The Signmaker

The gate to the Signmaker’s estate shouts: PRIVATE PROPERTY: STRICTLY NO TRESPASSING, but they ignore it. They have agreed that this is an emergency. Signs need not be heeded in an emergency, they’re quite sure. They agreed this by vote. Eighteen for, thirteen against, three abstained. Motion passed.

Along the Signmaker’s drive there are a succession of notices. NO CYCLING, reads one, NO SKATEBOARDING, says another. There’s even one that says NO RUNNING that would look more at home by the village lido. They do not run. Their walk is quite hurried and could even be mistaken for a jog at times, but they do not run. It is as if the motion they passed counted only for the main gate. Had they cycles they would dismount; had they boards they would resist the temptation to skate. They must be content with a hearty stroll.

The woodlands around Signmaker’s cottage are home to rare deer who are easily spooked. And so: KEEP DOGS MUZZLED AND ON A LEAD declares an old pine tree. RESPECT WILDLIFE, commands another. As they skip around the sharp bend, a particularly garish sign tells them NO DOG FOULING: CHILDREN USING THESE AREAS. A few among them find this amusing and almost remark upon the double meaning, but they can’t bring themselves to speak.

Soon they reach Signmaker’s cottage. Every inch is covered in stark commands, the notices like the armour plating of a slumbering beast. NO FLYPOSTING is the most common, replicated at regular intervals across the walls and sloping roof. On the door NO JUNK MAIL, and NO SALESMEN, and beneath the nailed-down knocker: ABSOLUTELY NO VISITORS. This one is hand-drawn on a scrap of paper and laminated. It is faded. Perhaps, they think, it was the first.

They must speak with him, the Signmaker. Only he can help them. All other avenues have been exhausted. They knock. They knock again, a little louder. There is no response. They try to peek through windows, but signage blocks their sight. There is a skylight in the roof and a glow beyond, so they try throwing stones at it. But still, there is nothing.

An idea is pitched. They vote. Twenty-nine for, one against, three abstain. Motion passed. The one who suggested the idea is nudged forward. She nervously lifts the letterbox flap and speaks to the void beyond. She says:

Signmaker? Are you there? Please, you must help us. You are the only one left who can help.

There is no response. The woman smells incense. She recognises the scent as jasmine. It helps to calm her fluttering nerves. She is anxious because she is a visitor now. Her disobedient voice has floated over the threshold. She takes a deep breath.

Signmaker, please. We cannot abide it. Last night, we all dreamt the same dream. All of us. Every man, every woman, every child. And for all we know the animals dreamt it too. All of us, all together, at the same time. We need to understand what it means, Signmaker. Only you are wise enough.

She waits. There is a creak from within, they all hear it. But no-one comes to the door. The woman looks back for help. They urge her on. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. The dream begins to replay. She halts it, takes control.

Signmaker. I will tell you the dream. Perhaps you dreamed it too? I will tell it anyway, for it needs to be told or it will rot in our brains.

A pair of lovers come from out of town. They are loud, garish, obnoxious. They drop litter and smoke. They kick the heads off our daffodils. They laugh at your signs, Signmaker. They pose for pictures next to them, sticking out their studded tongues.

They follow the path through the woods and down to Wren Falls. They strip off, not a care in the world, and jump into the plunge pool together. We watch, all of us, from the same rock upriver, the one that holds your DANGER DEEP WATER sign. And then the young woman dives down to the bottom and pulls something up to the surface. It is a sign, Signmaker, one of your very oldest and wisest. She holds it up and the young man reads the words. And the words say: DO NOT REMOVE THIS SIGN.

And then the plunge pool gives out a mighty gurgle and drains, and down go the lovers through the hole, screaming. And the falls run dry, and the trees wither, and the people of the village fall sick. And we each rush to our homes to try and save ourselves, and the ones we love. And we all find ourselves dead in our beds. And as we stare at our decaying bodies, as our houses collapse around us, we each open our mouths to scream the same scream as the lovers. But nothing sounds.

Quite suddenly, the woman is exhausted. She lets go of the letterbox and it snaps shut. She mutters:

And that’s when we all woke up.

She tries to fight tears but is unsuccessful. She sobs. A man steps forward, and then another, to lay their hands on her shoulders. They are all glad it was her, for she is the strongest. Any of the others would have crumpled at the first word. She composes herself, sniffs back the tears and lifts the letterbox again. Her voice is full now, and forthright.

Signmaker. Listen to us please. What does it mean, sir? What should we do?

They wait all day and receive no response. Twice more the woman pleads through the letterbox and twice more silence is her answer. She voices her frustration, and many others agree. Some begin to yank down the signs. Down comes NO LOITERING, off comes NO CAMPFIRES, and a NO LITTERING notice is bent all out of shape. Many others do not approve of the vandalism, but no voting is held so all feel free to do as they please. Such is the way of anger. But the cottage is impenetrable, and they soon grow weary.

They return to their homes as night falls. They are afraid to sleep, but most do. Some dream, others don’t, and in the morning they find that no two dreams were the same. Nerves settle over breakfast; the new day is fresh and fair. They begin to put the whole sorry episode behind them.

But when they go out of their houses to visit friends, or the shops, or to tend to flowers at a graveside, or just to take the fresh spring air, they come across a new sign on the village green.

KEEP OFF THE GRASS, it says. And beneath it:

AND STRICTLY NO BALL GAMES.

Word spreads. They all gather. One man has a cut on his hand, sliced by NO LOITERING the previous day. He seems proud of his injury, not shy to tell how he got it. As he fiddles with the bandage, they talk the matter through.

Someone pitches an idea. They vote upon it. Sixteen for, fifteen against, three abstain. A close-run thing, but the motion passes.

They play cricket. Right there on the green. Just to see what will happen.

David Hartley is an author of short fiction based in Manchester. He holds a PhD in Creative Writing with The University of Manchester and in 2024 he was writer-in-residence in Tartu, Estonia for the 2024 Capital of Culture celebrations. He can be found at @DHartleyWriter on Instagram.