The Desolate Son

It was nearing midnight when the Peddler crossed the Commune’s border. Rowan greeted the Outerling, taking one of his suitcases and ushering him into the doorway of a nearby abandoned house.

The Peddler moved with practised efficiency. He unzipped the smaller suitcase and fanned its items across the greying carpet; bottles of expired pills, sewing needles and thread, greasy bars of soap, a deck of cards and fragments of mirror.

‘You can come closer, boy,’ the Peddler said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

Rowan moved to the window and glanced furtively into the darkness. ‘We don’t have much time. Did you bring the glasses?’

The Peddler raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I brought them. But I advise you to look at everything I have to offer. I expect my journey here to be worthwhile.’

Rowan hid his trembling hands in the pockets of his oversized jacket. He moved closer to the Peddler and studied the contraband; reams of cloth, fish hooks and wire, wristwatches, candles, medicines of dubious origins and quality. Cheaply made oddments once taken for granted, but treasured after the Desolation.

The Peddler retrieved a toolbox from the large suitcase and smacked it on the floor.

‘Christ, I forget how jumpy your lot is. I needn’t remind you that it’s my life on the line here. What’s the worst that could happen to you? Corporal punishment? Public humiliation?’

Rowan’s voice caught. ‘Exile.’

‘Bah! What’re you worried about?’

The Peddler opened the toolbox to reveal a compartment flush with spectacles. He pushed the box towards Rowan.

Rowan’s fingers fumbled clumsily as he reached into the box.

‘Ah. Now that explains everything,’ the Peddler said. His eyes lingered on Rowan’s hands. ‘I thought those who carried the Taint were banished from the Communes. Or are things starting to change?’

Rowan flinched as though he’d been struck. It was the first time in his memory that someone had commented about his deformity; even the Commune’s young children knew better than to ask.

‘Nothing has changed. I don’t think it ever will,’ he said, stuffing his hands back into his pockets.

‘Then why have they let you stay?’

‘My father is the Leader of our Commune. No one would dare move against him.’

A profound silence settled between them. Then, the Peddler burst out laughing. ‘Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before,’ he said. ‘A Commune Leader with a Tainted son...Good. I hope it taught him a lesson.’

Rowan had long suspected he was a subject of mockery within the Commune, and, in a single sentence, the Peddler had confirmed it. The words stung.

It had been a cruel coincidence that Rowan’s father, having expelled all Tainted from the Commune, was cursed with a deformed son. With finite resources, it was reckless to waste precious food on those unable to contribute to the Commune’s self-sufficiency. Even those with minor variations - an extra toe, a missing finger - were cast into the Wilderness to root out the possibility of Tainted progeny.

Rowan was the exception. He used his oversized jacket to conceal his stooped, hunchbacked figure, but the misshapen, twisted fingers on his withered right arm were more difficult to hide.

Sensing his hurt, the Peddler softened. ‘Oh, come now, don’t mind me. Can I see?’

Rowan reluctantly withdrew his hands from his pockets. Rowan tensed as the Peddler grasped his fingers and inspected them closely.

‘You call this the Taint?’ the Peddler scoffed. ‘My god, what a sheltered life you must live. Out in the Wilderness, you wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow.’

‘You’re lying.’

The Peddler shrugged. ‘We don’t consider such things shameful. For some, to carry the shadow of the Desolation is a mark of honour.’

Rowan managed a smile. ‘Thank you.’

Rowan found a pair of glasses that shifted his vision into clear focus. ‘I think these will do,’ he said, wiping the grimy lens with the cloth of his shirt.

‘Excellent.’ The Peddler’s eyes glittered. ‘And your payment?’

The Peddler bristled with excitement as Rowan reached into his pocket. When he withdrew a heart-shaped locket, the Peddler’s disappointment was palpable.

‘I don’t deal baubles and pretty trinkets,’ he said dryly. ‘They don’t sell.’

Rowan had found the locket amongst the ruins of a pre-Desolation home. He had genuinely thought the find would interest the Outerling. ‘I thought you would appreciate the craftsmanship.’

The Peddler snorted. ‘I could fill entire buckets with pre-Desolation jewellery, and the bucket would still be more valuable. What else have you got?’

Rowan turned out his empty pockets.

‘I forget you Commune folk travel light,’ the Peddler said flatly. His eyes lowered. ‘I want you to empty all your pockets.’

Rowan reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a folded piece of laminated paper. He placed it into the Peddler’s outstretched hands.

‘Now, what do we have here? Mr. Ling’s Kitchen Menu …?’ The Peddler lifted his eyes and regarded Rowan closely.

‘You can read?’

The Peddler rolled his eyes. ‘My god, you Commune folk are condescending. Tell me, what are the stories told about Outerlings now?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -’

‘No, of course not. But for someone who carries the Taint you have proven yourself to be remarkably prejudiced.’

The Peddler handed the ageing restaurant menu back to Rowan. ‘What’re you doing with this, anyway?’

‘I thought it would help my students with their letters.’

‘You’re a teacher?’

‘Of sorts,’ Rowan said quietly. ‘They get excited when I find new things for them to read.’

‘You should’ve told me earlier,’ the Peddler said. ‘Turns out, I have more to offer you than just glasses.’

Rowan’s face lit up. ‘You sell books?’

The Peddler withdrew a wooden chest from the suitcase and placed it gently on the floor.

The Desolation’s first generation had been fastidious about education, treating the apocalypse like an interlude from which life would one day resume. But with each succeeding generation, education was sidelined for more practical knowledge; how to harvest crops, detect and treat mastitis in cattle, tend beehives, and use honey to treat infection. Most people knew a smattering of words and letters, but eighty years of communal living in a strictly isolationist community had dwindled the number of books. Some had been burnt for warmth in winter, but most lay waste to mould or water damage in pre-Desolation homes that were either destroyed or stripped of their building materials.

‘Books. Needlessly heavy, a pain in the ass to haul around, and take up too much space for an itinerant traveller like me.’ The Peddler paused. ‘But to the right buyer they’re worth a small fortune.’

Rowan peered inside the chest. A surprising number of books were crammed within the modest space. Slim paperbacks were nestled amongst embossed leather tomes. The names on the cracked spines were foreign to Rowan, but each offered a shimmering world of possibility.

Rowan’s eyes were immediately drawn towards a leatherbound collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The Peddler followed Rowan’s gaze. ‘Folio Society, with coloured illustrations and -’

A siren pierced the night, tearing into the confines of the small room and shattering the spell of the books.

The Peddler scrambled to his feet, throwing the contraband pell-mell into his suitcases as Rowan sprinted to the window. He lifted aside the curtain. A small band of Outerlings had penetrated the southern barricade and were straying westwards towards the Commune’s agricultural fields.

‘It’s a raid,’ Rowan said. ‘You have to leave, now!’

‘And what - meet my death? I can’t leave here during a raid!’

An Outerling emerged from the Wilderness carrying a torch. Rowan’s stomach dropped as he touched the flames to the Commune’s wheat field. The fire was quick to catch, gathering momentum in the dry heat and spreading.

The fire illuminated the group of armed men advancing towards the Outerlings. Rowan recognised the formidable form of his father and shrank away from the window.

A series of gunshots ruptured the night. Rowan dropped to the floor as a stray bullet shattered the window, cradling his head against the spray of broken glass. The Peddler gasped as the bullet grazed his left arm; blood oozed thickly from the wound.

The popping gunshots ceased a few minutes later as the Communal men forced the Outerlings to retreat. Rowan crouched surreptitiously before the window and watched as the Commune’s men, women and children hauled buckets of water in a futile attempt to douse the fire.

It was a windless night; there was little risk of the fire spreading to the outlying buildings of the Commune. But to lose an entire field of crops was nothing short of devastating. His people watched on with grim acceptance as their crops faded to ash.

‘Please...Help me.’

Rowan turned away from the window. The Peddler was slumped against the wall, leaving a slick, red stain of blood against the peeling wallpaper.

Rowan made his decision quickly. He placed the Peddler’s arms over his shoulders and raised him to his feet, guiding the wounded Outerling into a hallway.

‘My - my suitcases,’ the Peddler said. ‘I can’t leave my wares, they’re all I’ve got -’

‘I’ll bring them to you,’ Rowan said, grimacing at the Peddler’s weight on his Tainted spine. Rowan kicked open a door at the end of the corridor. A rotting staircase unfurled into the darkness.

Rowan slowly descended the basement steps. The air was damp and musty, as if it had been sealed for decades. He lay the Peddler down, offering his jacket as he retrieved the Peddler’s lamp and suitcases.

‘Please don’t leave me,’ the Peddler said softly.

Rowan paused. The Commune needed him. He had spent the night fraternising with an Outerling, sheltering the enemy instead of helping his people. Rowan flushed with shame. Civilised men had been exiled for less.

But the Peddler needed him too.

Rowan moved up the basement staircase and barricaded the door. He spent the night at the Outerling’s side, holding a mirror while the Peddler sewed the lips of his wound together, leaving only in the early hours of the morning to fetch food and water.

In the windowless confines of the basement, time eluded them. Both were unable to sleep; the Peddler’s wound throbbed uncomfortably, while Rowan paced restlessly, absorbed by his conflicting thoughts.

The Peddler handed Rowan a key. ‘Read to me,’ he said.

Rowan retrieved the chest of books from the suitcase and unlocked it. His fingers trailed across the cracked spines of the topmost layer; Swift, Aristotle, King, Rowling, Plath, Asimov, Dickens.

‘Which one would you like to hear?’

The Peddler leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. ‘Mary Shelley. Frankenstein.’

Rowan found the novel, a slim paperback with dog-eared pages and a missing back cover. He opened the front page and started to read.

The book was more than a welcome distraction. Rowan looked to the pages and found himself there. The knotted, complex emotions he shouldered his entire life - his freakish Taint, his isolation from his community - lay here, captured in words. Rowan continued reading even after the Peddler started softly snoring, finishing the novel in a matter of hours.

Rowan drifted to sleep and awoke to find the basement empty. The Outerling had gone, slipped away without saying goodbye.

Rowan gathered to his feet and tripped on a small chest at the base of the staircase. Within lay the Peddler’s entire collection of books.

Rowan opened the note that was tucked beside the small library of books.

I want you to use these, Teacher. Your people claim to be ‘civilised’, but have lost their humanity. You must help them reclaim it, and I can think of no better place to start than here.