by Pete Bevan
“Jump in ten… nine… eight… seven… wormhole power at one hundred per cent… five… four… Quantum wave initiation complete in… two… one… fireeeeeeeeee.”
For a moment the Scientist’s perception of time stood still and he thought that the wave had failed. Then, with a scream, his vision turned to grey and the pod disappeared around him. His entire nervous system turned to liquid fire and yet, for some reason, all he could think about was a large mahogany hat stand. Finally, the thought left him to be replaced with screaming pain and finally he realised it wasn’t him screaming. It was something else. The scream was inhuman and quickly he realised it was playing in reverse, like the video being rewound. It lowered to a bass rumble as the LAX coalesced around him. Finally, there was a pop as he re-entered the time stream and heard the screams, exactly as they had been on the video, but in glorious stereo.
He had appeared in the wrong place. He was far on the other side of the concourse as he saw himself dive for the vial. He shoved an old woman to the ground and started sprinting toward the vial as it skidded across the floor.
The scientist appeared in between the terrorist and himself and the FBI agents. He reached down to catch the vial but it hit his hand at speed and flicked up into the air past his astonished face. It tumbled up and over a waiting area, over the empty seats.
The scientist appeared in between the rows of seats and sprinted towards the tumbling vial. He leapt up onto the plastic seats and dived for it, missing it by scant millimetres. It tumbled on.
The scientist appeared in the darkened concourse. The room was empty and the main lights off. He looked at the clock on the wall. He realised he was several hours early.
The Scientist appeared behind the seats as he saw himself grasping mid air to catch the tumbling vial. He realised with horror that we wouldn’t make the distance in time to stop it shattering on the tiled floor.
The scientist appeared looking down at the shattered vial. He heard the moans and looked up in horror as the assembled ranks of bloody commuters, FBI agents and scientists turned as one towards him with a low moan.
“Fuck,” he said quietly to himself.
The scientist appeared behind the seats. The vial tumbled over his head. He leapt straight out ,anticipating its trajectory, arm outstretched and watched as it rotated towards his hand. He skidded across the cool tiled floor on his belly. In slow motion the vial fell and contacted his hand, straight into his palm. Still sliding, he closed his hand around it, safe and secure. Around him the massed group of scientists jumped for joy in the air, shouting and whooping, while the FBI agents and commuters looked on amazed at the group of remarkably similar looking scientists that had appeared before them.
The Scientist appeared above the Scientist clutching the vial to his chest. The standing Scientist looked down at the prone Scientist smiling. “Don’t clutch it too tightly my friend,” he said calmly. The prone version of himself opened his hand and passed the small vial up to the standing figure. He took it gingerly and placed it inside a small aluminium box that he had brought with him.
Then there was a popping sound like balloons that all popped simultaneously, as each Scientist disappeared, time fixing itself.
The Scientist walked over to the seats and placed the aluminium carry case gently on the seat beside him. He then slumped in the chair and started to giggle. The giggle turned into a laugh and as he howled, with tears running down his face, the FBI agents and commuters looked on with utter bemusement.
The Teller’s Apprentice
Thomas lay back, sucking on a long piece of grass that he manipulated in slow circles as he chewed. He lay in a nook on the dry stone wall, with his feet up and his back cushioned by a thick layer of moss that had dried over the summer months to form a comfortable seat. His hands were crossed behind his head and he kept a scant eye on the sheep around him. With lazy torpor, his eyes formed slits as sleep nibbled at him. The day had been warm and the breeze cool so he let out a long sigh and closed his eyes for a second. The late afternoon sun was getting ready to dip behind the distant olive and ochre hills. Soon he would have to work the sheep back to the village from their summer pasture before it got dark. For the moment he let the warmth flow over his form, and smelt the honeysuckle and heather that grew close behind over the decayed wall. One of the sheep came close, knowing the time of day, and Thomas opened one eye and stared at it. “Not yet. Just a little longer,” he muttered to its quizzical face.
Over on the distant tree line a small flock of starlings rose quickly to the sky as if disturbed and Thomas looked to see what had made the commotion. From the trees emerged a tall figure. Its silhouette was dark against the sunlit trees. Its walk was purposeful and steady yet ungainly, as if one hip sat forward from the other making the figure do a kind of half-limp shamble. Thomas opened his eyes fully, and shielded them from the sun as he sat up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes then looked again as the figure, still far across the pasture, moved inexorably toward him.
In the distance he saw it wore a long coat of leather, and a wide brimmed hat. Could it be a horror or one of the monsters of old? Thomas stared intently trying to make it out. Then he saw a single glint from the rod on its back and the cross of the hilt. Thomas’ heart raced. Could it be? Finally he saw the light reflect from the figure’s black glass eyes and that sealed it.
The boy Thomas leapt from the wall and sprinted towards the village as clumps of dried moss fell from his back. He pounded his legs for all his worth and as his heart thumped and lungs hurt from sprinting so hard, yet still he found the breath to bellow, “The Teller is coming! The Teller is coming!”
By the time the Teller had rounded up Thomas’ forgotten sheep and manoeuvred them slowly down to the paddock outside the village, it was dark. The villagers huddled together, in hushed, rippling excitement as they watched him latch the gate with his long gloved hand. He turned towards them and they saw, in the torchlight that illuminates the stone houses, the fire’s reflection in his black glass eyes. His face was covered in strips of leather and cloth. The wide brimmed hat, of a fashion a few years back, sat atop his thin head. He wore a long coat of leather and patches of dark stitched cloth covered him. The thin, dark, trousers were mended in the same fashion down his stick legs to his leather boots, which, although scuffed, looked considerably newer than the rest of his attire. The whole apparel gave him the look of a scarecrow. In fact it was tradition in some parts to fashion scarecrows in his image and it was said he found it amusing.
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.