Chapter One
Walking.
The very act is the meaning and spirit of willingly stepping into the next instant whatever it may
be. Each fearless footprint stands as a noble, defiant declaration that we accept the
decisions of the fates.
For man, as an art form, walking is nowadays in decline. Nearly every animal on dry
land ‘round the earth possesses an innate understanding of, and propensity toward
walking. Snakes and worms crawl, yet that is still very nearly walking in an earthbound,
terra-centric sense. Even birds, gifted creatures who can fly any time they wish, engage
in walking at least some of the time. They stroll for their own reasons, yet it is hard to
know if they are aware of the innate compulsion to renew their connection with the earth
every now and then. Most, but very pointedly, not all, fly. Some swim. Certain particularly
clever birds employ all three ambulations. Walking , nearly shuffling, alone down a
remote, overgrown road, there is little to do but curse the birds. Not that the birds had
actually done anything all that wrong, but there is simply so little to do, and no one else
to curse at. Besides, they are flying and that – to him - seems better than plodding down
yet another dusty trail.
The laughing monkey-face of the banana-colored sun beats down hard, drying the
once-muddy road into a cracked, rock-like slab stretching continuously before him as well
as behind. When for a short time, there are no birds present in the surrounding trees or the
skies above, he begins to curse the sun. Knowing that the Egyptians once worshipped the
sun as Ra – their supreme god - he toys with the notion that maybe the sun could actually
hear his expletives and derogatory comments aspersed to its mother. He hopes so. The
Egyptians were a clever bunch. Surely they had good reason for the whole sun-worship
business.
He has not passed a fellow traveler moving in either direction in three days. This, in itself,
does not surprise him. He is coming from a place that no one wants to go, and heading to a
place that no one wants to leave – or so they say. The reason this road exists at all has long
since passed from the collective local memory. Indeed, even the ‘collective’ has long since
passed. The road is seldom traveled nowadays, but remains usably intact due to its
long-forgotten standing as a major trade corridor. With the trade came heavy use and,
therefore, solid construction. When trade disappears, though, trade corridors disappear
soon after.
His steps are slow and shuffling. The shoes he wears are nearly worn through to the toes
from dragging the tips along these many miles. His stag-skin leather trousers are nearly
covered by a tattered cloak – from the top of which his long, strangely-mangled hair
sprouts to greet the oppressive sun and birds above.
He carries with him a large, leather-bound journal. Its covers are thick like slabs of wood,
heavy like slabs of wood and dark like slabs of wood. Countless thick pages are protected
within - though the rough, exposed edges between the slabs of wood betray the yellowing
of their age and the unstoppable creeping of the elements.
As the sun, which has been sitting delicately above the horizon, now dips just enough to
touch it, a rustling arises in the brush just ahead of him and to the left. Out from the
brush, a tall man with dark, shoulder-length hair attempts to pop out in surprise. Rather
than popping out, however, he stumbles as he struggles to free himself from the tangle
of branches and vines clawing at his feet. He falls onto the trail, crashing down hard on
his left elbow and dropping his sword in the process – the blade tumbling and clanking
to the far side of the trail. “Halt!” he commands the old traveler as he sits up and massages
his damaged arm. “Choose now, sir. Your money or your life?” Still untangling his feet from
the vines, he motions menacingly toward the sword that lies several feet away to indicate
his intention to retrieve it very directly.
Still several normal-length strides (or a few giant, hopping strides) from the unfortunate
highwayman, the old man stands above the younger one and thinks about the question
for some time. “Are you referring to this choice hypothetically?” asks the old man.
Brushing the dust from his linen clothing, the tall burglar regards his victim’s inquiry as
a further annoyance in an already-aggravating encounter. “I mean to say, my good man,
that I am asking you to choose to give me your money, which you may hand over to me –
thereby sparing your life – or give me your life - which I will certainly, if not reluctantly,
take. In this case I will, of course, then take your money anyway. Giving me your money
is really your best course of action.”
Again the old man pauses, confused by what he is seeing and hearing. “Well, then, that is
not a proper question at all! Whether or not you kill me, you still get my money. Am I correct?”
“Well, yes…yes you are. Either way, I shall have your money. The question is, do I have to kill
you for it?” replies the tall man.
“Then why did you not ask me that question in the first place?”
The highwayman pauses, grasping at his short goatee hanging dread-locked from his chin.
“I’ve always said, ‘You’re money or your life.’ It was how my father made his living as did
his father before him,” the tall man steps across the width of the road to regain his sword,
“It is but an expression. Tradition, really. My family and I have worked on this road since
it was built and I have never had need of any other question.”
“Well then, if that is the question you have always asked, I would say that you have had
need for the proper question for quite some time. As did your father and his father before
him.”
“Enough of this!” commands the villain, recalling that, as a professional highwayman,
his first order of business is to assume and maintain control over any situation. “I have
asked you a question – two, actually – and I demand your reply.”
“Has anyone ever chosen to offer their life?”
“Well, no. No one has ever actually offered one, no. Some have chosen to struggle, but I
assure you that I dispatched them with ease. One of the secrets to success in my vocation
is to choose your prey carefully.”
“And do you expect me to offer my life or to struggle with you now?”
“I should hope not. You seem like a decent fellow. You also seem to have grown old which
indicates to me that you are wise enough to avoid- shall we say - unfortunate circumstances.”
“Your assessment of me is most kind. I have indeed lived many years and learned along the
way how to avoid those things which may shorten my time here on earth. Learning lessons is
what my life is about. I should think that you would agree that if we were to stop learning,
then we should all but die at that moment, would you not?”
“I will agree with you, old man. Now, if I may have your money, I will be on my way. I do not
mean to be presumptive, but I do trust that this will be your choice.”
“Certainly, that is what I should choose. However, if I am to surrender my belongings, then
should I not at least receive a proper burglary? I am certain that your past clients received
no less.”
“Of course, of course,” the highwayman concedes. “There is little doubt that this has not
been my finest moment, professionally. A man in my vocation does rely a fair bit on his
reputation. What would you have me do to make amends?”
“I would suggest to you that I should move back several steps, as you conceal yourself once
again in the bushes over there. We will re-stage the conditions of our first encounter with
due accuracy. As I approach, you should pop out once again whilst brandishing your sword.”
“How do I know that you will not run away as I hide myself?”
“My dear boy, I have not run anywhere in a very long time. I doubt that I still know how.
I merely walk, and have little mastery of that.”
“Then a properly conducted burglary, you shall receive! I suppose I owe you that much.
You will tell anyone you may meet that William of Umber was a formidable and competent
practitioner of his art, I trust?”
“Of course.” agrees the old man.
The old man turns to move slowly back along the trail approximately twenty steps. A small
finch, bird-brained as it may be, flies above the old man, covering the length of the old man’s
trek in far less time than the aged biped is able. May your next worm devour you from inside
wishes the weary one of the finch.
With little regard for the innate aerobatic prowess of the small fowl performing impossible
variations in flight, William watches the old man closely until he turns once again to face
toward him down the path. With this, William takes his cover in the brush – careful to maintain
visual contact with his mark. As promised, the old man calls out that he is proceeding toward
his impending, deserved and skillfully-conducted robbery, and walks slowly forward – very
careful to retrace the very same steps as he had taken before.
As the old man nears, William once again springs from the brush. Although not without
entanglements, this time he appears on the trail with far less stumbling and completely
fails to fall. Not his best work, but passable.
Pointing his sword at the old man, William asks, “Your money or your life?” The old man
glares disappointedly. “Dreadfully sorry, good sir. Old habits…you understand” offers the
thief as he stares to the ground in shame – the tip of his blade following suit. Renewing his
efforts, William once more raises his sword with calm authority. “Will you give me your
money now, sir, or need I kill you for it?” William smiles broadly with these words. His
tongue rolls them along as a dung beetle rolls its prize. It is a comfortable phrasing of the
question that seems to endow him with a certain, natural command of the situation. Like
a prideful student getting his first “A” on a test, his eyes look to the old man’s for approval.
That same old man catches the glint in his assailant’s eyes and he nods the requested
approvation. “That was very well done, I must say. I certainly felt much more threatened
this time. Now - and I really don’t mean to be a bother here or to impose awkward
complications - as to your question, I am afraid that I must offer my life in payment.”
William looks at the frail old man quizzically. “Surely, he is not going to fight to keep
his money,” he thinks to himself. “Why do you offer me your life? Give me your money
and I shall leaveyou in peace.” Then, resuming a more professional tone, he threatens,
“Fail, and I shall leave you in pieces.”
“I am afraid I must fail you.”
“Look here my good man! I am holding a very real sword here! It has tasted flesh
before. Give me your money and spare me the trouble of killing you,” pleads William.
“I can not do that.”
“Give me just a few dinari. You don’t have to give me all that you have. Provide me
with enough to venture into the village some night soon and enjoy libation and women.
After such a poor performance earlier, I see no need to be dogmatic with you, although I
have never allowed a client to retain his valuables before.”
“I’m afraid I have only my life to offer, as finances are not to be counted amongst
my possessions.”
“You have nothing?”
“Not a sheckle. No dinari. Not a quince nor a pence – nor anything which might
be sold for such.”
“Have you been robbed already? Is there someone else working in the forests of William
of Umber? If so, I shall hunt him down and take all of his possessions - including
yours - from him.”
“No, no,” the old man chuckles. “I have not been robbed by anyone but the fates. No
one can steal from me that which I do not own.”
With this news, the great highwayman William of Umber takes a seat on a fallen log at
the road’s edge. “You own nothing of value, then?” he ponders. “So what business have
you if you have no trade to conduct.”
“My own,” comes the response.
“Well you know my name, now, yet I do not know yours. Who are you, old man?”
William is considering the slow state of his finances of late. Robbery is his trade,
but there is obviously no trade to conduct with this fragile figure standing before him.
“I no longer know my name. Whatever it once may have been is unlikely to be an
apt moniker nowadays in any case, ” replies the traveler, “but many have addressed
me by title. They say that I am The Chronicler.”
“I have never heard of you,” William retorted.
“I should think not. Any man passing his life in these forlorn forests would encounter
only the most rare of traveler. I would think that news would arrive very slowly here.”
“So I should have heard of you, then?” asks William with a pawl of wariness.
“With a more active calendar, you might have heard of me, yes. Many have.”
“You say that this is your title. What do you chronicle, then?”
“I record the lives and stories of those I meet.”
“And will you be recording mine, then?”
“Of course, this is no passing encounter. ”
“What if I do not want to tell you my stories?”
“Everyone wants to tell their stories. That’s why you have them. Besides, I already
know that you come from a long line of highwaymen. Your name is William and you
are from Umber. You have been most forthcoming thus far.”
“So…that book you are carrying… if there are many who have heard of you and
your work, then that book you carry must be of some value.”
“This book is valuable beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“But you told me that you have nothing of value!”
“I have nothing of value to you. But, I admit, this book does have value.”
“If it has value, then why does it not apply to me?”
“Because the value of this book can not be assessed in terms of how many drinks or
women it may finance. The value of this book lies in the value that it has for man
in the collective sense.”
William stares deeply into the eyes of the wizened traveler, looking for some sign
of an infirm mind. Staring into the tired, old pupils – maybe through them – William
sees twin images merge into a single view of himself lying unconscious in a cold
stream. His view of this surreal scene is interrupted as slowly, deliberately - foreboding
in tone - this lonely recorder of the deeds of man speaks to William. “I will be there
when you do this.”
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