He laughed and poured a generous helping of spirits into each of the cups.
“I collared the boy in the town and gave him three bags of boiled sweets and he let me in through the front door. The Binder wasn't impressed.”
She shook her head, laughing as she stroked the cover of the book before easing it open. There, on the first pages, were the carefully handwritten words of Alan Harding, beginning with the dates and times of the world before the disaster, before the end of one people and the beginning of the new. She turned the pages slowly, feeling the soft paper between her fingertips as maps and diagrams passed before her along with table after table of names and places and times. It was like looking through a window directly into the living room of the past. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before, or since.
“It's everything myself and the Binder could remember. He was an old man when I met him and he'd waited out the whole disaster inside that little lighthouse. We spent an entire summer recording it all and in the end he was the one to bind the volumes that you have in front of you.”
“They're amazing,” she said. “But what are all these names?”
“They're people who we knew but who are now dead. We recorded as many as we could remember. There are maps and drawings of things, bits and pieces of memories that may or may not be useful one day.”
She closed the book and passed it back to him.
“Four books of history,” she said, taking a sip of the spirit. It burned all the way down and warmed her throat.
“Two,” he said. “The other two are blank. I don't know how much more is ahead of me so I had the Binder make up a couple more.”
Sarah looked at them sitting there and felt the overwhelming desire to snatch them and run, to escape to her favourite reading chair and pour over them until the morning came like she'd done so many times before. Here was history, here was the reason the world was the way it was and here was the man who'd seen it all himself. She longed to dive headfirst into the ink and be absorbed by it, stained forever by its mark.
“The story of the deer,” she said, pouring another cup. He laughed.
“It would have made a nice tale, wouldn't it?” he said. “But it wouldn't have been the truth. That's the price a good story has to pay once in a while.”
“And sometimes we pay it in full, don't we?” she laughed. “I've been reading stories all my life, always immersed in some magical tale or another, trying not to think too hard about the one I'm in. I think I'm quite surprised to see you reading one of your own.” She gestured towards the paperback by the candle.
“This?” he said, picking it up. “I've always read. Before, during and after the disaster. It's become my only link to the past now. I can read about 'automobiles' and food from the supermarket, other little humdrum things that might never come back again.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Some days I do. Others I don't. It was different in ways that were very subtle, almost unnoticeable and you had to be sharp to realise it. Most people weren't. When the end came, I guess a lot of them died because they couldn't imagine a world where there wasn't a status to be updated or a picture to upload. No one made a Vlog of the disaster or posted a photo of the eclipse.”
“I think I understand,” she said. “I just can't picture myself there.”
“That's a good thing I reckon.”
She looked down at her glass and felt the usual sense of panic that came with being submerged by large crowds.
“Look, I'm sorry for how I acted. I was out of line so I'd like to make it up to you. Come back and have a glass or two at our place. The spare rooms are much better than the flea-ridden beds they must have here.”
“That's a tempting offer,” he laughed. “I'll have to see that library though.”
“Sounds like a fair deal to me.”
They rode back together once the bottle was empty and when they reached the stables of her home Sarah realised that it was much later than she'd first thought. Lou was asleep in the groundsman's cottage and there wasn't a single candle lit in the main house.
“Papa must have gone to sleep,” she whispered as they went in through the front door. “See if you can get the hearth going and I'll make some tea.”
They crept inside and Sarah noticed that the boy was missing from the spare room. As Alan set to work on the fire, she slipped off her boots and went upstairs. The door to her father's bedroom was open and there, under a fortress made from boxes and blankets, was Tyler. Her Papa was asleep in a chair with an open book rising and falling on his chest.
She left them alone, gently closing the door behind her as she went back downstairs and into the kitchen. Alan had the fire going and was feeding kindling into the small flames.
“Would you prefer coffee?” she asked.
“Tea will be fine,” he replied.
She filled a kettle with water and handed it to him to hang over the fire. Then she found two of her largest clay mugs and a teapot and set them both on a tray, carrying them into the living room with her precious jar of tea leaves. It'd be a while before the water was ready and so she took one of the blankets off of her own bed and wrapped herself in it, settling down in her favourite reading chair while the fire grew.
“See,” she said. “Much better than Sidney's place.”
“I'll agree so far.”
“Here, as promised. Follow me.”
She got up, excited to show him one of her favourite rooms in the entire house. It was on the ground floor, not far from her own bedroom and it was protected by a thick, ancient looking door of black oak fixed with steel hinges and archaic locks.
“We leave it open,” she explained as she pushed against the door. “Not many book thieves in these parts.”
“Oh I don't know,” he grinned. “I'm prone to a little myself.”
“Steal one of my books and I'll break your arms.”
“I do believe you would.”
She led him inside, lighting the one solitary candle just near the door and its faint glow managed to illuminate the first shelves leaving the rest in shadow. Alan stepped inside and took a long, deep breath and smiled.
“This is a special place,” he said. “I can smell it.”
“The shelves and some of the older books were already here when we moved in,” she explained. “The rest we added ourselves.”
“It's amazing.”
The kettle began to whistle and she realised that she was fascinated by his fascination. It was like looking at her own soul reflected back at her in a paperbacked mirror. Time had no meaning here. Time was marked by the turn of the page, that is to say, by the reader alone who became master of the world in which he or she read. Whatever happened only came about because the reader brought it into life and it was a kind of power that few people realised came from words on a page and a power which few people dared to wield.
“Erm...” he stammered. “The tea?”
“Oh yes,” she fumbled. “The tea.”
They went back into the living room and she carefully closed the door to the library behind her, blowing out the candle as she did so. Alan returned to the fire, looking slightly dazed. He sat down on the floor with Moll at his side, ready to add some of the bigger logs to the flames when the time was ready. She noticed then that he'd brought his saddlebags into the house with him and left them near the door, including the strangely shaped NSU rifle.
“How did you come across that?” she asked, pointing to the weapon.
“That was a few years after the radiation cloud swept through the country. When the disaster came, most people withdrew to their little groups, desperate to survive. No one really thought about what was happening abroad. Then one day I heard that a detachment of NSU troops had landed on the northeast coast and some of us rode up to investigate.”
“NSU - that's the Russians, isn't it?”
“Was the Russians. They're long gone now. The ones that landed told us how a civil war had ravaged the country
, how the government had turned against the surviving population just after the disaster and tried to rule over them from underground bunkers. It failed. The only thing these soldiers had heard before sailing here was that the last fortress had been overrun and the few politicians left had been slaughtered.”
“So they fled here? Why?”
“Old ties. Long before the darkness came there'd been a plague, a bio-weapon of sorts that neither the Russians nor the Americans ever took responsibility for openly. This country was crippled and it was the Russians who came in and rebuilt it, installing solar collectors on top of the old power plants and bringing back the refugees.” He laughed. “You realise that having a few drinks has turned into a history lesson now?”
“I don't mind,” she said, smiling. “I've read a lot about these places but I've never considered them to be 'real' before, kind of like reading about some magical land you can only get to through a tunnel. It seems like this country has been through hell though.”
“I think that from the bombing of England, to the plague and the year of darkness was about one hundred years. You'd be surprised how much can happen and how things can change.”
“You're telling me. What happened to them?”
“The Russians? They burned their uniforms and settled in the far north, beyond the border. I never heard from them again. As a reward for helping them they gave me that rifle. It's Russian made and so it can withstand a heck of a lot and still fire. I don't have many rounds left for it now though, not on me at least.”
“No one does,” she said, sinking into her chair even deeper. The alcohol was doing its work and she felt groggy and ready for bed.
“That's true. I've a few caches left, but seeing as though the knowledge has gone to make more I don't think they'll see another hundred years.”
“That's probably a good thing.”
They stared at the flames, lost in their own thoughts and happy with the silence. Alan lifted the kettle off the hook and poured hot water into the teapot along with some of the leaves from the jar. She watched him stir it a few times before putting the lid on.
“Good. You didn't murder the leaves,” she said, grinning.
“A few minutes more,” he replied, sitting on the couch. “You don't take it with milk?”
She shook her head. They waited. He poured two cups and passed her one.
“Thank you,” she said. He sat back down. The fire crackled away and its warmth floated across the room, warming her toes inside her socks and making her face feel hot. The drink, the company, the fire, it all served to help her doze in her chair, occasionally looking at the stranger on the couch, wondering if after all he was telling the truth.
“Sleep if you like,” he said with a softness to his words that was thick and sweet like honey. “I'll watch the fire.”
She nodded and let her eyes close, curling up a little more as the warmth enveloped her. She had enough strength left to finish her tea and put the cup down on the table before her head began to lean into the cushion behind her.
“Tell me about before,” she mumbled. “Tell me what it was like.”
He began to speak but the words were like warm summer air, brushing over her skin like a lover's touch. Her lips parted, her breathing slowed and for the first time in her life she felt safe enough to drift away into a dreamless slumber.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She was woken hours later by a thunderous knock on the front door. Her eyes opened and she saw that the fire was still burning but the daylight sun was streaming in through the kitchen windows. Alan was sat on the couch with a book in his hand, but on hearing the knock he began to get up.
“I'll get it,” she said, alert and suddenly overcome with an irrational dread. Sliding back the bolts, she opened the door and there was Gail's father and mother with tears in their eyes and a haunted look in their faces. “What's happened?” she asked.
“Gail didn't come home last night,” said her father. “Is she here?”
“No, she's not. When did you last see her?”
“At Hooper's market. We thought that maybe she'd spent the day with you but when she didn't come home or send word to us, we began to worry.”
“I've not seen her at all,” said Sarah with a rising fear in her heart. “Have you asked around?”
“We were about to head over to the pub to see if anyone saw her or knows where she might be.”
“I'll go,” she insisted. “I'll look for her.”
“Thank you,” said her mother. “We're dreadfully worried for her. She's never done anything like this before.”
Suddenly Alan was standing behind her and he was just slipping on his coat.
“Ever?” he asked. Shocked at the sight of him, Gail's parents seemed stunned until he repeated the question.
“Never,” said her father. “She's always very considerate of us. She knows we worry.”
“We should go immediately,” he said to Sarah, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to steer her back inside. “Now.”
“What's wrong?” they asked him.
“We'll look for her,” he replied. “It might be best if you talk to Hooper while we visit Sidney.”
“Are you sure?” said Gail's mother.
“I'm sure,” he replied. “We shouldn't lose a moment.”
They both said goodbye and walked away as Sarah closed the door behind them. She turned and saw that he was preparing to leave. Moll was beside him, her ears pricked upwards and her back stiff.
“What do you think-” she began but he cut her short.
“I need to get ready. Tell your Papa I’m going away for a few days and ask him if he wouldn’t mind seeing to Tyler in my absence.”
“Wait a minute – you’re not going anywhere without me. Gail’s my friend, if she’s in trouble then-”
Alan shook his head.
“It’s too dangerous. I’ll bring her back, just wait here.”
“Like hell I will!” she cried. “I’m not some kitchen slave you can dismiss like that. If you’re going after her then I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.”
“Then you’d better be able to handle yourself.”
“You leave that to me,” she snapped. “You just look after yourself. I’m no stranger to defending myself. But why would you-” She gasped and she suddenly realised why he was dashing around her living room, gathering his things. “You think the Slavers have taken her, don't you?”
“I do,” he replied. “If we hurry we'll be able to pick up their trail. If we wait too long it'll go cold; they'll disappear and you'll never find her again.”
Sarah nodded and, shaking her head a little to try and wake up, she went for her boots and began putting them on. While they were both getting ready, they heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Sarah?” called her Papa. “What's the matter?”
“It's Gail,” she explained. “They've taken her. We think it's the Slavers from Hooper's Market yesterday. She hasn't been seen since then.”
“And you're going after them?”
“Yes,” said Alan, checking the contents of his saddlebags. “I'll leave the letter for you to send on to Tyler's family; we may be a few days. In the meantime, will you look after him until either we or they return?”
“Of course,” said David. “Waste no more time and take what you need from the pantry.”
“Thank you,” he replied, taking a small bag of jangling, clanking metal from his kit. “Have this - it'll cover Tyler's care until we get back.” He threw it to David who caught it, feeling its weight.
“There's too much here,” he cried.
“Then fill the pantry for us; we'll be hungry when we get back.”
“Of course,” he smiled with understanding. Then, offering Alan his aged hand, he said, “It never ends, does it?”
They shook and Alan grinned. “No, my old friend. It doesn't. Not for us, anyway.”
Within the hour they were thundering down the road, their eyes
streaming with tears from the cold wind that blew in from the east, never relenting in their pace until they arrived at the lonely pub by the roadside. All the way there, Sarah felt a gnawing fear in her heart that she tried her best to subdue with feeble results. They'd taken Gail, she was certain of it and the more she thought about it, the more she saw the face of that sweet innocent friend who'd met her every mail-day morning with a sandwich and a cup of hot coffee for her journey. She could see the faces of the slavers too, the leers of men familiar with taking what they wanted regardless of who they took it from. She was terrified for her and somewhere else, somewhere deep within those dark parts of everyone's soul, she felt responsible for not noticing her absence sooner.
“Someone must have seen them leave,” she said, leaping down from Ziggy and tying the reins to the post.
“I hope so,” he replied. “If not we'll have to find them the difficult, old fashioned way.”
Alan was behind her and together they went inside, glad for a moment to be out of the cold. The place was almost as busy as it was at night. The people of Pine Lodge often came there for breakfast, especially those who offered themselves for labour each day to any number of farmers or hunters, depending on the season and the crop. When the door blew shut behind them, the patrons all turned in their seats to see who'd arrived.
“Gail is missing,” cried Sarah. “Has anyone seen her?”
Most shook their heads but all looked stunned and instantly began whispering the name 'Slavers'.
“When was she last seen?” called Sidney from behind the bar.
“After the market,” replied Alan.
More mutterings and whispered words.
“We're going after them, we're going after the Slavers,” she said. “You'd better check your homes and your family, anyone who you haven't seen today. She might not be the only person missing.”
“You can't be serious?” shouted someone from the back.
“We can and we are,” said Alan. “You don't realise who you're dealing with.”
Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3) Page 6