The Walker

20 years ago...

It had been three months since Walker had met the boy. He had turned out to be helpful, and Walker liked people who were helpful; he could use them. Besides, he had seen potential, a possible talent he could nurture. And the boy was keen; there was no doubt about it. He could do well, given the time.

Already he was quick, mentally and physically. Walker watched as the boy loped ahead, carrying the pack of supplies Walker insisted he carried, in order to build his strength. He whistled and the lad stopped, turning to him.

“Making good time today, Walker. Nearly at the next town.” He beamed proudly.

The boy’s speech had come on leaps and bounds too; he would start learning to write next. If he did well enough, Walker thought, he’ll start his martial training. But he had to show him something first.

“Come on, boy, there’s something we need to do.”

The boy frowned, turning back to look at the town just on the horizon. “But... we’re nearly there. We could be there by noon!”

Walker ignored him and made his way into the woods to the left of the track they had been following. He listened for the noises of the boy following and, sure enough, was met by the sounds of undergrowth being trampled and slapped about.

“Stop playing, boy. I told you, remember to keep quiet at all times. You never know when someone may be near, watching.”

The boy didn’t respond, but Walker was pleased to note that the noises died to almost nothing. He was learning quickly indeed.

Walker held up a hand and stopped at the edge of a clearing. In the centre was a dilapidated husk of a building, a remnant of the old world, forgotten and unloved. It was once huge, but most of its high walls had fallen, leaving only the front and the far side standing whole. Some of the wording that had once sat atop the building had been lost, leaving only “PUBLISHING” left. What had once assumedly been an adorable mascot-creature was now merely a rusted goblin, squatting grimly alongside the text, as worn by time as the building on which it stood.

Walker looked at it. “What do you see, boy?”

The boy joined him, head nearly at Walker’s shoulder. He scratched his chin, habitual when he was thinking, and murmured. “Well, I know the first bit, pub, like wheres we gets whiskey,”

Walker interrupted, “You mean, ‘like a pub, where we get whiskey’. You know what happens if you don’t speak properly, lad.”

The boy rolled his eyes, spat and continued. “Alright. The rest I don’t know. What’s that next to it?”

He pointed up to the metal creature. Walker studied it for a moment, then shrugged. “An emblem of the past, who knows? It’s not important. What is important is what once happened at this place. Come on.”

He motioned that the boy should follow, and headed towards the building, heading right and into the rubble. The boy scrambled after him as they climbed, first up the mound, and then in to the building. Bricks and concrete moved beneath the boy’s feet, but Walker’s stride was true as ever. The boy slipped as some of the rubble shifted beneath him. He caught his knee and swore.

“Think about where you put your feet, and you won’t fall,” He said without looking back, “And swear again and you’ll taste leather.”

The boy nodded, gritting his teeth and fighting back tears at the pain in his knee. He moved slower, deliberately, like Walker, and found his footing much more stable. The old man knew his stuff.

“Hey Walker,” he called.

Walker waved him quiet, and pointed into the gloom of the collapsed building. “See that, boy?”

The boy squinted into the darkness. He could make out something big; thin cylinders arranged at intervals all attached to a big metal box. There were long, continuous sheets draped from roller to roller. He got the feeling that this room had had some deeper power, long ago. It felt like it may still be here. He licked his lips.

“Whassat then?” he asked.

Walker turned slowly to him. “It was,” he began quietly, “A source of knowledge.”

The boy rubbed his chin. “What, a big metal dead thing?”

Walker shook his head. “Come closer.”

He strode down into the shadows, leaving the boy standing nervously behind. Part of him wanted to stay behind, out of the dark and away from the huge thing. But a bigger part of him wanted to know what Walker meant. A source of knowledge. He licked his lips again and hurried down the rubble, into the shadows.

He found Walker by one of the rollers, which was lying discarded on the ground like a lost limb. The sheet was still tangled around it, and Walker was holding a part of it up.

“Touch it.” He ordered.

The boy refused, holding his hands behind his back.

Walker laughed. “Go on, it’s not a trick. I’m holding it.”

The boy swallowed and touched it. He recognised the roughness. “Paper?” he ventured, looking up at Walker.

Walker smiled down at him and nodded. “Paper. It’s lasted so long. Probably due to the weather.” He paused, “Well, lack of it.”

The boy felt the paper, thick and hard in his hands, “Why does it feel so different?”

Walker ignored him, looking around, “This place was a publishing house. It’s where books were printed.”

The boy stopped rubbing the paper and looked up at him. “Books? Them things with words in? I thought they was bad? I saw a book, once. I think.”

Walker shook his head and headed back towards the sunlight outside, the boy following at his feet. They reached the top of the mound and stopped, looking back to the printing machine in its collapsed home.

“Once, books were everywhere,” Walker said softly.

The boy watched with baited breath as Walker began to undo the clasps on his satchel. He had always wondered what the man had kept in there, what he felt was worth protecting so secretly. Walker dug into the pack and drew out a book. It wasn’t a very big one, and its sad red sleeve was ruined and illegible, but it was still a book.

Walker looked down at the boy, and held the book out. He reached out for it, but Walker sharply drew it back.

“Tell me, boy, do you know of the Philosophers?”

The boy stared at the book, but answered, “Yeah, the other kids back home talked about them. They said their mums and dads told them about people what went around gatherin’ books up and makin’ them safe. Or summink”

The last grammatical slip earned him a wallop.

The boy rubbed the back of his head, scowling up at Walker, who said, “That’s almost right. All you need to know is that that’s what we do. Protect books. Share them around. Knowledge is power now, it’s all we have left. If these go,” Walker brandished the book at him, making him flinch, “We can never get them back. No sonatas, no Descartes, no King. When books die,” he put the book back into his satchel, “History dies. And if history dies, we have nothing left. No way to move forward. Nothing to build upon.” he gestured about him, ”All of this. You understand?”

The boy nodded unsurely, now staring at Walker’s satchel. “So, what you mean is, if we has books, we has knowledge, and history and all that stuff,” Walker raised a grammar correcting hand, but the boy darted nimbly away, “And if we have,” he emphasised the word, “all that stuff, then we can change things?”

Walker nodded and smiled, despite himself. “That’s near enough right. Knowledge is power, boy. Remember it. It’s probably the most important resource left to us. With the right knowledge, anything is possible.”

Walker began to make his way down the mound of rubble, back towards the road, leaving the boy behind, watching him and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.