The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) (11 page)

I always hated that damned thing
, he thought.

His cry of pain and embarrassment drew attention, though, and just the sort he needed. Young Darnell happened to be leaving the general store, and Harvard saw him drop his purchases and rush over.

“Lemme help you, Mr. Harvard,” Darnell said, suiting actions to words and levering the old man back up. “Wow, you’re burning up. Better get you over to see my ma.” He threw the old man’s right arm over his shoulders, leaving him the cane to use with the other.

The man known as Harvard grunted, and said, “Thank ya, boy. Funny, I was just coming to see your ma; I need her help.” At least, that’s what he tried to say. For some reason, his mouth wasn’t working right, and he felt all fuzzy. The memories were starting to fade faster, and he knew he had to get to Marjorie before they were gone completely. “’S go!” he managed to mumble, doing his best to put one foot in front of the other as they trudged down the street.

He saw Darnell glance at the townsfolk who stood to each side of the street, watching the scarred cripple being helped by the younger man, and he saw the boy’s face darken in anger. Harvard tried to tell him that it wasn’t their fault, that those watching were just scared folk, but nothing came out, his tongue tied in knots. Frustrated, he concentrated on walking faster.

Soon enough, they had reached Marjorie’s place, and Darnell had dragged him inside, clearing off what his mother euphemistically referred to as her ‘examination table,’ even though it was quite clearly just an old coffee table. The overpowering scent of the ever-burning candles in the shop made Harvard sneeze, and he raised a hand to his head, in pain.

“Ma! Harvard’s hurt!” Darnell yelled, moving toward the bead curtain that led into the back of the shop, intent on finding the old woman.

Before Darnell could get out of reach, Harvard grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, pulling him close. He struggled mightily, forcing his lips and tongue to move, to say something, to say
anything
before the memories drained back out of him, before they were gone for who knew how long, probably forever. In the end, the only thing he could manage to croak out was his name.

“I’m… Norman…” he said, coughing and wiping away the sweat from his eyes, the confusion and what was now obvious to him as a fever taking over. “I’m… Ennis… Norma—” Just before he passed out, he saw the old woman come through the curtain, and wondered if the boy would remember what he’d said.

Marjorie saw to the unconscious old man named Harvard, cleaning him up and wiping his brow. “Go and get the straps now, honey,” she said, pointing vaguely into the back room.

The young man returned quickly, concerned. “What’s wrong with him, Ma?” he asked as the woman carefully secured the tossing and turning man’s arms and legs to the edge of the table with the padded straps.

“I’m not sure. He’s got one helluva fever, and that’s no mistake. You said he was on his way here?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what he said when I picked him up. He didn’t look like hisself, though. At first I thought he was drunk.”

“Before noon? It doesn’t matter, the man never touched a drop o’ shine the whole time I known him. Did he say anything else?”

Darnell nodded. “Yeah. He said his name was Norman.”

“Norman? Well, that’s no help.” She ran her hands over Harvard’s face, as she had countless times before, tracing the pattern of the burn scars she hadn’t been able to get rid of, all those years ago. “Norman? As if that helps,” she repeated.

She turned to her small kitchen area, taking the kettle off the wood-burning stove and pouring herself some tea. Sipping it slowly, she felt her way over to her favorite rocking chair, near the window, and took a seat. Darnell took his usual place in the other chair at her side, and she patted his arm. “Did he say that was his first name or last name, by any chance?” she asked.

“Last name, I think,” Darnell said. “I think his first name was Ennis— ow,ma, that hurts!” he yelled, snatching his arm away.

Her tea lying forgotten on the table next to the chair, Marjorie grabbed Darnell and turned her milky, sightless eyes on him. “Did you say Ennis?
Ennis
Norman?”

“Yeah, ma, that’s what he said, why? Damn, you cut me with your nails!”

“Oh my god,” the old woman said, her son forgotten in that moment. “
Oh my god!
Now I know why I’ve always thought his voice was so familiar! I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before. Here, Darnell, help me over to the cedar chest.” With his help, she reached the large cedar box, sweeping the bric-a-brac that lay atop it into a careless pile on the wooden floor, tossing the contents of the box out in every direction until she felt what she was searching for and pulled it out. She thrust a faded but still pliant magazine into Darnell’s hands, the subtle and pleasant aroma of old paper drifting up from the yellowing pages.

“What’s
Time
, ma?”

“Shaddup, boy, and tell me what it says on the cover!”

“It’s kinda dark, lemme move to the window,” he said, reading as he moved closer to the daylight streaming through the dirty window. “It says ‘Can he save us?’ and has a picture… holy shit, ma!” he said, eliciting a slap on the shoulder from her.

“Language!”

“Sorry, ma, it’s just… How come Mr. Harvard’s on the cover of this book?”

The old woman sat down hard in her rocking chair, spilling her tea onto the floor, the metal cup clanging dully and rolling away into the dust underneath the cupboard. “I can’t believe it. It’s really him.”

“It’s really
who
, ma?”

Marjorie grabbed his arm and yanked him down beside her. “You can’t tell anyone, boy. Not
anyone
. Not
ever
.”

“Tell who what, ma? What’s going on?”

“Swear to me, Darnell!” she said, not letting go. “
Swear to me you won’t tell anyone
.”

“Alright, alright, I swear! Jesus!” She let go and slapped him again, but without much force, and he knew it was purely from reflex. “
Now
will you tell me who he is?”

She pulled her shawl tighter around her trembling body and pointed a shaking finger at the man on the table, moaning in his fever dream. “That man, boy… that man is Ennis Norman.”

“I know
that
, ma.
But who is he
?”

“It’s not who he
is
, Darnell. It’s who he
was
that matters.” She took a deep breath. “That man was the President of the United States.”

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Text ©2014 by Jason Kristopher

Illustrations ©2014 by Grey Gecko Press

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kristopher, Jason

The walker chronicles: tales from the dying of the light / Jason Kristopher

Library of Congress Control Number:

ISBN 978-1-9388215-2-3

First Edition

Kindle Edition