by Terry Tyler
Makes you realise why everyone said, 'Yeah, right,' to the old god during the Fall.
What's happened is that his dad's lost his job for turning up drunk once too often. Jay went to his foreman and pleaded for him, but there's no chance, even if Brook never drank another drop in his life, 'cause they've given his job to this young fella from Boltwick. So now it's up to Jay to pay the rent on that shitty hovel, and feed them both, and Brook hassles him for drink money.
Jay's asked for extra cleaning work, but there's nowt, 'cause they've given all that to the outliers, too. I try to take extra when they bring the breakfast and lunch rolls round, and sneak them out in my coat pockets to give to him; I've nicked the odd pasty and pie, too. Dawn's supervisors count them when they go in and out of the oven, so I have to make an extra one and sneak it onto the tray after they've done the count.
The other day I took my bag of swag round after dark, sauntering along, dead casual, 'cause I didn't want to look like I was doing owt wrong; you get paranoid when you're thieving.
It was dead quiet, and there aren't so many waylights once you get past Midshacks. I bet some of them up the city centre don't even know Stinky Bottom exists. Probably think the fairies make their shit disappear in a puff of angel dust.
Every time I visit Jay's shack I get a shock when I walk in, and this time was worse than most. His dad was lying on his mattress, drowsing; now and again a big throaty snore would shatter our ears.
Jay was on his knees, cleaning out their stove in the lamplight, so it was bloody freezing in there. Mum's given him an old rug, so at least the floor looked a bit better, and he does sweep round it, but the roof's just old boards, nailed across, and depending on where I stood I could feel the draught.
He looked round and grinned at me, like he always does. "Food! You're a star, Evie, ta!" Then he carried on sweeping out the ashes.
"Shall I put this stuff in the cupboard, then?"
"Yeah, please!" He's always so cheery, but this time I could hear the effort it took to stay that way.
I opened the cupboard door. There was nothing in it but an old jar with the scrapings of pickle.
"You eaten today?"
He bounced up, and started shoving logs into the stove.
"Yeah, some of the stall holders took pity on me."
I don't know if I believed him or not; when I started unloading my haul into the cupboard, he dived on it.
"Bloody hell, this is lush," he said, crumbs round his mouth from the roll that'd been squashed in my pocket since lunch time.
I got out milk and apples. "D'you want one of these?"
He glanced over at Brook, lying on his back with his mouth open. "Careful; if he sees I've got apples he'll want them for cider."
He shoved them down the side of his mattress.
"Are you still giving him money for drink?"
"Aye." His cheeks bulged with cheese pasty; he was taking a bite of this, a bite of that, like he couldn't get it all into his gob fast enough.
"You promise me you'll always pay the rent first?"
"Course."
If he can't, they'll be chucked out. Out of the city. In the winter. If you can't pay your rent and you've got no friends or family to take you in permanently, you're gone. I've seen it before, people trying to hide the fact that they're homeless by staying at one friend's for a night or two, then another's, or kipping down in the back doorways of the market and the bakeries, but someone always dobs them in. Usually the stuck-up bastards like Thora and her mum. Of course I'd let Jay live with us, but no one's going to take in a smelly old pisshead like Brook. If they got thrown out of the city he wouldn't last a week.
Which might be a good thing all round, but obviously I can't say so to Jay.
Jay told me that he's stepped up his stealing from stalls, when he's cleaning round them after the market's shut. Like, bottled fruit and packs of biscuits. I'm scared stiff he's going to get caught.
On the bright side, if he ended up in the jail block for a couple of weeks, he'd get fed.
Ryder should ask the governor to set something up so that people in need will be looked after, but will Wolfie care? I reckon he's just helping the outliers 'cause it makes him look like Mr Big. He won't give owt to an old drunk and his son from Stinky Bottom.
Jay says getting enough food for each day is a challenge, like playing a game. He says he feels good, and everything's going to work out okay, 'cause he believes in the Light. It's given him hope. He's a hundred per cent sure about it, he says, 'cause Ryder would never lie to us.
It never occurred to me until now, but I think he's got a crush on Ryder, so of course he wants to believe him. I just hope this Light fella remembers to save a bit of good luck for Jay. 'Cause it don't look like he gives a shit right now.
Chapter 12
Byron Lewis V
Everyone has been swept along by Ryder Swift's Light.
At his meetings―the gatherings, as he calls them―shackers, guards, nurses and lieutenants alike have joined the queue to put hand on chest and accept.
Wolf North has been present at each one, and was the first to demonstrate his faith.
I hear the whispers:
If it's good enough for our governor, it's good enough for me.
He's atoning for all the bad the Norths have done, over the years.
The governor has private talks with Ryder, you know; he's his spiritual advisor.
It's what's been missing from our world since The Fall. The governor can see that.
But we only have one person's word for any of it.
At least four people have told me the story about Lieutenant Hemsley seeing Ryder talking to the Light when he thought he was alone; it floats around Blackthorn, impressing even the cynics―but all it proves is that Swift believes the Light to be delivering messages to him, not that it actually is.
Why can't anyone else see this?
Wolf North tells us that religions are built on faith.
I don't have that faith, though. I keep thinking it could just be bullshit.
I don't say anything; to do so would draw attention to me.
The weather grows colder, but people sing as they work, and smile at each other as they pass; it's like they've all been hit on the head with a happy stick. Work on the church speeds along in Ryder's absence. Some of the remaining residents of Boltwick have traded their independence for regular work on this great edifice, three meals a day, and a mattress in the huts. They had to accept the Light first; an empty stomach can be very persuasive, I guess.
All over Blackthorn, men and women talk excitedly about Ryder's return; it's been two weeks, then three, nearly four, surely he must be back soon? Some are getting worried; has he met with danger? Did the Light fail him, after all?
"I bloody hope not, seeing as we're building this bloody church for him," said Darius Fletcher, but then he put his hand to his heart, as if scared the Light might strike him down.
Yes, even Darius has been drawn in.
I couldn't help but express my surprise.
"Ah, it was when Ryder turned down that place in Thorn Lodge, that was what convinced me," he said. "Previous, I thought he'd made it up for his own ends, but this proves it, don't it? And for a soft twat, he ain't a bad bloke." He nodded to himself, apparently contemplating this. "It makes sense, 'n' all, don't it? That the gods would think, 'sod you, then', when all them old-worlders fucked up, before the Fall, and let 'em all die. But now this Light geezer's come back to give us another chance, 'cause he knows we're ready."
Everyone is keen to tell of their 'moment'―what it was that made them believe. They sit in groups in the Beer Hut and the New Market Tavern and share them, joyous smiles on their faces. I almost envy them.
A trend has begun: when two people meet, they no longer slap each other on the back, shake hands, do a fist bump or a high five. Instead, they put hand to heart, then join palms with the other person and say, "Live in the Light."
I've been told
it symbolises the transference of the Light in your heart to the other. I've no idea who started it. Not everyone joins in; the other day, as Astra joined me on Lookout 9, she said, "I don't do that chest-hand shit, by the way."
She's one of the minority who, like me, hasn't taken the oath.
Some look at you as though you're a demon worshipper from the depths of Despair if you don't respond to the new greeting.
How swiftly such prejudices are created, and how easily they grow.
All the more reason to keep myself to myself.
Apart from going to see Indra.
I don't know why I'm still checking up on her. She has still not thanked me for saving her from starvation in the ruins of Mulgrave. I admit that this rankles; maybe I'm waiting for her to do so.
Lately, even if I drop by quite late into the evening, she is rarely to be found.
Usually I just go on my way, but a couple of nights ago I accepted Pansy's offer of a drink.
"Where does she go, at this time of night?"
She and Lily glanced at each other then looked away.
"Come on, tell me. I don't want her to get evicted, if she's doing something she shouldn't―"
"She's that, alright," said Pansy, "but it's nothing that would get her slung out."
"Still don't make it right, though," said Lily, with a sniff.
Didn't take long to get it out of them, because they were dying to tell me.
Indra is screwing a second lieutenant called Jasper. A married second lieutenant. The wife already suspects, and has been round to their flat creating a disturbance.
"We just want to live a quiet life here," said Pansy. "We've had her foisted on us, and now we have to deal with that rubbish."
"And it's not just that," said Lily.
"What else, then?"
"Oh, I don't know―it's just, well, you know―the Light. 'Cause it's all about being good to people, isn't it? And not doing stuff that you know is bad karma." She glanced at Pansy, for back-up. "I totally accept the Light, and Indra says she does, too, but if she's shagging a married bloke, it makes us look bad." She shrugged, pink in the face. "You know. 'Cause we live with her."
"And Ryder might think we're cool with it," put in Pansy.
"I doubt that." What I meant was, I doubt he either knows or cares.
"Yes, but people might assume we're slags, too, because we live with her."
"I get that; people can be very small-minded." As the pair of them have just demonstrated. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, though."
"Can you talk to Haystack and see if she can be moved?" asked Pansy.
I said I'd look into it.
I don't need this.
That's the trouble with getting involved with people.
I just want a quiet life, too.
I'm on the early shift on Lookout 11 in this quiet November dawn. The air is misty and drizzly, and there is little to see. I watch a pair of travellers walk past, packs on their backs. They're smiling and well wrapped up; as they pass, one of them catches my eye and shouts, "Up yours, Blackthorn―we're going to Lindisfarne!"
Good for them. I laugh and give them a thumbs up; they look surprised.
I have to stop myself calling out to ask if I can go with them. Lindisfarne is a tidal island, a community that takes in those in genuine need. Trouble is that it's so far north; those two lads have a long, cold journey ahead. I watch them for a while, until they disappear into the mist.
Chase appears at my side to start his shift, and gives me the chest-palm; I let him do so, much though it pains me.
"Not many out and about today," he says, gesturing down the wall to South Gate. Indeed, the refugees have slowed to a trickle.
We talk of this and that. Chase spies a girl who works at the bakery who, he says, fancies him; he shouts at her to bring us some scones when they come out of the oven. We chuck down our chips, and are rewarded handsomely. Nothing like a bag of cheese scones, still warm and dripping in butter, to shut out the November cold.
Just a normal day then, until around noon, by which time I'm so bored I think I might fall asleep standing up and tumble over the wall to my death, or at least a broken ankle. I'm stirred out of my torpor, though, by a sudden increase in the noise level down by South Gate.
"What’s going on?" Chase asks, leaning over to look down the wall. A grin spreads over his face. "Hey―Ryder's back!"
Those two words that everyone except me is longing for.
In spite of myself, I want to go see. Chase looks pissed off when I tell him he will have to man the lookout alone, but he's the traveller and I'm the Blackthornian, so my word is law; well, there have to be some compensations for living under the mighty fist of the Norths rather than roaming the country, wild and free.
As I approach South Gate, Ryder Swift is being welcomed with tears and hugs; he looks tired and dirty and has lost weight, but he's all smiles and, I notice, doing the chest-palm; surely that started after he left? He's quick to catch on.
All part of his charm, I guess.
I can't help wondering if he stayed away so long to make people start to worry, thus making his return more of an event. His hair has grown in his four weeks away, he sports a full beard and has acquired a grimy blanket, a hole ripped through to make a poncho.
"Don't get too close to me, I must stink!" he says, accepting another hug from an ecstatic woman, despite this warning. Someone shouts out to fetch a wagon; he spots me, and gives me a wave.
"Byron! Great to see you! Oh―"
He falters, staggering back, and about thirty people leap forward to steady him.
"Sorry―I'm just a bit weak, I think." But still he smiles, brave trooper that he is.
"Should he go to see the governor?" one man asks. "Someone, get Lieutenant Hemsley! He can take him."
"Not just yet, please. No, please." He calls out to stop the surge of people combing the vicinity for Hemsley. "Can I just go home, first? To Star and Joe's? I've got to wash before I see anyone!"
A wagon approaches, a boy leading the horse.
I step forward. "I'll take him."
Star is still at the cow shed when we get there; Joe, who grooms the horses once his knocking duties are finished, but is off with a sprained wrist, opens the door to their tidy Logside shack.
Am I wrong, or do I detect a flash of disappointment in his welcoming half-smile?
I don't blame him. If I had a pretty wife, I wouldn't want the golden-haired voice of the gods kipping down in my living room.
"Maybe we can get Haystack to find you your own place," I say. I help Joe unfold Ryder's mattress while Ryder recovers his strength on a stool.
"Yes, we should. Don't worry, I know I'm about to outstay my welcome, if I haven't already. When you're a traveller you get a nose for these things."
Joe doesn't object. Having flung quilt and pillows onto the bed, he sniffs and says, "So, how you been?"
Ryder stands up, and clasps Joe's good hand. "I've got so much to tell you, and everyone else, but please, first, can I eat something then sleep for a few hours?"
"Sure." Joe shrugs his shoulders. "I'll get out your way."
"Thank you, so much." He turns, giving me the full benefit of his saintly aura. "Byron, can I impose on your good nature once more?"
"Sure." I sound as enthusiastic as Joe.
"I've got so much to tell everyone, not least of all Wolf, but what I'd really love is to spend this evening with just my close friends, who've done so much for me―Star and Joe, Evie and her family, Jay, Chase, Raven, Astra, Laurel―can I ask you to gather them together this evening? So I can talk to you all before I face the masses?" He turns to Joe. "Would it be okay if we did this here?"
Poor old Joe; he can hardly say no, can he?
"Don't see why not."
"Thank you, so much―and could that include Darius? And, Byron, the group would not be complete if you didn't join us, too!"
I don't know what I've done to deserve t
his honour, but I agree to my task and leave them to it.
The lamps are lit, and Star has made their little living room as warm and cosy as any flat in the blocks. Drinking her mint tea and eating her oat biscuits, leaning against one of her huge, plump cushions, I feel good and relaxed. Chase produces weed, and the pipe does the rounds―evidently the Light doesn't mind his disciples getting pleasantly stoned. My mind wanders off in odd directions and I fantasise that we are Norsemen of old, sitting by the fire as we tell tales of Ragnarök.
I wonder if the Light has any more basis in reality than Thor and Odin.
Could it be that Ryder has judged us perfectly, hitting us at a time when so many feel insecure? Understanding that your average man and woman need more than the belief that their dead relatives inhabit trees? Did he see that all of us, even Wolf North, need hope for the future?
If he is lying, he has honed the fiction well. His thinner face gives truth to his stories of hardship outside the walls, and with his longer hair and beard he looks like every picture I've ever seen of Jesus Christ. He has scratches and bruises, the badges of scuffles with wild animals. Bandits attacked him, and might have killed him for his clothes and the contents of his pockets, or just for the hell of it, had a hole in the ground not appeared at just the right time.
"What, by magic?" asks Laurel, breathy and in awe.
Ryder throws back his head and laughs, showing the sharp angles of his chin.
"No, no, sweetheart, nothing that amazing! I was diving between trees to escape them, and I saw it, in the moonlight; I jumped in quickly, pulled some branches over, and they ran right past."
"But the moonlight," says Star. "I bet it was him, looking after you."
"Could be. I prefer not to be fanciful; all I know is that there was a hole, and I saw it. Maybe I was guided there, maybe it was just coincidence."
Evie's mum says, "So did you―I don't know how to put it―did you feel closer to the Light, out there?"
