be far away by now."
"Is that it? You're telling me my boy's just gone, and that's that? Well, ain't no one going to look for him?"
I take a deep breath. "I'm afraid we don't have the manpower to scour the countryside for escaped prisoners, especially not those over eighteen years of age. If Lucas was to be recaptured his sentence would be harsh indeed; please comfort yourself with the likelihood that he is, no doubt, enjoying his freedom."
Jail escapes are rare; those who attempt to hide within Blackthorn are soon discovered, so the only place to go is over the wall, which means leaving friends and family, forever.
Mrs Short begins to rant about her husband and his brother going out to look for him, but I think she knows they wouldn't get permission for such an excursion. I calm her, eventually, by holding her hand, though this is not a pleasant experience; she is unwashed, and sweaty.
I encounter inappropriate merriment on walking back to the cells after dispatching this poor lady. All know better than to speak ill of our governor in my presence, but I approach quietly, and hear the two second lieutenants making ribald remarks about Lucas Short being a 'personal guest' of Wolf North.
I make my presence known.
"I assume you know that making slanderous accusations about our governor is an offence punishable at my discretion?" I say, enjoying their startled expressions.
As I walk away, though, Munroe calls my name.
"Mr Hemsley, sir!"
I turn. "Yes?"
"It's nothing much, but―"
"Speak up, man."
His respectful demeanour changes to one of infuriating devilment. "Well, I was just thinking that p'raps you might want to talk to Jet Lewis. 'Bout his missions down to the river with heavy packages. Late at night." He holds up his hands. "I'm just sayin'."
I shut my eyes, and for some reason he invades my thoughts again, even though I know he was buried.
Dead Boy.
I push him away.
Those days are over.
I give Munroe a long, hard look, and walk on.
My morning's routine has gone awry; I am late completing my first patrol of the south wall, which means I will be late having lunch, too, and I haven't managed to get to the library yet. The interruptions of my schedule are not over; as I approach Thorn Lodge, a gate guard rushes forward with a message instructing me to take the traveller Ryder Swift to see the governor.
However, this is one diversion that I don't mind at all.
The news about Swift's communication with a divine being has spread around the city quicker than the swine flu outbreak of 2132. I was informed of the details by Violet Lincoln, and admit to feeling rather excited by them; I imagine that, should a god wish to employ a spokesperson on this earth, there would be few finer choices than Ryder Swift.
A man with much charisma, word of his good deeds and generous heart has spread far beyond the borders of Shackers' End over the past couple of years. He interests me; just as I have wondered, on occasion, what it would be like to be swaggering and dramatic, I also ponder how it must feel to possess those qualities so admired by the world: spontaneity, a taste for adventure, an outgoing and cheery manner.
The attributes of people like me are deemed significantly less valuable. An aptitude for language, attention to detail, the willingness to work behind the scenes for little or no praise―such traits are seen as odd, or the worst sin of all: boring.
My few brief meetings with Ryder have been sufficient for me to understand his popularity; he is really quite dazzling. It is fair to say that I hope his story is genuine. History books have taught me how important religion was to the people of over two centuries ago; I envy them, long dead though they are, for finding such comfort in faith. If Ryder's vision in the woods is fact rather than fiction, it could be wonderful news for our city, and indeed the whole country, for we are badly in need of guidance.
I collect him where he waits for me in Haystack's office. He stands as I walk in, and greets me with a warmth almost inappropriate for our scant mutual acquaintance, but it gladdens my heart, nevertheless; it is rare that others appear overly pleased to see me.
"Is the governor in a good mood this morning?" he asks, as we walk towards North Garden. I notice people turn to look at us, nudging each other. Ryder Swift's fame travels fast.
"I'm afraid I haven't seen him yet today," I reply.
He gives a short laugh, though I can't see that this exchange merits humour.
"I'm a bit nervous!"
I don't know what to reply to that, so I say nothing.
"I've been to his house before," he says. "It's amazing, isn't it?"
"It's very fine, yes."
"What about the li
brary? I'd love to see it. I've heard it's incredible."
"The library is private, I'm afraid."
I notice how popular types such as Ryder tend to throw such superlatives around, describing the agreeable or aesthetically pleasing as 'amazing' and 'incredible'. Perhaps such enthusiasm adds to their appeal, though it is not a trait I would wish to adopt; which adjectives could one apply to the truly spectacular, if they have already been used up on the merely pleasant?
However, Wolf's private library is said to be a particularly fine collection in a beautifully constructed room, and my curt answer is borne of a weakness within me: resentment. This I find hard to stifle, however I try. It stems from the fact that I have not yet been invited to visit this library. I dislike myself for feeling aggrieved that, despite Wolf's awareness of my love of books, he has not yet offered me the privilege as a mark of appreciation for all that I do.
"Private, eh? Right!" We walk on, and I feel that Ryder Swift has much he wants to ask me. Eventually, he speaks. "Does he―I don't know how to put this―I mean, I know it's time for me to talk to him―what I'm trying to say is―d'you think he―"
I take pity on him. "I believe the answer you're looking for is 'yes'. Don't worry, news of your experience is on everyone's lips this week. Only last night, the governor said to both Lieutenant Parks and me that he would like to arrange a meeting with you, which is why Byron Lewis's request was immediately granted."
I sense his relief.
"Oh, phew, then!" He gives me a brief pat on the back, to emphasise this; I enjoy the warm feeling of comradeship this gives me, and allow myself to smile at him, which is all the encouragement he needs to enlarge upon his trepidation concerning this interview. His company adds to my enjoyment of the walk through my beloved city on this crisp, bright autumn day, and I feel proud to have it. I contemplate that this is what is meant by the word 'charismatic': it is when your mere presence is enough to make others feel good.
We arrive at Wolf's house, and the gate guards greet me in that deferential way they always do. Others of my status have managed to retain a cheery, amiable relationship with those above whom they have risen, but not me.
Lieutenant Parks is at the front door. He asks me to wait, while he delivers Ryder to Wolf.
As soon as Ryder is gone, I am aware that my day feels a little commonplace. I stand outside, contemplating this. Within five minutes or so, Parks comes out, and pulls me to one side.
"Governor wants you to wait till Swift comes out. You're to follow him, at a distance, see where he goes, what he does. Who he talks to."
"Of course, but what should I be looking for?"
"Just keep an eye on him. If this vision business is a scam for financial gain or any other reason, Wolf wants to shut it down straight away, and get him gone. Just make sure he doesn't see you, and report back to the governor."
I understand, though I don't like the idea of spying on someone I would like to think of as almost a friend.
For nearly an hour I wait, on the bench a little way from the walls of Wolf's house, but this wait is no hardship; the day is glorious, and I take pleasure in watching the residents of our city about their business.
Finally, I see Ryder emerge. I long to approach him, to find out how he was received, to enjoy once more the warm glow that his company offers, but I have a job to do.
I am surprised to see that he walks off not towards the city centre, and onwards back to Shackers' End, but out towards the north side.
I hold back, wary in case he senses my presence behind him, but he doesn't turn round.
He is heading for the spirit field.
Despite the discomfort this underhand mission causes me, I enjoy the walk; the air smells wonderful, the sky remains a bright, cloudless blue, and the leaves on the trees still display the many glorious shades of early autumn. I always feel enlivened by a visit to the spirit field; should Ryder turn, I will say I have come to visit my mother's silver birch.
I can't imagine what he plans to do there; I don't imagine he knows anyone who exists amongst these trees.
We reach the edge of the field; I hear the gate creak as it opens, even from where I walk, and once inside he moves slowly, looking up at the branches, touching the trunks. Now and again he stops, gazes up at the sky, and holds his arms out, as if receiving something I cannot see.
I follow him through the birches, blackthorns and magnolias, the laburnums and lilacs, to the closely planted apple trees of long dead shackers. Each tree bears a little wooden plaque, engraved with the names of the families buried under each one. I ask the Kyles, Smiths, Hudsons and Fosters to keep me hidden.
He stops, and kneels.
I hold my breath, standing back as best I can, my ears alert.
For Ryder Swift is talking.
At first I think he is reciting some sort of prayer, or talking to himself, but as I creep closer I can hear his words.
He is having a conversation. Talking to a person, or being, that I cannot see.
I will, I will ... whatever happens, however I'm received ... thank you ... thank you ... please, just help me to be worthy ...
He is talking to his god. The Light.
He stops, listens, nods. I creep further on, still hidden, so that I can observe him from another angle. I need to see his face.
I hide behind a trunk, feeling vaguely foolish, and dare myself to peep out.
Still his lips move, then he stands up, arms outstretched.
"Thank you," he says. "I understand. Thank you!"
He presses his palms together, and I see that his handsome face wears an expression of great happiness.
Oh, my.
His story is true.
A glorious, warm breeze caresses my face, and it seems to bring with it a sensation of hope. For me, for everyone. For the future.
I am overcome. This charming man, this person whom I wanted to be genuine, even more than I realised, is here to save us all. I have seen him talk to his god, when there was no one around to deceive. Best of all, I can bring this truly astounding news to Wolf.
This time, every superlative has earned its use.
I feel reborn, blessed by the hand of goodness. I think of the people of long ago, who lived according to their faith, because faith gives meaning to human life―and now we will know that meaning, too.
There is more. This life, here on earth, is not all there is.
Everything in this little orchard takes on a new beauty. I raise my head to the sky and thank the Light, as Ryder did.
I long to approach Ryder and thank him, too; embrace him. I want to hear, in his own words, what happened on that day in the clearing in the woods. In years to come, people will say, "You know, my dad was there, on the day Ryder Swift walked out of the woods to tell everyone that he'd seen the Light." I wish I had been one of those people, that day in the Beer Hut in Shackers' End. But I must remember why I am here. I have seen all I need to fulfil my task.
And I must not let him see me.
I turn and walk away, quietly, carefully, mindful not to tread on so much as a stray twig until I am out of the Shackers' orchard. Then I hurry. I cannot wait to deliver this miraculous news.
The Light shines on Blackthorn. Long ago, when religion was all-important, there was order in the world. A strict line between right and wrong. Now this order has come back into our lives, through Ryder Swift.
We will be delivered from evil, like the old prayer used to say.
I reach the road back to city, and I run.
I run like the wind, because I bear the most important message in many, many years.
Is it wrong to feel such pride, that I will be the one to deliver it?
"If I seriously thought he was bullshitting I would have just had him evicted," says Wolf. "But I needed to be sure; Parks will still keep an eye on him, but in light of what you saw―"
He trails off, his face suddenly stricken with pain, and presses his hand to his cheek.
"Sir? Is so
mething the matter? Can I help?"
"Just give me a minute."
His voice is slurred.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Those white pills, in the bottle. Over there."
By the time I've poured water, he has composed himself. He leans back on his sofa, his leg made comfortable on a small pouffe.
I feel his smile is forced, in an effort to play down the pain.
"Strange days, eh, Hemsley? The old-worlders worshipped God in all his guises for millennia, after all, and seven billion people can't be wrong!"
I've always appreciated that Wolf is better informed than his father. Falcon was in possession of a street level, intuitive savvy, but Wolf reads a great deal, something I have long admired about him. His mother, to whom he was close, was a bookish type, and more refined than Falcon; I doubt she would have been attracted by him if not for his status.
"You make a good point, sir."
"Well, as I was saying to Ryder, if a heavenly guide exists, it follows that he might choose now, when everything is up shit creek, to make his reappearance."
It happens again. He jolts up, holding the supported leg, his face contorted in pain.
"Fuck. Shit. That bottle. There."
I dart over to the shelf, and hand him the small bottle of cloudy liquid; he downs half of it, wipes his mouth with his hand, sighs, and rests his head back. After a few moments, the pain appears to subside.
"Please, let me help―"
"You just did; you passed my meds." His face is drawn, and he shuts his eyes.
"But―I'm sorry, Mr North, if I'm speaking out of turn―if I knew what was wrong with you, I'd be better equipped―"
"Yeah." His sigh is deep, and long-suffering. "You're right. It's time you knew." He pulls himself into a sitting position. "I have a disease called multiple sclerosis, commonly known as MS―I actually hadn't heard of it until the doc told me what was wrong with me."
"It's an autoimmune condition affecting the brain and spinal cord―"
He gives me a 'look', not unamused. "Trust you to bloody know, eh? I was diagnosed a few months back. Which is why I haven't been out and about so much; it's important that the people don't get wind, because it doesn't do for a North to be seen as weak. Which I am, now, and will carry on being so, getting progressively worse until I'm a drooling cripple, except that isn't going to happen because I'd rather be dead than live my life depending on people like you to care for me. No offence."
