- Alistair

Ryan had woken from his nap and sat in the chapel pondering.  From his studies he had learned a little of the world, and that little was much more than anyone else here seemed to care for.  The other Readers were old and tired and readying themselves for The Well, an event that would allow the next generation to fill their shoes.  It was the way of things, it seemed, and Ryan struggled to understand why.  The older readers were no help with his enquiries.  They just nodded and smiled at each other as if revelling in some private joke.

The Reverend was through in the back of the sanctuary, no doubt finalizing his preparations for the ceremony to come.  Heterozygous didn’t have much to do with it but the chapel was the place where they always held the Eleventh Ceremony.  He used to spend time preaching the Word of the Maker, but his role had been reduced to giving a simple blessing.  The Elders had no time for his religion any more.

Attendance in the chapel had dwindled away and Heterozygous had plenty of time on his hands.  That wouldn’t have bothered Ryan whose future path as Reader would be time spent with his nose in a book for the most part.  But for someone who came here to minister to the village Ryan couldn’t understand how the Reverend could cope with it.  Ryan knew that he made a daily effort to meet with each villager when they had the time and that they humoured him.  But for Ryan it was no way to live a life.

He could understand why no-one bothered with the faith.  To Ryan it was little more than words and well-meaning platitudes and although no-one was crass enough to say it aloud he was sure that everyone felt the same.

There was so much he didn’t understand and that frustrated him.

‘Ah, you’re up,’ said the Reverend, coming out of his study with a robe similar to his own over his shoulder.  ‘Good for you.’

‘Is it time?’ Ryan asked.

‘Almost,’ replied Heterozygous.  ‘Within the hour.’

‘Right,’ said Ryan softly.  Heterozygous approached him and regarded him curiously.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked kindly.  ‘You’re having last minute concerns?  It would be only natural.’  He shook the robe off his shoulder and held it next to Ryan.  ‘A bit big but no-one will notice,’ he said to himself gently before looking back to Ryan.  ‘You’re a quiet one, Ryan, but I know you’re worried in there,’ he said as he tapped the boy on the forehead.

‘What do you know about the Railman?’ asked Ryan, the question bursting out before he had a chance to stop it.

‘Hmm,’ mused Heterozygous, not surprised at the outburst.  ‘There are secrets I willingly keep and secrets I care not to know.’  He gave Ryan a pointed stare.  ‘And there are secrets you can’t ask for.’  He stood back and sighed.  ‘Sorry, Ryan.  I can’t help you there.  But I’ll let you into this.  If someone arrives for you, Railman or not, I’ll be very surprised.’

‘Why?’

‘I told you,’ said Heterozygous quietly.  ‘I can’t tell you that.  Really, I can’t.’  Ryan regarded him suspiciously while he continued.  ‘Listen, my Order knows all about the Railmen.  If they were in the network again I would know about it.’

‘But why not tell people?’ Ryan cried out.  The Reverend looked around quickly to see if anyone heard but the noise from the docks continued as usual.

‘Because,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘the Order have nothing publicly to say about the Railmen one way or the other.  We can’t commit ourselves to a statement.’

He handed the robe to Ryan who stood in silence with an odd expression, the one he had when he was trying to work something out.

‘What?’ prompted Heterozygous.

‘You said Railmen,’ said Ryan slowly.  ‘There are more than one?’

‘Figure of speech,’ he answered.  ‘The robe goes on.’

Ryan shrugged the rough cloth of the robe over his head and shoulders, smoothed it down and looked up at Heterozygous’ critical gaze.

‘It’s better than I thought, which is just as well.’  He looked up at Ryan.  ‘There’s only the one, so one size has to fit all.’

If it’s tidy enough for early in the week I’ll release it then.

Sorry for the delay.

- Alistair

But the anthology is here on Amazon Uk.

Mwah ha ha ahahahahahahahaha…

*ahem*

Sorry about that. 

Now I have to get the next few scenes of Railman out the way and work on other short stories, see if I can get them closer to publish standard.  (of course, it’ll keep me away from the outstanding housework…)

- Alistair

As usual all comments, criticisms and suggestions are welcome and if you know anyone who might like the story, don’t hesitate to spread the word!

-Alistair

The kitchen in Pascoe Glyn was anything but spartan.  There was a wide range, with hobs, grills and ovens, which although unused were always kept in perfect condition by Gordon, the village’s stalwart cook.  The kitchen was far larger than was required for the current population of the village.  On hooks suspended from the low ceiling were a variety of pots and pans, some never used yet by Gordon in the eight years since his return to the village.  He had insisted on being called a chef when he arrived, much to the amusement of the other villagers and although he was well aware that his contribution to the culinary experience of the world in which he lived was the preparation of the most basic fare, there was only so much he could do with the meagre selection of ingredients available to him.

Recent years had seen the increase in the consumption of soup.  Surely he was better than that?

That morning he was working though the current inventory of goods the village had to hand, trying to create something that was even remotely inventive.  His heavy shoulders sagged as he sighed deeply.  Looks like it would be soup again, he thought, and again for dinner.  It was a shame for the coming of age ceremonies that he didn’t have anything better to offer them.  If he could get his hands on some meat he might try for a nice thick stew but meat was rare.  Pigs were the easiest to get hold of, anything else was a pipe dream.  He remembered once seeing a cow and even tasting milk.  It was this promise of exotic tastes that had inspired his wish to become a chef.

Peru was in in the kitchen with him and was yapping away as he tried in vain to cobble some kind of recipe together on an old notepad.  She hadn’t been well and was going on about it.  He was sympathetic but medical fears made him queasy.  Gordon didn’t want her lingering in the kitchen too long.  He tuned back in to her prattle.

‘…the well,’ she said, ‘but it should be fine.’

‘I’m sorry?’ he grumbled.  He looked around to see Peru leaning against a worktop, idly chewing on a carrot.  She was like a giant in the low-celinged kitchen, tall but now emaciated from her illness.  On the lower levels Peru would walk with a stoop, long used to keeping her head from clashing with door frames.  Her eyes had misted over.  ‘Peru?’ he asked and waved a hand in front of her eyes, ‘are you okay?’

‘Hmm?’ she grumbled.  She blinked rapidly and looked over at Gordon, life returning to her eyes and a sly smile playing over her lips  For a moment her face, framed with greying curls, lit up.’

‘You were saying something about the well.  I drifted away for a moment,’ he admitted.

‘I said, I think it’s time.’

‘Time?’  He ran a hand through his own thinning hair, moving it aside to see Peru easier.  The illness had changed her, it was true and Gordon kicked himself for not paying more attention.

‘For me to go down the well.’  She smiled at him sweetly and looked down at the counter top.  She traced a pattern on the surface with her finger while Gordon fought for something to say.

‘Ah,’ he began hesitantly, ‘I’m sure you have plenty to keep going for.’  Inside he cringed at the glibness of the remark.  ‘I mean, I’m sure things aren’t that bad.’  Again he winced.  ‘What I meant was…’

Peru reached over and rested her hand on his bare arm to stop him.  Her fingers looked skeletal next to his thick arms.

‘It’s okay, Gordon,’ she said softly.  ‘You’ve never been comfortable with this part of the journey.  You’re a sensitive man.  That’s nothing to be ashamed of.’  He looked down at his feet not knowing what else to say.  ‘It’s okay Gordon, your secret is safe with me.’  She patted him on the shoulder and started walking slowly towards the door.

‘You’re not going to do it now?’ he cried in alarm.

‘Of course not, son.  There’ll have to be a ceremony, and you know how they like their ceremonies.’  He rushed after his mother but was blocked by Donovan, the Elder.

‘Gordon,’ he spoke in hushed tones, looking around for eavesdroppers, ‘we need to talk.’

- Alistair

Alice sat patiently in the cab, fixed her harness tightly over her shoulders, and waited for the first trucks of the day to arrive.  The straps cut into her and she cursed again.  The padding for her back, neck and shoulders was still in the docker’s office.  She would get it at her next break.

She preferred to get there just before dawn to perform the usual equipment checks.  A blank panel, framed with lights and switches, sat dormant in front of her.  She ignored them; their use and history had never been explained to her.  Alice tested the crane’s controls.  It performed two full circuits of the dome and she drew it back and forth from the platforms to the silo low on the deck.

She had her daydreams for company at this time of the morning.  The sunlight played through the small but numerous gaps in the far wall of the dome.  Rays reflected off the beams and, as usual, her imagination picked a rail and followed it out the dome and far away.  She had heard conversations around the docks over the years and in her mind the rail led her to glittering cities with spires piercing the cloud cover and reaching up to the infinite.  She saw cities that took days, or weeks, to cross by foot with docks that were hundreds of feet high, managing dozens of rails and just as many cranes.

She leaned back in the cracked and molded plastic of the cabin’s seat with her eyes closed and arms crossed.  She sighed.

In her mind’s eye she saw cargo ships larger than the village and villages that moved from place to place.  She even visualized land, although not knowing anything more than the soil shipments that very occasionally came though, she could only imagine it laid out on wooden boards like a slab.

She dreamed of travelling along a line, hitching a lift with a cargo hauler and just going wherever the line led, all the way to the cities and beyond, even out to the end of the line and seeing what was left.  To look out at skyscape that didn’t have any distractions, or anything to blemish its beauty, was where she always ended up.

Suddenly she was distracted, brought out of her serenity abruptly and back into the cab.  Before her, a solitary light was blinking on the console.  She panicked and froze, her hand close to the console and just for a moment she didn’t know if it was something that she had caused.  Then, after brief seconds had passed, the light blinked out but Alice remained unmoving.

Then the dawn bell rang and it shook her back into life.  She saw the dockers in their office and thought of telling Braddock later.

Yeah, she thought, I’ll tell Braddock.  He always knows what to do.

Feel free to leave a comment, criticism or suggestion.

- Alistair

The morning’s work was underway.  The first of the cargo carriers had arrived bringing the crates and grain; the dockers grappled the heavy goods with their gauntlets, using them to lift many times their own weight, and the crane driver began transferring the grain to the silo.  Braddock stood on the platform beside the carrier talking to the driver, a short man stripped to the waist for the rising heat of the morning.  His torso was deeply tanned from years of riding on top the carrier, with a generous belly hanging over his work belt.  Driving was a well paid (and well fed) but dangerous profession; pirates were known to be rife on the rails.  It was the only time Ryan ever saw someone who was so large.  Village life was spartan for the most part, coin and feed being hoarded to ensure the village’s survival though dark days.  And the last few years had been very dark.  To see someone of a ‘comfortable’ shape was still a curiosity.

Ryan missed the spectacle; he was still fast asleep on the bench in the chapel.  Heterozygous was resting beside him sipping quietly from an old chipped mug filled with coffee.  Normally he wouldn’t risk it.  Anyone could pass by the chapel entrance and smell the bitter, earthy aroma but he was beyond caring.  He knew the heavy penalties for hoarding rare goods but coffee was sacred to him and a risk he was willing to take.  Casually he looked up and saw Alice in the crane’s cab looking down at him.  He guessed she was smiling.  Alice waved and he raised his mug as a greeting.  She was the only person, other than Ryan, who was aware of Heterozygous’ secret coffee habit.  The Reverend didn’t mind; they could both keep a secret and were good company.  He couldn’t ask for more than that.

Beside him Ryan stirred.  Heterozygous guessed the reasons why.  Ryan was a Reader.  Sure, everyone in the village could read and a few enjoyed it more than most but Ryan wasn’t just a reader, he was a Reader.  He would pour over his studies, such as they were in a backwater like Pascoe Glyn, and would sneak back into the classroom after hours and take to his books time and time again until the light was too low to make out the text.  The Elders did nothing to encourage his enthusiasm; if he was a Reader then that was his calling.  There was little they would do to dissuade him.  And the village’s two remaining Readers seemed ancient to Ryan and they didn’t have the eyesight for it like they used to.  It was important to have someone who knew the way of things.  While the Elders maintained the veneer of omniscience, and a thin veneer at that, they relied on the Readers to keep then right on matters of Law, History and anything else that might come under the expertise of the Reader.

Ryan was left to his own devices and Heterozygous did what he could to get the Ministry to send anything that would help broaden Ryan’s perspective.

Reverend Heterozygous stood and stretched.  The morning was advancing and soon it would be time for the Eleven Ceremony traditionally held at noon, rather than eleven o’clock which would have made more sense to Heterozygous, but it would be a while before anyone arrived.  He still had time to think, enjoy his coffee and take in the morning.  Heterozygous was in charge of the village’s spiritual health.  Most settlements over a certain size had a minister sent to them and Pascoe Glyn, although small, was no exception.  The previous minister, so Heterozygous had heard, was of the Fire and Brimstone school but his own technique was more relaxed, much more liberal.  Perhaps, he thought, that was why attendance had dwindled to practically nothing.

He heard a groan and looked down at blue eyes gazing hungrily up at the coffee mug.  Ryan was awake.

Oh, and don’t hesitate to share your thoughts about how/where it’s going.

- Alistair

Breakfast tended to be a simple affair in Pascoe Glyn.  Porridge or toast, that was it.  According to the older villagers, who had an opinion on everything, the breakfast table was once laden with a glorious bounty.  However, villagers of a more realistic mind recalled things differently.  The memory of bacon, eggs and a whole range of ways to enhance toast, most notably jam, often reduced one of the old timers to tears.  Pigs were saved for rare celebrations and chickens were creatures of myth.

Arisia, a recent addition to the adult population of the village, was holding court with a handful of the pre-Elevens.  She had been hoping to catch Ryan’s attention but he was nowhere to be seen in the low ceilinged hall.  She sat at the head of one of the old gnarled tables, on an unbalanced stool, and squinted at her audience in the dim light, reflected down a series of pipes from mirrors set on the outer surface of the village.  She was sharing what they could expect today and even though they had seen the ceremony many times before, she was enjoying a chance to spread a bit of uncertainty, fear and doubt.

‘It’s not the Railman you have to be scared of, you see,’ she said, watching the eyes of the younger children widen with horror, their imaginations already working overtime.  Gregor, who was eight, had a slice of toast thick with butter half in his mouth and looked at Arisia with a rising panic.  And it took a lot to interrupt the normally robust Gregor in the middle of a mouthful…

‘No,’ she said, drawing uncomfortable looks from some of the nearby adults.  Donovan, who was an Elder and reckoned his wisdom far above all others, looked up momentarily over his half-moon spectacles from the well worn book in his hands and directed a scowl to an oblivious Arisia before returning to his reading.  ‘No, it’s what happens after the Railman doesn’t come is what you have to be afraid of.’

Rebecca was turning Eleven tomorrow, with Scott two days later, and she sat and methodically worked her way though her bowl of luke-warm porridge.  She expected this routine, especially from Arisia, and had no desire to hear any more of it.  Rebecca didn’t believe the stories but they were having an unwelcome effect on the others.

‘Nothing happens, as well you know,’ said Rebecca, rounding on Arisia.  ‘You’re scaring them just because you can.’

‘Dry your eyes, Becca,’ she mocked.  ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten your day tomorrow.’  She leaned over and whispered in her ear.  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’  She stood up, grabbed her bowl and sneered at her audience.  ‘I’ve had it with you children,’ she snapped and marched out of the hall.

Rebecca reached across the table and took Gregor’s free hand in her own.

‘It’s okay,’ she said softly.  He resumed chewing and a smile grew on his lips.  Rebecca turned to Scott.  ‘We’d better go and find Ryan before Arisia does.  I don’t want her getting her claws into anyone else today.’

- Alistair

With the ringing of the dawn bell came the waking of the village of Pascoe Glyn.  The east-facing dorm rooms allowed the growing light to cast over the bodies of those who were still gently waking.  There was an Eleventh today, the first for months and the first of a few expected over the next week.  Even with the Railman’s non-appearance over the years those villagers with longer memories were still on edge.

Ryan had managed to dodge the formality of breakfast opting instead to sneak into the kitchen and steal some toast.  Gordon the cook tended to rule over his small domain with a ruthless certainty but recognising Ryan and knowing the day’s significance won Ryan some leniency.  The boy nodded his thanks and slipped out.

He passed through the warren of the under levels with the dorms, storerooms and workshops laid out in no discernible pattern, rooms being raised when and wherever the need was greatest.  The irregular wooden planks, treated over countless years to increase their strength, left little privacy for the inhabitants.  He nodded a morning greeting to anyone who looked up but kept conversation to a stifled ‘hello’.

At the nearest pipe, a vertical tube with many lengths of knotted rope suspended and kept from swaying by the weights at their end, Ryan looked down for other upwards travellers but, beyond another level, saw only the cables and the thick white clouds far below.  He reached out, swung on to a nearby rope with practised ease and worked his way a few levels up to the docks.  He leapt on to the ledge and took a moment to take it all in.

The high dome of the docks was breathtaking, especially for the younger villagers who very rarely were allowed to set foot there, and especially when contrasted to the tight confines of below decks.  The dome was massive, about 80ft. to Ryan’s young untrained eye, and it was large enough to hold a number of passenger platforms and conical hoppers and a crane, the cab set high into the side of the dome offering a full view of the docks below.  Only once had be been allowed in the cab and he remembered being awed by the sight.

And entering and leaving at various heights in the dome steel I-beams, the rails that held the village and others like it aloft, were suspended in the air waiting for the carriers and hoppers, the trams and trolleys to arrive.  The village was linked in to the underside of the four rails that crossed at this junction, a small hub in the overall network.

Ryan looked over at the dockers who had donned their gauntlets and stood by their office with the stevedore, Braddock, waiting for the first cargo of the day to come.  He regarded Ryan and nodded.  It was rare to get any kind of acknowledgement from the man but it was yet another allowance for the day.  Either Ryan would be taken from everything he knew or remain for the duty of the village, both events marking him as an adult.  That was worth a nod at least.

He walked on from the edge of the pipe keeping a wary eye out.  It wouldn’t do to have an accident today of all days.  The chapel was before him, a squat structure made from both wood and stone, the only structure like it in the village.  Ryan never knew why it was favoured with stone, a rare material, especially as it was barely used.  He stepped over the threshold and through the ornate sanctuary and into the spartan hall, lines of wooden benches leading to the low altar at the front.

Reverend Heterozygous was sitting on the floor with his back to the altar, his head tilted, eyes to the chapel’s open roof.  Ryan walked down the aisle, his soft footsteps on the wooden floor too quiet to alert the minister.  He was halfway into the room before Heterozygous turned his head to regard the boy.

‘Morning, Ryan,’ said Heterozygous quietly.  ‘I’m glad you could join me.’  He looked him up and down before returning his gaze upwards.  ‘Finally,’ he added.

‘Reverend?’ he said, leaving the question hanging.

‘They all come,’ said Reverend Heterozygous in the same soft tone as before.  ‘They all come here.  And most don’t even know why.’

‘Arisia told me she came to see you on her Eleventh.  Anton too.’

‘At least you’re honest.’  Heterozygous drew himself to his feet and stretched.  He was not dressed in his robes of office but in shirt and shorts with images Ryan couldn’t recognise.  Heterozygous looked down at the images that were causing Ryan confusion.  ‘Ah right, beach wear, I forgot.  I try not to wear it around the place,’ he said, smiling mischievously, ‘but it’s rare anyone comes here.  Especially at this time of the morning.’

‘Those images,’ Ryan began but Heterozygous cut him off.

‘Are not your concern.’  His face darkened for a moment but it passed just as quickly.  ‘It serves to remind me how long I’ve been here.  Have a seat, I’ll nick off and get something more formal.’  The Reverend gestured to the bench beside Ryan and he left by a door at the back of the chapel.  For minutes Ryan sat in the relative peace.  Despite the open roof, open to the sounds of the docks beyond, Ryan was able to relax enough in the close environment.

He had questions, all the pre-Elevens did, but he didn’t want to share them with the Reverend.  He just wanted to go through the motions today.  He was uncomfortable with the fuss and the ceremony, and with the rumours of what happened if you were chosen to leave the village but he wanted to get it far from his mind.  Ryan lay along the bench, soaking in the sounds beyond the chapel walls, and finding in its bare seclusion a sense of peace.

By the time Reverend Heterozygous returned with his traditional white robes, Ryan was fast asleep.

• The Railman, part two, is practically ready for arrival on Friday.  Got a little bit to tidy up with it but otherwise it’s good to go.  Not sure where the story is going.  It might only last three parts, or it might go on for ages.  I’ll just let it wander as it wants.  Probably for the best.  My last attempt to force a regular story was The Bandstand and that’s fallen into some kind of limbo.
• Catching up with the Writing Buddies.  These are a group of guys I met through the last two NaNoWriMo attempts.  A good bunch of guys with a range of skills and tastes.  Makes for an interesting group.  Always a joy to spend time with them.
• Get a new job.  You may have picked this up from my last post.  It’s becoming a matter of urgency now but I’m sure something pop up.  It usually does.
• Grey Knights.  I’ve almost finished painting them.  And in a colour I’m happy with.  I’m sure I can get them done by the end of the year.    There may even be photos of the great job I’ve done.
• Other general gaming.  I like gaming, it’s a passion but I spend very little time indulging in my hobby.  I’m going to try and rectify that.
• Other writing.  There are many unfinished stories and I have to do something with them.  If I can get one story published then I can get others.  I just have to persevere.
• Find a new church.  My faith is at a pretty low ebb and has been for a very… long… time.  It would be nice to find a place I can find some peace and where they can accept me for who I am.
• Summer’s End.  Providing that there is another Summer’s End prog festival this year, I’ll be there hopefully with Neil and Bruce.  Last year we had capes.  This year it might be full wizards robes…

That’s a list of things I have in my mind that’s not Ruth/Aurora centred.  I know it’ll change as time progresses and as free time deteriorates/becomes available.

- Alistair

Oh well, sometimes that’s the way it goes.  Thing is, with no current job, finances are tight.  And it looks like I’ll have to bite that old ‘follow the money’ bullet and apply for any old shit.  The thing is that I’ve done that for years and always ended up in companies that tended to treat their employees poorly (even if they didn’t think so themselves) and have hated doing the same repetitive crap for people who wouldn’t know how to manage their own shoelaces.  My last two jobs, Whiteinch Church of Scotland and Scottish Power, are prime examples of that.

So, is that just what we have to do to get by?  I know the old saying ‘you work to live not live to work’ has a lot of weight but surely if we have to do something that takes up approx. 40 of our waking hours in a week that it’s important to find something that doesn’t suck completely.

Perhaps I’m just expecting too much.  I have a beautiful wife and daughter and I love them both very much.  I have a group of very good friends who I don’t see enough of.  Perhaps doing a crappy job with disrespectful and critical assholes is just the way of it.

- Alistair