Righty, here’s part seven.  I hope it meets with your approval.

- 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.’

Railman won’t be ready for Monday.  Ruthy hasn’t been well and has been in quarantine for most of the day and Aurora isn’t all that well at the moment either.

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

Sorry for the delay.

- Alistair

Words About Whiteinch is getting very real now.  It’s odd, but as the first story of mine that’ll actually be in ACTUAL PRINT, I’m getting really really excited…

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

Here’s a belated part five of The Railman.  It’s been a hectic week or two with much that has got in the way of regular updates.  But I’m back on track now.

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.’

Part Five here guys.  Still some scene setting going on.  Things are moving in a direction I didn’t expect.  let’s hope it pans out.  As usual all comments, criticisms and suggestions are welcome.

- 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.