The Walker

Daisy watched Walker from under her visor. She had started sleeping in it, just like her travelling companion, who never seemed to take his off at all; she wondered idly at this, trying to get comfortable amongst the apples.

He currently seemed to be sleeping, his wide brimmed hat pulled down over his face. He had traded some pages and a book, which had been enough to get them transport to the next town, for which she was quietly grateful; the man set a mean pace and she was exhausted. He would wake early, stop late and hardly seemed to eat. The food had been scarce, not that this had seemed to affect him at all.

She had finished the bread and ham, and now nibbled quietly at an apple while the carter and his wife argued about something uninteresting up front. It was hard and sour; a cider apple. She threw it from the cart and resumed her study of Walker. She could smell him still, over the pungent tang of the apples, but she had started to get used to it. It wasn’t an entirely bad smell, just the smell of one living on the move all the time.

They hadn’t managed to stop to bathe yet, although Walker seemed less fazed by this than she was. In all fairness she wasn’t sure that she smelled exactly like a bed of roses, or a cartload of apples rather, when it came down to it.

Daisy sighed and looked out at the scenery. They had left the dried forest and returned to a vista of sparse, rugged grass, more yellow and brown than green, and were heading downhill towards a small town, which stood by a river. Ollie the cart driver had told her this was, or had once been, called the river Avon, which the man’s wife had assured her meant river in some ancient language, which in turn meant that the river was called the river River, which seemed strange. Lenny would have... she stopped herself, and sighed again, sadly.

She missed her brother, but what hurt her more is her realisation that, if he hadn’t died himself, she would have probably died instead; she wasn’t sure whether she should be grateful or saddened by this. And Walker would have never taken the two of them. He didn’t seem like a man who entertained fools gladly.

She unholstered her gun, the home made hand-cannon, and ran her hand over the scratched metal of the barrel. Her brother had made it, back when she had been far too small to hold it up. She remembered how he taught her to shoot, and laughed when she could barely aim it or keep it level.

Her hand passed down the fraying leather strap tied around the grip, and found the tag there. It was a smiling face, faded yellow with black eyes and broad, jolly smile. It too was scratched, more silver shone through than yellow now, but that didn’t matter. She had no idea why he’d put it on there, but then, he’d been a simple guy. Maybe he’d just liked the smile.

Walker grunted, and she hurriedly put her gun away. He didn’t stir for a while. She watched the man’s wide jaw, muscles rippling as he grumbled to himself. He abruptly stopped and reached behind him, rummaging. Ollie called from the front, “Hey, Mister? Nearly at the town, so you might wanna pack up.”

Walker ignored him, focused on finding whatever had woken him from his sleep. Daisy watched, interested.

Ollie turned back, to see if they had heard him. He noticed Walker’s rummaging, and groaned “Oh, bloody ’ell, tell me you ain’t found one of them weevils. Bloody evil buggers gets bigger each year, I’m sure of it.”

Walker stopped rummaging and, slowly and carefully, pulled out a knobbly apple, all angles where there should be none. He considered it for some time. Then he took a bite.

He told Ollie to pull the cart up, between mouthfuls of sour apple. The journey had taken two hours, which was easily six or so hours walking. As they clambered down from the cart, Walker turned to look at the little white haired man, still sat on his high bench behind the horse.

“You know any where I can hire water transport down there, Ollie?”

Daisy looked up at the man, as he stroked his bushy white beard. “Hmmm,” he said, “There’s a young man down there, goes by the name o’ Tim, or Tom, or summing similar”

“Tom, you old fool” Mary cut in. She continued, “He took over from his grandfather when he died; Ollie and I knew him. It’s a ship called The Good Gel, follows the Avon both ways. You should speak to him; it’s probably down on the river. Bright red, if I remember correctly, you couldn’t miss it.”

“It’s more of a boat, really,” added Ollie.

Walker nodded and began to walk down the slope towards the town, crunching his apple loudly.

Ollie shook his head, “Not even a thank you.” He muttered.

His wife pushed his arm, gently. “He paid us plenty Oliver, and you know it.”

He shrugged his agreement, and the two of them turned to Daisy.

She felt she would miss the pair; he was as common as the apples he carted, loved cider and was grumpy; she was well read, well-spoken and had an almost regal look about her. She smiled sadly and thanked the two of them and turned to follow Walker.

Mary called after her, “Why are you following that man, young lady?”

Daisy looked at them from behind her visor. She wasn’t going to tell them about her family, or her quest. As nice as these people seemed, the less people knew the better off she was.

“I’ve got nothing else.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Mary looked at her; Daisy couldn’t quite read her expression. “Just be wary. What you’ve heard about the Walkers may not be as true as you’d think. You’re too young to remember...” she looked away slightly, but turned back abruptly. “Just take care.”

Ollie clucked and snapped the reins slightly, starting his cart turning away. Daisy stood and watched as they moved away slowly up the road. She didn’t watch them all the way; she knew that the walker wouldn’t wait for her.