CHAPTER 37
~Date Unknown~
The sun rose over a frigid, uninviting morning, the hazy rays wriggling through the ruins that dominated the skyline outside of Middle Market. Somewhere in the chilly blackness, a single figure emerged from the settlement, heading north. He was a marked man and a hated man, but there was no spectacle, no sendoff, no flight, no pursuit. It was merely another day, another departure from another trading center - but not for the man, marching on toward an unknown fate at the end of his road.
Storyteller, on his own once more, kept a steady pace as he advanced north, eating what he could find and going without sleep so that he could travel farther. The raiders wouldn't dare touch him - not so close to Middle Market, anyway, likely not until he reached his destination. That destination was a wasteland legend, a sprawling ruin with no equal, a vault endless in both wealth and danger. In the old world it had been a great city, a center of wealth and culture crowning the otherwise unassuming Midwest. That city was long gone, its true name rarely used - the name no longer suited the skeletal husk that remained of it. The skyscrapers that had once been its skyline now lay in broken piles in the desolate streets, the remnants covered in moss and vines as nature struggled to reclaim the land. Rust-choked car chassis sat here and there, most of them ripped apart by redeemers looking for valuable metals and oils. This was the city's current state - a place dubbed "Scrapland," the most valuable redemption site in the known wastes. The redeemers had been picking through it for twenty years, and yet only a tiny fraction of its bounty had been recovered.
The first thing to greet Storyteller was a street - an endless thoroughfare, empty and quiet save the constant howl of the wind rushing through the buildings and down the desolate urban corridor. The wind was an omen, one that sent a bracing shudder through Storyteller's bones. It was not Pathfinder's warnings that frightened him, as much as he believed that they were accurate. Rather, it was the feeling of history overtaking him. He had been to this place - or rather, the place that once was, now just a specter - in the old world, and it had left him in awe. This was not the small town that he had always known but a great living thing, and they moved through the arteries with a sense of awe. Now the thing was dead, the city just a necropolis haunted by memories.
Passing by a set of storefronts, Storyteller spotted movement on the other side of the street. A pair of redeemers, their garb too ragged and worn to identify a trading company, darted through a broken window into a store. Storyteller crept up on the building, close enough to overhear their conversation.
"Shit. It would take at least two more men to move the valuable stuff out of here."
"Knock it off and find something we can swap."
"You know damn well that this street's been stripped. We want anything, we have to travel further in."
"That's where the raiders hang out. I'm not getting killed for a haul."
"There's a good chance we'll get killed on the way out, anyway. Come on, let's do something to justify the risk."
"You can do that if you want. I'm staying right here." One of the redeemers leaped through the window, stopping dead still as soon as he saw Storyteller. "Who the hell are you?" he screamed, brandishing a knife.
"I'm not here to attack you," said Storyteller. "I'm neither redeemer nor raider."
"Then why the hell are you here?" said the redeemer. "Taking in the sights?"
The second redeemer appeared in the window. "Are you crazy? Don't just stand out there in the street!"
"Why is that?" said Storyteller. "There is no threat."
"Are you stupid? You'll draw them right to us. The hell with this, I'm gone." The first scavenger dove back through the window, ducking out of sight. His friend followed suit.
Storyteller bolted for a nearby alleyway to await the carnage that he was sure was to come. Five seconds passed, then ten, then twenty; there were no war cries, no boots stamping on the fragmented asphalt, no sickening crunch of weapons against flesh. The only sound was that same haunted whistle that had snaked through his ears since he had neared the city. Storyteller took one cautious step out of his hiding spot, peering down the street for a solid minute before working up the nerve to resume his trek. The paranoia of the redeemers was understandable given how many of their kind had been murdered, and he certainly shared their outlook, but it was no time to be ruled by fear, not with his destination at hand.
The sun continued its advance as Storyteller proceeded north - it had been an hour, perhaps, and the increased visibility was giving him a new sense of calm. He was steeled enough to take stock of his surroundings, noting that there were no signs of recent human activity present. Surely this was as far in as the redeemers had reached, or at least as far as they'd been able to salvage. They had started from the easily reached sites at the edge and worked their way inwards, but the uptick in violence had given them cause to halt their advance. This gave Storyteller an odd sense of hope - it was more likely that he could find an intact computer in a place that hadn't been recklessly stripped for trade goods. That hope swiftly waned as he moved from store to store. Nearly every building was filled with debris or burned beyond recognition, leaving little chance that any of the more delicate relics within might have survived. By the tenth building the fear had returned and his self-doubt was already overshadowing his desire.
Suddenly, Storyteller caught a faint sound over the wind - something barely audible, the last echo of a whisper somewhere far away. There was something menacing about it, and he was torn between curiosity over the source and a dread of what he might see if he pursued it. He could feel a knot growing in his stomach, but he tried to push his fears aside and continue the search. The sound came again a minute later - closer this time, with greater clarity. It was a voice, a dull rasp coming from one of the innumerable alleys. Storyteller began to run, not even fully understanding his own fear, only knowing that he had to escape.
Pausing at an intersection to catch his breath, Storyteller glimpsed a figure out of the corner of his eye. It was another redeemer, this one bound by exhaustion and pain, a spark of terror in his eyes that Storyteller could spot even from a distance. He tried to scream out but the sound stuck fast in his throat and he fell to the ground, revealing a cluster of arrows protruding from his back. Twenty paces behind him were two men in piecemeal body armor, one of them wielding a bow, both of them smiling and cheering as they sprinted to examine their prey.
"Great shot! I'll strip this one." The second raider dug through the dead man's belongings. "Score! This one's got an assload of jerky. We can eat for two weeks on this, at least. Hey, you made the score - what do you want?"
"I call his boots." The first raider spotted Storyteller, standing paralyzed in the middle of the street. "There's another one."
The second raider smiled and advanced on Storyteller, a long blade in one hand. "Scavs go home! Scavs go home!"
Storyteller was in motion before his mind was able to fully process his jeopardy. It was simple instinct - he was less a man than a frightened deer, fleeing faster than he thought himself able. There was a sharp whistle as the first raider loosed his bow, the arrow sundering the air an inch from Storyteller's left ear. Storyteller ducked into an alley, frantically searching for a hiding place, but there was no time - the second raider was right behind him, a look of sadistic glee on his face. Blinded again by instinct, Storyteller smashed through the nearest door he could find, charging blindly through rooms heedless of what was around him. Passing through the third door, he tripped and fell into a pile of debris. With the raiders soon to catch up, he did the only thing that he could, digging into the pile in hopes that he could conceal himself well enough to fool the raiders. From his position under the debris, he could see little except a sliver of the hallway before him and the two men in search of blood and treasure.
"Where the hell did he go?" said the first raider. "You see him leave the building?"
"No. Shit, this building's too big to search it ourselves. Let's get some help, huh?"
"Is it worth it to get one dude?"
"Hey, no one gets away from us. Besides, Farseer will be pissed if we let any more scavs leave. We don't want him to stop helping us."
"That's true. Let's go, don't wanna waste no more time."
Storyteller remained motionless for a minute after the raiders left, holding his breath, terrified that their departure may be a ruse. When the footsteps did not return, and he could no longer hear the voices, he cautiously slid out of his hiding spot and examined his surroundings. By the looks of it, this building had once been an apartment building or hotel - one whose glory days were coming to a close even before the world crumbled to ash, the great fire only speeding along the hand of time. A redeemer might have seen some value in the structure, but to Storyteller it was just another memorial to a time gone by, another faint memory damaged beyond recognition.
Nudging open the main doors, Storyteller emerged from the ruined hotel and into an open plaza. The wind had abated for the moment and everything was still and placid, an illusion of serenity that couldn't last for too long. This place showed obvious, undisguised signs of recent human activity, though whether they were left by redeemers, raiders or some other unknown group was hard to say. Following those traces of life, Storyteller arrived at a scorched and barren expanse, the remnant of an old world park. Whatever had once grown there was gone - the flames had left only a few slender pillars of carbon that were threatening to crumble to the ground. There were sculptures, though, all of them damaged but still remarkably intact. Storyteller stopped before the largest - a concrete statue of a robed man carrying a scythe, its surface concealed beneath countless layers of char. Here there was a camp, and a sizable one - numerous cots ringing a watchfire, piles of satchels, even clay pitchers and grinding stones, signs more of a settlement than of wanderers. A few stray embers still smoldered in the heart of the fire, suggesting that the occupants were close at hand.
"Scavs go home."
Storyteller rotated on his heel with deliberate speed, afraid to confirm that which he suspected was true. There were raiders, four of them, positioned such that they could cut off every avenue of escape. Storyteller pressed his back against the statue, counting his last breaths as the men drew closer. The raiders could plainly sense the tension, and they relished it - approaching with small and steady steps, running their fingers along their weapons, flashing each other odd expressions, drinking deeply the draught of Storyteller's fear.
"You lost, scav?" said one of the raiders. "Lost your friends? Don't you know it's dangerous to come out here alone?"
"I am not a redeemer," said Storyteller. "And I possess nothing of value."
"And you're not leaving with anything, either, lying scav." The raider rubbed his blade against his own skin until it drew blood, smiling as Storyteller cringed. "What's the matter, you got a weak stomach? Maybe we'll let you live, would you like that? Maybe we'll just send you back to your company with a few bits missing. Pack them up real nice with a note to stay out of Scrapland."
"I don't have a company, I speak the truth!" said Storyteller, his eyes shut.
"Let's show him where we put his friends," said another scavenger with a laugh. "He can take back a few souvenirs for his bosses."
"Halt." This voice was new, a thundering bass that filled the air in the park.
Storyteller nervously opened his eyes, scanning the area for the new arrival. He strode out from around the statue with slow, deliberate steps, marching to a cadence that played in his head alone. He was dark-skinned with a clean pate and eyes of polished stone, passionate and yet stoic, blazing with intensity and yet devoid of mere human emotion. A well-traveled trench coat, reinforced with salvaged leather, hung over his stout frame, running down to the stout boots that resembled those favored by the trail scouts. He had one hand raised to the sky as he stared down the raiders.
"This man is not yours," he said. "Leave us."
One of the raiders laughed. "What's your problem? You told us we got to kill any scavs that got in here."
"This man is not a scavenger. He is not your prey, but there is prey close at hand." Without turning his eyes from the raiders, the man pointed off into the distance. "There is a group of three scavengers to the west, newly arrived and laden with supplies. You may take them."
"All right, fine. Let's go." With that, the raiders lowered their weapons and departed for a fresh hunt. There were no threats, no arguments, no profanity, not as much as a grumble or slouch - they simply left obediently at the stranger's words.
The man bowed his head. "Be at ease, traveler. No harm will come to you here."
Storyteller looked over at the man in amazement. "Who are you that the raiders respect your words? They have no leaders."
"I am not their leader. I am Farseer." He spun on his heel to face Storyteller. "You may not understand this, but I have been awaiting your arrival for a long time now."
"You...know me?" said Storyteller.
"I do not know you by name, but I knew that one would come, and it could be none other than you." Farseer gestured for Storyteller to follow him. "Come. We have much to discuss."
Without an utterance, Farseer proceeded deeper into the ruins, Storyteller following close behind him. Storyteller's panic was gone, faded in this man's presence, calmed by his precise movements and demeanor. The sounds did not go away, nor did that sense of the presence of others, and at times Storyteller could even see raiders standing about, yet none of them even approached the two of them. As incredible as it was, Storyteller felt that he was safer there in the heart of raider territory than anywhere he had been in months. It was a conditional calm, though, one that brought up new questions - questions not answered by Farseer, who remained silent as they walked.
It was Storyteller who finally broke the silence. "Excuse me, but you said that you had been waiting for my arrival. Could you elaborate further? This is all very confusing to me."
"I am certain that it is." Farseer continued his steady pace as he spoke, eyes locked forward. "You may not understand it now, but you are a very important man. Unique in the wasteland, in fact."
"In what sense? I am not a significant man, nor a powerful one."
Farseer paused and turned to face Storyteller. "Yes. If you were powerful, it would mean that you too had succumbed to the corruption. And then you would be of no value to me." His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "For your sake, it might be best that I give you the story in its entirely."
"I would appreciate that," said Storyteller.
"Very well, but maintain your pace. There is much for us to do." Farseer resumed walking, the pause barely breaking his stride. "I suspect that the two of us have certain things in common. We are likely the same age. I suspect that we shared a similar status in the old world, with similar families."
"Then you remember as well?"
"What I remember is a life wasted," said Farseer. "Where I could have spent my days exploring the splendors of the world, I squandered them on feeble pleasures and distractions. Where I could have spent my nights walking the path of mastery, I wasted them by mindlessly spreading chaos in pursuit of popularity and thrills. I had paradise, and I discarded it. This was my first sin."
"A sin?" said Storyteller. "We were just children. There is no sin, no crime in enjoying a carefree youth."
"I suspect that your spent your time more wisely than I did. Ah, but in the grand scheme, this is not important. As is so often the case, my first sin was a venial one." Farseer hesitated, standing perfectly rigid. "We are being followed. This is no scavenger, the movements are too fluid. I believe our pursuer has trained as a scout."
"...Rebecca?" muttered Storyteller to himself.
"I know well of their ways, for their skills are my skills," said Farseer. "When I emerged into the new world, I made my way north in search of other survivors. I found the place now known as Nexus, then nothing but a ruin providing shelter for a few wealthy children. They saw some special talent in me, for I had survived the trek across the wastes where so many others had become lost and perished. This was my gift, as it was in the world before - when I wish to reach some location, I can always find a way. In time, I bestowed this gift upon the others there."
"That means..." Storyteller's words faded away, dissolved by awe. "...Are you Wayfinder?"
"This was the title I once adopted, yes."
"Wayfinder! You are nothing short of a legend...I am gifted just to stand in your presence. My own voyages would have ended in death were it not for the paths you carved."
"Do not speak of me with such reverence." Prophet flinched, his hardened facade giving ever so slightly. "Yes, many of the paths you have walked on your journeys were first charted by me in that previous life. Indeed, the trading companies as you know them would not have existed were it not for my actions. They were foolish scavengers when I found them, drawn by canned food and baubles. I showed them that they could do more, that they could do more than survive, that they could use my paths as the foundation for a new world built from the rubble of the old. All of this is true, and I say it with no pride, only shame."
"The scouts and traders all take you for a dead man," said Storyteller.
"This was my intention. You see, despite my mastery, I was never pleased with what I was doing. My revelation came the night after my greatest achievement, the road that led to what the small minds of Nexus call Scrapland. That evening, I had a dream that made everything clear. I saw the world as it once was, the glory and the magic, the splendor of my youth. Then I saw the scavengers, the men with whom I worked every day - and I saw what they were doing, carving chunks from that old world, destroying it to fuel their own ambitions. When I awoke, I realized why I was so displeased. I had helped these men chip away at a great and sacred ruin in the name of easy wealth. This was my second sin, and a far greater one."
"A mortal sin," said Storyteller. "Then you came here to redeem yourself in some way?"
"You are very perceptive, just as I had anticipated. Yes, I traveled here to study the past, that I might uncover and preserve its secrets. The past is all we have that's real - the present is an illusion, the future merely shadows of what may be. But my hopes were soon dashed." Farseer gestured to a group of raiders. "One moment. I should see to the elimination of that scout."
"Please, don't." Storyteller grabbed Prophet's wrist. "I believe that I know this scout. She means us no harm, and she is not here on behalf of any redeemers. Please spare her life."
"Very well, but I hope your judgment is sound." Farseer waved the raiders away.
"Thank you," said Storyteller. "Now, what was it that ended your hopes? The raider gangs?"
"No, the scavengers. The thieves who dare call themselves ‘redeemers' even as they gouge the soul from the land." Farseer gestured towards a gutted building. "Do you see? This structure was intact when I arrived. No sooner had I begun to explore it than the scavengers came, a large team of them, and picked it clean. They broke through the walls, crudely tore away fixtures, and reduced to splinters that which offered them no profit. This building is no longer of any use to me. As I watched them ruin the structure, I decided that I could not achieve my goals as long as those men were allowed to steal from this place."
Storyteller stopped in his tracks. "So you used the raiders to stop them."
"Indeed," said Farseer. "I taught them everything I knew. I showed them how to find the paths used by the trail scouts, and I showed him how to set an ambush to take advantage of the weaknesses in their defenses. It has only taken them a few months to master these arts."
"Are you mad?" shouted Storyteller. "Do you have any idea how many people they have killed? They have turned your gift into an assassin's art. Doesn't that bother you?"
"I have lost no sleep over it," said Farseer. "These men who came to Scrapland knew the risks they were taking, and I simply could not allow them to destroy this place before I had been given the opportunity to study it. You may think that I am cruel, but since I began my education of the raiders, the number of scavengers here has dropped to a mere trickle. This has given me time to more thoroughly pursue my true goals."
The two of them drew close to a body of water, separated from the path before them by a short barrier of rubble. The water was as clear as it had ever been, a rare piece of nature left untouched by the end of civilization. At once it summoned a memory for Storyteller, a moment in the past when all had been peaceful. "This is Lake Michigan, isn't it? Remarkable." Storyteller surveyed the clearing. "I remember this place from my childhood. In the old world, there were many museums in this area."
"This is why I have brought you here," said Farseer "In my dream, I was told to build the Cathedral in a seat of historical knowledge. This was the only suitable location."
"The Cathedral?"
Farseer pointed to a clearing ahead. "Witness."
Before them stood a structure unlike anything Storyteller had seen in the wastes - a bizarre tangle of concrete, wood, metal, piping, and wire rising up several stories into the sky, daring gravity to bring it low. The foundation sprang forth from the remains of a great museum, now just a mound of earth and stone that merely hinted at what had once been. As they grew closer, Storyteller could make out more details of the new structure. It was decorated with things that he had not seen since before the disaster - television sets, medical diagnostic machines, diesel engines - all of them picked clean of valuable materials, leaving only plastic and metal shells. The building had no obvious purpose, could not serve any practical end - it was more like a memorial, a tombstone for the old world, the lonely grave of a tortured specter.
"The Cathedral of History. The thing I was called to build." Farseer closed his eyes again. "I had another dream, one stranger still and even more enlightening. This time, a figure came to me. He had the shape of a man, but there was a strangeness about him. When I looked in his eyes, I saw places beyond Earth, saw civilizations brought to ruin, saw a trillion lives on a hundred worlds brought to an end. This being told me to build the Cathedral, and he showed me how. For months, I labored to construct the Cathedral. It is built from the past itself, to contain what I was able to save."
"You did this all by yourself?" said Storyteller, approaching the entrance.
"It was my penance that I receive no aid," said Farseer. "The outside is merely a shell, and no one has stepped inside the Cathedral since I finished it. It has awaited one worthy of its treasures. You see, the dream figure told me one other thing: Most men would not be worthy to pass through its gates. I knew at once that this included me. I was to wait for a pure soul, untainted by the violence and greed of the wastes. He would be the one to enter, and claim his legacy."
"You think that I am the man from your prophecy?" said Storyteller. "How could you know?"
"As I said, it could be no other. He wouldn't be a scavenger or a raider or a scout. He would come with an intent that I might not understand, but it would not be pursuit of greed or power. It was my mission to find him and guide him to his destiny." Farseer opened his eyes, locking them onto Storyteller. "You think I am reckless for forging an allegiance with the raiders, but I am not a fool. To redeem myself of my first sin, I committed my second. Had I allowed you to fall to my raiders, or perish in the wastes, it would have been my third and greatest sin, one placing me beyond salvation. But here you stand, ready to accomplish your true goal."
Storyteller turned away from Farseer, dabbing back a guilty tear. "I'm...sorry, but I can't be the pure soul you're looking for. I am a lifelong deceiver. I have lied to strangers and dear friends alike. A man like this could never be a savior."
Farseer grabbed Storyteller by the shoulder. "Do not doubt yourself. Every wastelander I have met bears the stench of blood and the look of avarice. I see none of these things in you. I do not know what you have done before, but I know that your sins are insignificant compared to ours. Please, will you do this favor?"
Storyteller glanced from Farseer to the Cathedral and back. It was an exercise in madness to work with this man, legend or no, but there was something different here. He sensed not insanity but zeal, a trait he had once admired in his own brother. "What do you require of me?"
"Do as destiny guides you," said Farseer. "I can go no further."
Storyteller stepped past Farseer and through the bent metal arch that led inside the Cathedral. The inside was lit only by stray sun motes breaking through gaps in the structure, but this was enough to paralyze Storyteller with awe. There was a collection of old world artifacts, uncountable in number. They lined metal shelves that reached dozens of feet toward the ceiling and covered tables that filled all but a precious few inches of floorspace, but this was not what had taken him aback. Dead center in the room, on the largest of the tables, was a collection of electrical devices, all of them in near perfect shape. Sitting in the center was an old ruggedized laptop computer, a few scuffs on its case but otherwise fully intact.
"Do you know if these devices still work?" said Storyteller.
"I gathered only the least damaged machines for the Cathedral," said Farseer. "But I am not worthy to use them, so I never tested them."
"And...you have a source of power?"
"I have a generator. It, too, is fully intact."
Storyteller pointed at the computer. "This one. I must turn it on."
"Very well." Farseer flipped a hidden switch on the outside, and a gentle hum filled the chamber. A few seconds later, there was a ghostly sound as the generator powered on. "It is ready. The rest is up to you."
Storyteller pushed the power button and then knelt by the table, digging through his bag for one of the Westhigh discs he'd been given by Archivist. The disc was unlabeled, an anonymous artifact of unknown worth, but he could feel that there was something of value here. Once the computer booted up, Storyteller inserted the disc and waited. There was a whine as the machine struggled to read the disc, replaced seconds later by voices and instruments. It was music, but not the simple melodies that had filled the night sky around the fire, the kind that had kept Storyteller company for so many years. This was a lost style, something he had never expected to hear again in all his days.
"What is that sound?" said Farseer. "Is the machine damaged?"
"No...it's music," said Storyteller. "What was this band called...Stephenson Syndrome, that's it. A local band where I used to live. There were never really my cup of tea, either, but I guess I do miss them in a way. My brother listened to all the local bands, told me I had to support the town. He used to take me to shows all the time, buy CDs, t-shirts, vinyl records...we didn't even have a player. But he just had to pitch in. It was how he was, he just had to..."
Storyteller shut his eyes.