Runtlings

A conversation between two beings in a strange place not too far from here. Have a listen in and maybe you'll walk away slightly more wisdomed.

Imagine, if only for a moment, drifting gently upon the open seas of Infinity and somehow chancing upon one of the few snug spots in all that any self-respecting abyss has to offer. You may walk inside, notice the warmth of the long-burning fire in its blackened hearth. Directly above it on a wall torn to pieces through the unflinching ravages of both time and booming laughter hangs a battered old clock refusing to give its last ticks.

Now, look off to one side, just over there by that grubby little landscape painting, and you’ll notice two of this little burgh’s finest types holding one of their regular conversations. There’s no point in trying to ignore them, even if you left, because the pair of them are every bit as expected here as they are everywhere else. Always arriving at the same time and one never leaving earlier than the other. The first, a portly little being with bald spots and bushy brown whiskers hanging down his chin, speaks to his companion, the tall man in the impossibly long black coat, its collars sharp enough to cut steel. Both are imbibing the liquid enchantium because, you see, that is just what such specimens as these two will do. Now, to their conversation. Let the bushy little man speak first.

“What a calamity!” he shouts, spilling his drink.

“Trouble, I take it?” replies the tall man, unemotionally.

“About as much as I can stomach. You see, it’s not my trouble to sorrow over, I take care never to stock that sort of thing, but this time it’s got me well and good.”

“Well, out with it! Sounds like an interesting mine indeed.”

The bushy man sighed and placed his drink on the rickety wooden table between them, the glass wobbling precariously. He cast a pair of weary eyes down to it.

“I’ll have to begin at the beginning.”

“No better place to start.”

“This is true. A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless for fear of receiving a name, decided to go for a walk one gloriously black night, down perhaps every laneway and roaming path one could possibly hope to imagine. He needed to travel them all, each and every last one you see, for a very specific reason.”

He paused and sipped his drink, meeting his companion’s gaze. The tall man’s collars matched the sharpness of his words.

“Reasons aren’t hard to come by.”

“No, most definitely not. Nor are the nights normally short. Especially considering what this friend of mine was running from.” the bushy man stared across the snug to the door, as though half-expecting the pursuer in question to come bursting through it any moment. The tall man stroked his stubble-spiked chin and swirled the liquid in his glass, his lips pursed in deep thought.

“Has a crime been committed?”

The bushy man didn’t break his gaze from the door.

“Only against himself. You see, he made the horrible mistake of letting the Runtlings in.” he let out a deep sigh and shook his head, taking up his glass and downing the rest of his drink. Not the sort of exercise usually permitted in the snug, the tall man thought. The sparkle of their corner had suddenly gone out. Maybe if he wracked his brain hard enough he’d come by one of those busybodies with a jangling toolbox who could reach in and set it right. Restore the sparkle. He looked over at the bushy man, whose eyes were unfocused, scattering themselves all over the snug.

“My memory banks seem to have run dry. Remind me again of these Runtlings you speak of.”

The bushy man immediately perked up at their mention, as though a lightning bolt had pierced his skull. His eyes ceased their scattering.

“Why, the Runtlings are devious little devils! They chitter, chitter, chitter away all day long! If you stop, stand stiller than Death itself, you’ll hear them and their pattering feet! Always there, always travelling…” he stopped, looking as though he was ready to discharge the slush of his entire being onto the dusty wooden floor whose patterns he’d studied so closely. Sometimes, he remembered fondly, when the rich ambers of the flickering fire met its many grooves and ridges, one could almost imagine an entire civilisation existing beneath their feet, its inhabitants carving their homes from wood fibres and debating their borders with harangued officials in great halls all but invisible to the naked eye. Perhaps someday these two characters would chance upon an invitation to discuss the plight of the floor peoples, but in the interests of all-consuming time we return to their Runtlings. The bushy man continued his tirade with an admirable passion, gesticulating wildly.

“Runtlings obey no laws nor spare even the faintest morsel of mercy to the deserving. They wait until such a time has been established, then launch their invasions with the utmost secrecy, striking like thieves in the night!”

The tall man took another moment from an ever growing pile of many others already spent.

“What do they look like? Like spiderbugs perhaps?”

The bushy man chuckled at that and let out a wide, knowing smile, poking his tongue out between a neat gap in his teeth.

“Why, there’s the question of all questions! Nobody really knows. Certainly nothing like spiderbugs. Some say they’re fuzzy grey creatures with little spiky feet, others say they’re made from ghosts, but all can agree that when they’re present, you feel them. Whether with spikes or whispers.”

“I find that very concerning.”

“Well of course. That’s the natural order of things.”

“And they’re in all of us?”

“Yes. Men and women. The Runtlings’ crimes are many but if we are to give them any credit, much as you shouldn’t, equality is one of them. But the problem is their being there in the first place. No matter who you are, they burrow and burrow till their needling little feet haven’t missed even one spot.”

“Hmmm.” The tall man folded his arms and placed his back against the wall, digging his neck into his collar as far as it would go. They didn’t speak for some time, preferring instead to listen to the cosy crackling of the flames.

The tall man looked up, something striking him out of the blue.

“Can they be killed?” he asked, the seriousness of the situation apparent in his voice. His hands tugged at his collar. The bushy man considered the question, motioned to the snug’s owner for another round, then replied in suitably grave tones.

“Death has no dealings with them. They’re too fickle for it. Some may even say the two of them are related. But it doesn’t matter. You’ll understand why when I finish this tale of woe.”

Their drinks arrived. Both kept absolutely silent until the interloper had melted back into the shadows. Mutual suspicion was their currency. For all they knew, he’d been listening to everything they were saying, a mortal error in a place such as this. The Runtlings may even have ordered him over. Anything made sense. When it was safe, the two raised their glasses to each other, each admiring the rich golden liquid dancing inside.

The bushy man took a long drink, some of it dribbling down his lips, and wiped his mouth before continuing.

“So, this friend of mine continued walking. He had to. Down the many ways that cut the darkness, across fields with no name, all around silent dwellings. All the while, the world was at his back trying to catch up with him. Then he had to contend with the Runtlings making their noise all the while, filling the air with their forever questions! Such talkative little scrunts, you wouldn’t believe it!”

The tall man decided this was appalling behaviour altogether.

“Others may say the same about us. But at least we have the decency not to destroy their quiet spaces!” the tall man exclaimed. The bushy man nodded wildly in agreement, feeling on the verge of pounding the table in blind fury at the sheer outrage of it all. The Runtlings and their blatant disregard for the normal course of things!

“Indeed, we understand the fine art of letting our lips paint the shadows! But see, so do the Runtlings. Their shadows are our shadows. No man, try as he might, can brighten his own shadows.”

“Even with strong intent?”

The bushy man grimaced, as though he was being reminded of something.

“That…doesn’t count for much against the Runtlings. They’re so very clever, cleverer than all of history’s minds put together. They’re totally self-sustaining.”

The tall man noticed him gazing past him into a corner close to where they stood. The fire let out a few ferocious crackles, its embers illuminating the choking darkness with bright orange flares for perhaps fractions of a second. In those very briefest of moments, he may have seen what looked to be an even taller man standing there watching them. But soon the darkness pulled its blanket over him, leaving only the corner and its luring emptiness. He glanced at the bushy man to check if he’d seen the man too. But he was busy eviscerating his drink.

Maybe the Runtlings had gotten to them already. They’d snuck in under the cover of normal conversation, ruining the snug’s reputation for accepting only the wholesome and nothing less. Yet here they were.

Bushy man stroked his whiskers, his eyes ablaze, mouth hanging open with a waiting eagerness to speak. The tall man’s fingers ignored his collars, despite their pleas, and instead tapped his friend on the shoulder.

“Why are the Runtlings self-sustaining?” he asked, his voice holding some kind of authority he didn’t know he possessed until now. The bushy man glossed right over it, words avalanching from his lips.

“Well…they breed. Every morning, a new one is born, says its piece at some point during the day, then gets shown the door once it’s had sufficient input. Then, the next day, in comes its replacement. The magical never-ending factory line continues. Life goes on. The Runtlings work their poison until it doesn’t.” his face fell. “Such a dangerous position for us bonebags.” He noticed his drink empty and tapped a finger on his forehead. “The Runtlings know their tricks.”

“What became of your friend?”

“Oh, yes!”

The bushy man called out for more drinks and turned back to the tall man.

“He travelled the night for, oh, however long, feeling the world’s tongue licking the back of his legs, the Runtlings’ steps wearing him down and tickling his senses the further he got, down deserted lanes and past desolate dwellings with good enough sense to keep the doors barred to such tragedy. But he was determined, that’s what the Runtlings didn’t count on. The night urged him to continue on despite his bleeding feet and pounding head.”

“Brave, brave indeed! The Runtlings had met their match, it seems.”

“Some may say foolhardy. But they never come here. It reminds me of the man who once did everything wrong and continued doing so simply to see where he’d end up. Those the snug banished would have decried him an idiot, a master of elaborate self-destruction. But there’s others like us whose cranial faculties can appreciate the opposite end. Wonder what he’s doing now…”

“Likely still everything wrong. But do go on. About your friend.” the tall man swallowed his drink the second it arrived, throwing a wary glance to the interloper as he left. The bushy man kept on, his voice full of emotion.

“Well, he came to a crossroads, darkness lying in each end, and collapsed, letting the Runtlings walk all over him and the night’s worst workings follow with them. Body and soul had been exhausted, their reserves shattered beyond any hope of replenishment. His eyes looked back the way he came. He thought over all those inches of ground gained, the abominable scrug, muck and mettle he’d taken pains to cover would have meant nothing if he succumbed fully. Their chittering, their steps, their endless taunts would have peeled back all that progress and reset his clock to absolute zero.”

“Not a beautisome place.”

“It depends who one asks, of course. But my friend found himself presented with that rarest of all commodities; a decision. Not the kind we take for granted, but the kind carrying almost enough weight to best the universe itself. One he knew that, despite the Runtlings’ ferocity, had the power to change things for good.”

He leaned forward, drink in hand, his eyes sparkling like sunshine on water. The firelight caught his whiskers a certain way, giving him the appearance of a wizened old hermit brimming with wisdom. His speech took on a similar character. A man who had waited long enough to say what he was about to say.

“The things we look for the hardest during our little slices of existence are inevitably well hidden. You know that as well as I do. You bought that coat with the purpose of buying an even better one someday far from now. It’s a good coat, yes, but not quite good enough. You’ll someday purchase another that’s yet closer to the dream. My point is, that which we seek is always searched for in precisely the wrong places. Including this very snug, as a matter of fact. Most dream a place such as this yet never find it. Yet when one visits here, it’s the first of its kind they’ll encounter.”

He smiled, a tear running down one cheek. The tall man drank, trying himself to keep emotion at bay. He cocked one eyebrow. “What’s your point?” he asked, keeping it raised in the kind of expectation that arises from the sort of friendship known best to the snug.

“He realised that the solution to the Runtlings lay right before him, as though the skydragons themselves had flitted down to give it to him specially. It came to him as clear as the roads that stretch into the night. You can’t beat the Runtlings, we’ve established that, and you most certainly can’t join them, but there does remain one option to the enlightened.”

The bushy man looked at his friend, using his sleeve to mop up the growing tears, some of them landing in his drink. He wore a smile wide enough to split his face in two.

“You can always ignore them.”

He leaned back, releasing a very long sigh of contentment, leaving the tall man to stare at the ceiling for a long time, stirring an impossibly big pot of mental soup as he nursed his glass. As he drank, the flavours came to him with perfect clarity, each of them bold, rich and the perfect complement to such an intriguing story just told.

He looked around the snug, at its walls that had borne witness to countless others in their long lifetime. The walls would stand for many a lifetime more and the fire would always burn brightly. Perhaps, the thought struck him, they were powered by the very people who came to greet them.

All of it was a feast for thought, and most importantly, no Runtlings had come round to disturb it, try as those little dastards might.

He glanced over at the bushy man, who had resorted to the time honoured tradition of twirling the remaining liquid in his glass, not one drop escaping his scrutiny. The tall man watched him a while before breaking the silence, almost having to shout to capture his friend’s attention. He looked up at him, his eyes full of questioning.

“Only one question remains,” he mused, “Did your friend return the way he came?”

The bushy man fell silent for quite some time. His silence caused the tall man concern as he tried to ignore the heart thrashing in his chest, impatiently hammering against his ribcage. The lack of resolution was enough to drive any being nutty. Eventually, his friend rediscovered himself and spoke, allowing another wide grin to spread itself across his features.

“Of course not.” he chuckled, twirling his whiskers.

“Oh.” was all the reaction the tall man could muster. Not out of apathy, but a deep relief he found hard to fathom. But he wasn’t worried. Time had its medicine for things like that.

“Oh, indeed.” his friend said, grasping his energy. And drink.

And so the snug reclaimed the peace and quiet it held so close. The walls stood firm. The fire burned. The two companions fell dormant, lapsing into pleasant nothingness, nothing more to discuss and nothing more to think.

Especially concerning the Runtlings. They’d had their say.