She is Chinese. She is short and thin and has small brilliant black eyes. Straggly white hair hangs down about six inches below a blue baseball cap that says Vancouver 2010. She is wearing a baggy olive-green cardigan over flowered pink pyjamas. She has leather slippers with borders of fur. The bottoms of long underwear are visible between the slippers and the pyjama pants. She is holding a meat cleaver.
She says, in a clear and strong voice, ‘Go way. I cut your head off.” And she waves the cleaver.
The man steps into the grass to retrieve his daughter, who stands gaping at the woman.
The woman shouts “What you want?”
The man clears his throat and says “I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was anyone here. I thought everyone was... I was just trying to get some firewood so we can cook and stay warm.”
“My house not firewood. Go way”
“All right. We’re going. I’m sorry.” He sits the child in the wheelbarrow with the shovel and they start down the driveway, with the child leaning out to look back at the woman.
The woman calls “Where you live?”
The man sets the wheelbarrow down and points. “There. At the hotel.”
‘You all alone?”
“You’re the only person I’ve seen.”
They stand looking at each other for a while. The man goes to the wheelbarrow and picks his daughter up.
The woman says “Where mummy?”
‘She died.” Having said that, he waits a few seconds. “It’s just us. Are you all alone here?”
“No, I got big family. You come here try take house we kill you.”
“I don’t want your house. I want to stay at the hotel. It’s close to the river. For water.”
“You got food?”
“I found some potatoes. That’s all. I know you’re alone here. I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to take your house. We’ll go now. If you want help with anything, just come to the hotel.”
Again they stand looking at each other. She says “Husband dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I bury.” She steps onto the driveway and waves the cleaver in a sweeping arc. “All dead” she says.
“But you survived.”
“I survive. You survive. She survive.” With the cleaver she indicates the child.
“You have food?” he asks.
“Soon gone.”
“I will bring you some potatoes.”
“Yes, bring” she says, and then “No, no bring. Wait.” She goes in but turns in the open doorway to say again “Wait.” In a few minutes she comes back with a handsaw in one hand and a crowbar in the other and no cleaver. She has a down-filled jacket over the cardigan. She gives the cedar siding a whack with the crowbar and says “For take wood. For cut wood.” She holds up the tools. “I come hotel. I stay hotel.”
He takes the crowbar. “Yes, come” he says. “I will look after you. Could you gather up any food you have in the house?”
But the old woman is staring past him. She has a fearful expression. He turns. A man and a woman and a boy of seven or eight are standing at the foot of the driveway. They are dark-skinned, African. They just stand there looking at him and the old woman.
He says to them “Are you hungry?”
16
Will stood hunched on the eastern sidewalk, forearms flat on the railing, hands overlapping, chin on hands, facing east, the direction of Wing’s farm. Frost touched him on the back. He turned slowly. Frost said “Don’t fall asleep.”
Some of the dogs were tied to the railing. Others, including King and Puppy, were free but lay sleepily on the warm pavement, twitching an ear whenever someone spoke. When Frost arrived they rose and wagged their tails and went to him. Those tied to the railing whined.
Will said “Could I do somethin’ else? I’m tired of this.” He sounded unhappy. “I’ve been watchin’ for hours. All I ever saw was a squatter lookin’ for brush to burn. And I saw a million rabbits and one or two crows.”
“Yes, you can do something else. You’ve been a good lookout. Now you can go back and help bring the soup. And Jessica’s cut up some rabbits for the dogs.” Frost watched Will trot down the middle of the roadway toward his farm. King started off after Will, but Frost whistled him back.
The sky was cloudless. In the east the sun sat low over the airport. It was already getting colder. All seven of the guards were lounging on the opposite, western sidewalk with their spears and swords. Deas, the field boss, was there too, and a couple of Frost’s younger men who had no other duties, and three of Wing’s men. All of these except Wing’s men had rabbit skin ponchos. Some of them leaned back against the railing, now and then exchanging a word or two. Wing’s men all faced the other direction, downriver, where in the distance a crowd of equal size occupied the centre of Fundy’s Bridge.
Tyrell and Oak sat at the edge of the sidewalk, watching Frost. Oak got up and stepped over the lane divider to take Will’s place, looking down on the River Trail.
Along the western railing a dozen strange shapes of rusted metal were lined. Frost gestured toward these. Tyrell stirred, looked around, rose tiredly and said “Hastins,...”
“Keep your voice down” said Frost.
“Hastins, hide them shields so’s our friends downriver can’t see them.”
Hastings and Newton leaned their spears against the railing and started laying the shields on the roadway, where they would be hidden below the edge of the sidewalk. Nordel helped them. The shields were automobile sheet metal – doors, hoods and trunk lids. On some of these, traces of ancient paint remained, like islands in a sea of corrosion. Most had holes rusted through. As the men lifted the shields away from the railing, crumbling pieces sometimes came away in their hands.
Tyrell stretched and ambled to the middle of the roadway to join Frost. He was wearing canvas trousers, like Frost. With the sun behind him his pale eye patch stood out against his dark face. He shrugged and said “I know, but they’re solid enough. Those skaggers won’t be able to shoot straight, anyhow. Not with armed men and dogs charging at them. How’s Daniel Charlie comin’ along with them bows?”
“Good. He’s working hard.”
“You got anybody over at Little Bridge?”
“If they come they won’t come over Little Bridge. They’d have to go through Fundy first. Wing’s man Pender is there just in case.”
Tyrell stepped closer. With what appeared to be an intense effort he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Frost, it’s about these spears.” He hefted the length of rigid plastic pipe. “I never said nothin’ before, but I am pretty damn sure they’d be useless in a fight. They’re way too light.”
“What would you like instead?”
“Maybe wood. Seein’ Daniel Charlie’s sawin’ wood for the bows, he might as well saw up some for new spears. Maybe he’s already got some the right size in that there inventory. What does Claws Wits say? In his book. Does he like wood or does he like plastic?”
“Clausewitz doesn’t talk about spears. He talks about tactics. He talks about terrain.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Tactics - what to do, when to do it. Terrain - how to use the land.”
“Bridges?”
“Definitely.”
“Would you read it out for me?”
“Yes. But all you have to do is ask Will. Ask him when he’s here on guard next time. He knows the whole book.”
“Frost, I can’t ask a kid about war.” Tyrell’s voice had crept up to its usual volume. All the men had stopped what they were doing and were standing and listening.
“You would make him happy” said Frost. “He wants to be useful.”
Tyrell thought for a minute, and nodded. “Fine, I will. I’ll ask him. Now what about them spears?”
“I’ll ask Daniel Charlie.”
On the eastern sidewalk lay a few large stuffed plastic bags. Frost gestured toward these and said “You got enough of everything for sleepi
ng?”
“Uh huh.”
“Keeping dry when it rains?”
Tyrell shrugged. “More or less.”
“Staying comfortable?”
“Could you send up that there hammock of yours and them pillows?”
“You mean to tell me the pavement is too hard? I’ll have a word with City Hall.”
“Who the hell is that?” said Tyrell.
One of the men at the railing, Richmond, called “Frost.”
Frost went to the railing. Richmond pointed toward Fundy’s Bridge and said “I think that’s him. That looks like his leather jacket.”
Frost said “Bastard. He’s waving.”
Tyrell said “Here’s a tactic. Or maybe it’s a terrain. Langley ain’t going to stay on that bridge overnight. He’s going to go down and stay with his soldiers somewhere at the north end. I go alone. I find a place to hide. I wait till he comes along in his Ricketyshaw and I give him a little surprise.”
“With that?” Frost glanced at Tyrell’s spear.
“They’re okay for throwin’. I throw, he’s dead, I run. We go home and get drunk.”
“I can’t risk losing you, Tyrell. Anyway, you think he doesn’t have guards all over the north approach?”
Frost looked down at the river itself. Here and there a ripple picked up a touch of the setting sun . “There’s Amber.” Although Amber’s barge was closer to Fundy’s Bridge than to Frost’s, she could be seen clearly. She was moving from plant to plant, fiddling with her roses, leaning on her length of reinforcing bar. She went into her shack and came out with a dark box-shape in one hand. With difficulty she sat on the beam that ran around the edge of the barge, with her back to the river. She laid her bar on the deck and took the box-shape in both hands. The thin, sad sound of a concertina drifted up on the twilight.
The men all moved to the railing. A quarter-mile away Langley’s men moved to their own railing. The air was still, and there was no other sound. There was My Wild Irish Rose, and there was the twilight, and that was all.
Then the dogs started howling. One by one, their song beginning as a low moan, they lifted their snouts to the darkening sky. Soon they worked themselves up, and the noise became high-pitched and frenzied. The men turned from the railing. They were angry. They looked as if they wanted to stride out into the roadway and start kicking left and right.
But suddenly the dogs stopped howling and started to bark. There was something at the north end of the bridge. The men who had set their spears aside picked them up. The guards formed a line across the bridge. Five people were coming up the north slope, three women and two men. Two of the women and one of the men were old, and the remaining man walked with a limp, but they were approaching quickly. Each carried a large black plastic bag. The old woman at the front had a sword.
“It’s Megan” said Frost.
King stopped barking first, then the other dogs. My Wild Irish Rose was also done. Frost let King trot down the bridge to greet Megan, who patted his back soundly. When the group drew close Frost said “It’s late to be traveling south, Megan. It’s late to be traveling anywhere.”
She said “I enjoyed that bag of squash, Frost. What did you think of that picture?”
Oak said “What picture?”
Newton said “You got a picture, Frost?”
Frost said “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Megan said “We don’t want to stay in Town no more. It’s too hard. Hard to get food, hard to get fuel. And that Langley’s got his men prowlin’ around everywhere. Me and these folks want to come and live on your farm. We’re all fit and we can all pull our weight.”
Tyrell was standing beside Frost. He turned from Megan and looked at Frost and said “We got Wing’s crew already. Where we going to get the extra food?”
Frost did not acknowledge him. He said “Marpole will take you down.”
Megan said “No, you need all your men here in case. We’ll find your farm. Your farm ain’t hard to find. Thank you, Frost.” She extended her hand, and Frost shook it. The others in the group also shook his hand. Megan cast a hard glance at Tyrell, but Tyrell had walked away to spit over the railing. The arrivals headed down the south slope.
The sun had gone down. There was a dense orange sunset, and a cold evening was taking shape. Tyrell turned suddenly and took a few quick strides to where Frost was. He made no attempt to damper his voice. “We don’t got enough spuds, Frost. What the hell are you doin’? The domicile is full. If we try to help everybody, nobody ain’t going to make it to next harvest.”
Frost said “People will double up in the rooms. There’s lots of rabbits. We’ll kill a cow if we have to. We don’t turn people away.” He was not looking at Tyrell but toward the south end of the bridge. He waved.
In the thickening dusk four people were walking up the bridge from that end. They stopped to converse briefly with Megan’s group, then came on again. Noor, Will and Wing were carrying pots by wire handles. Granville had a black bag slung over his shoulder. Frost smiled and walked down to meet them.
He said to Noor “Did you send soup for Pender over at Little Bridge?”
She answered “It’s done.”
“Rabbit for his dog?”
“Shit.”
“Better take some from the bag.”
The loose dogs suddenly raced toward them.
The sparse patches of Granville’s hair had been cut short. His face was less skull-like, and he had gained a little weight. He wore wool, not polyethylene. But as the dogs yapped and leapt up and clawed at his black bag and snapped at one another Granville hollered in fear and danced around the roadway with the dogs rioting all around him. There was distant laughter from Frost’s men.
Frost walked along with the group but waited until he was back at the crest of the bridge before he said to Noor, more loudly than necessary “When you go back take Amber some soup. And see if she’s all right alone there on that barge. There’s room with us if she wants to come.”
17
A frigid breeze rushed up the stairwell, moaning faintly. At the first floor landing Frost set down a bucket of water and flexed and shook his right arm and then transferred a near-empty pot of soup and a burning cattail from his left to his right hand and picked up the bucket in his left hand and continued up the stairs. A quirk of the moving air twisted the smoke from his torch into his eyes, and he had to blink and look away, but he did not change the steady pace of his ascent.
He stopped again at the next landing. There was no door in the entrance to the corridor. Someone was singing. Old Brandon. Somewhere out there in the pitch black corridor old Brandon was crooning “...and I say to myself...” He was coming closer. Frost slid the bucket of water away from the doorway and stepped back. “...it’s a wonderful world....”
A man lurched into the stairwell. There was a torn wool garment, flying white hair and clotted beard, a nose like a mangled spud, and a blast of hooch breath. He acknowledged Frost only with a glance of bloodshot eyes. Frost said “I’m taking your hooch off you, Brandon. I’m getting it on the way down.”
“No you ain’t. ‘Cause it’s all in my gut.”
“God damn you. Here, take my torch. You’ll fall and break your neck.”
But Brandon was already hurtling down the pitch black stairs with loose, weaving steps, fading out of Frost’s light. “I see trees of green, red roses too....”
Grace was waiting for him in her doorway. With both hands she took the pail of water from him and turned and set it inside the door of her bathroom. Frost took the soup pot with his free hand and stepped quickly across the room, which was lit only by a tiny fire in a metal bucket that sat below the window on some concrete blocks. An inverted white plastic basin above the bucket caught most of the smoke, and a length of four-inch plastic pipe led the smoke out under the sheet of polyethylene that covered her window. Frost dumped his torch into the bucket. There was a length of aluminum scrap beside the fire bucket. With this Frost j
abbed at the cattail until most of the fluff was freed. It caught and flared, and the room grew brighter.
Frost said “Better eat it while it’s still warm.”
Grace came with a bowl and a spoon. He said “Just eat it from the pot. Don’t get your bowl dirty.” But she set the bowl on the floor and poured and scraped her soup into it.
The floor of the room was bare concrete. It sloped toward the corridor. There was a mattress by the fire, covered by a large rabbit skin rug, and spread neatly on this was a blanket of sewn-together rags. Grace sat on the mattress, facing down the slope, and ate her soup. Frost eased himself down and sat behind her, leaning sideways and uphill, and held out his hands to warm from the metal fire bucket.
Well before Grace had finished her soup the cattail fluff had burnt up. She set her bowl aside and turned and leaned against Frost. He put an arm around her shoulders. He said “Come down and get warm by the fireplace.”
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