by Meg Elison
“How did you learn?”
Fletcher laid down the ash bow and took up the hickory, seeming to need to take whatever Eddy had his hands on. “From my father, of course. It’s the family trade. You a hunter? Named Hunter, maybe?”
Why do you have to talk so fast? Nobody is behind me.
“No, I’m a raider. Name is Eddy. I do hunt, though. Mostly for myself, but even then I could use one of these.”
There were bows in Nowhere, most of them scavenged and preserved from the before. He had never seen a newly made bow.
“What do you shoot?” Fletcher grinned a little, ready to show off.
Men.
“Deer are probably the biggest thing. Birds. Whatever I can find and butcher.”
The short man tapped both of his smart, square hands on the table and whirled around. He took two bows off the pile and held them up, gauging Eddy’s height with squinted eyes. He made a quick decision and deftly strung a new bow. He pushed back through the side curtains and came around to hand it to Eddy.
Eddy took it, feeling the soft leather on the grip. He held it up and pulled the string back.
“You’ve shot one before?” Fletcher cocked an eyebrow and stood back.
“Yes . . . just. Well, a very old one. But I learned as a kid, before I got my apprenticeship.”
The skin on Eddy’s back crawled as Fletcher came close. “Here, let me—”
Eddy wheeled and stepped back, lowering the bow. “No, thank you. I got it. What will you take for this?”
Fletcher shrugged and leaned back against his own table. “I usually trade for meat. Antelope and buffalo are my favorite, but I see more deer. But you’re not a hunter.”
“I’m not.” Eddy slid his pack down off his shoulders and knelt beside it. “But I bet I have something that you’ll like.” He felt down in the bottom of the pack and brought out a carved wooden box.
Eddy hardly ever got out the whole box. He knew by feel each tiny drawer and compartment, every secret catch. Fletcher was immediately interested.
“That box is a fine piece of carpentry.”
“It is, yes. That’s not what I’m offering, though.” He sprung a couple of doors and drawers open. “I’m offering the best of what my village has to offer, which is mainly drugs. I have drugs here for toothaches. Earaches. Pain. For sleep, for itch, and for being blocked up. You name it, I’ve got it.”
“Ha. You’re like the horsewomen.”
“The what?”
Fletcher shrugged it off. “Have you got anything that works on itchweed?”
Eddy pulled out one of the low drawers and brought out a long glass vial stopped with a cork. Within, bluish-white paste moved like a slug.
He stood up, holding the paste to the light. “You probably run into itchweed all the time, searching for the right wood. This here can be diluted in ten times as much water, or twenty times as much oil if you’ve got it. This will work on anything that itches, even musky bites. But save it for when you really need it, because unless you want to walk south for a while, it’ll be hard to get more.”
Eddy held it out to the man, who was rubbing his bald head thoughtfully. “I can surely use that,” he said earnestly. “But a bow is a costly thing. Takes time to make right, and mine are the best. No disrespect to your trade, but what else can you offer me?”
Back in the kit, Eddy’s slender black hands pulled out a small black ceramic pot stopped with red wax. He pulled out a second white pot of toothache remedy, just like the one he had traded for cheese. He palmed that one and then produced a tiny vial of clear liquid.
Holding up the white ceramic pot, he said, “This one is for toothaches. Rub it on or pack it into the hole and it feels a whole lot better. This black one is for itchweed, you can dilute it and use it a long time.” He held up the glass vial. “This one is just pain relief. Hard pain, like a broken bone. Or to ease someone you love out of their misery. One drop is enough for a grown man.” He fanned out his hands, offering all three.
Fletcher nodded decisively. “That’s worth a bow and a string, plus a few arrowheads. You know how to fashion a shaft?”
They talked for a few minutes about how Eddy could manage the half dozen broadheads Fletcher slipped into his hand. The big man clapped Eddy on his narrow back and the younger man tried to smile rather than flinch. He strapped the bow on his back and turned around to show the bowyer.
“Look alright?”
Fletcher stepped in close behind Eddy too quickly and put his hands to the back of Eddy’s waistband. Eddy pulled his sharp, curved knife and whipped around, his hand clamped on the back of the short man’s neck, pointing the tip of the knife beneath his chin.
Fletcher held both hands up, eyes looking straight into Eddy’s.
“I can see your gun. I can see it. That’s all. I was going to fix it for you. The bow caught on your shirt.”
Eddy let go of the man, who stood up straight and looked around. Eddy reached back and rearranged his clothes, pulling the bottom of the bow closer to his right side. He tested with his left to see if the top was in a position to pull.
Breathe. Slow and even. Eight in, eight out. Where are you right now?
He spoke to Fletcher without looking back.
“Don’t close in on somebody like that. You ought to know better.”
Fletcher walked back behind his table, wariness in his frame. “Yes, I suppose I ought to. I only meant to—”
Eddy came to stand at the opposite edge of the table. “Look. You and me did a trade. A good and honest one, and both of us got something. If you saw something you shouldn’t have, you don’t need to mention it to anyone. Right?”
Fletcher leaned forward, hands flat on the table. He spoke softly, his eyes watching people pass through the market. “I have one, too. A good one. I understand you don’t want to have to defend it. We don’t have a bullet maker, but I am trying to get the blacksmith to learn with me. Do you have one in your town?”
“No.” Eddy set his jaw and rocked back on his heels, looking over his shoulder.
Shake it off. He didn’t mean to spook you like that.
“Estiel,” Eddy said. “There are bullet makers in Estiel.” He looked at the purple tent curtains behind Fletcher.
The bowyer sighed. “So much for that.”
Eddy took a step back and nodded curtly before walking away.
CHAPTER 3
There were bullet makers in Estiel. Too numerous to count. There were armorers of all kinds, bowyers and shield makers. Smiths and engineers, coopers and explosives men. There were tinkerers who harvested the plastic gadgets of the before and tried to electrify them back to life. There were teams devoted to solar power, to wind turbines. There was a melancholy gaggle of men who tried to clean the rust and rot out of airplanes and get their engines to choke up and start again.
Most of the airplanes in Estiel were used as drying sheds for vegetables and game after their engine parts had been scavenged.
Raiders from Estiel traveled so far north that they wore bearskins for the snow. They traveled south into the sweltering tropical heat until they reached the ocean. They knew the roads and the bigger towns better than most.
These raiding parties usually consisted of four men each. They had specific instructions about what to seek out, what to pay for, and what to take.
They were never to pay for anything they could take. They were never to transport people or goods that were not destined for Estiel, despite the wonders and rarities people offered for a chance to ride in one of their roaring trucks.
The Lion of Estiel wanted things in their order of importance. First: guns. Guns of any age, in any shape. Second: the components of black powder. The first raiders to find the great northern potassium mines were lucky until they weren’t; three of the first four died in a cave-in. The last man returned and claimed the entire prize for himself.
After guns and powder, the Lion wanted metal. Brass and copper first, but iron and steel were
just as important. The raiders were taught basic metallurgy to refine their eye toward what they could use.
Paws of the Lion raided in all seasons except the winter. Each man wore a claw on a leather thong around his neck, given to him by the Lion when he received his commission. In many towns and villages, people shut their gates at the sign of the claw. In others, they opened up and traded.
Jeff City welcomed these raiders at the eastern gates with some regularity.
The raiders of Estiel did not concern themselves with curiosities from the before. They only rarely sought books, and traded for food only for themselves. They did not represent the interests of their city in anything but arms. The Lion instructed them to report back if they found a town or village that produced arms of its own, used electric lights, or had a working machine capable of flight. Toward the bottom of the list were instructions in case they found a village of drug makers.
The last standing order was for the delivery of any and all females of any age and in any condition.
CHAPTER 4
On Eddy’s last day in Jeff City, Flora couldn’t seem to leave his side. She had seen him every day, making breakfast for the two of them and somehow finding him after she was done with work.
Sometimes when they spoke, Flora would lay her light, silky fingers on the soft underbelly of his forearm. He knew what she wanted.
He had finished packing to leave. He had chosen his route out of town. He had gotten up at dawn and skipped out on her for breakfast.
He went to the market on the east side of town and traded once more for food for the road. He bought dry oats and cracked wheat for porridge, plus a little salt. He knew he could forage for meat and fruits this time of year.
Coming to the eastern gates, Eddy was blinded by the sun rising over the tall walls of wood and iron that enclosed the market on that side.
Those dark glasses the old woman had, he thought, remembering the old woman with Chloe. Got to find a pair.
The gates were swinging open ahead and Eddy heard a far-off roaring. The sound cut off, and four men were admitted through the gate. Eddy knew from the way they walked that they were armed.
He drifted off to the right, as if he had meant all along to visit the final stall in the market rather than leave. It was a cloth stall, hard-woven material for sacks or overalls. He fingered the folds of the dark-blue stack in front of him and waited.
The four men walked straight to a central booth run by Deborah, the woman Eddy had met on his first day in Jeff City. She sold fruits and vegetables, and today her table was covered in bushels of chokeberries. She stepped up and offered the men sweet well water in glass jars.
They took them and drank, making conversation with her and bartering for their breakfast. One of them bought two big handfuls of chokeberries for a tallow candle, which Deborah accepted with delight.
At the sound of her mother’s happy exclamations, Myles crawled out from under the table. Like any toddler, she held out her chubby hands and demanded the short yellow taper, wanting to hold it herself.
Deborah handed it over and adjusted the child’s bonnet.
They were a little too far-off for Eddy to hear them, but he caught a few words.
“. . . checked?”
“Yeah, she’s a horsewoman.”
What the hell is a horsewoman? Eddy drifted closer, head down, pretending to shop.
“Not her, the child.” The leader of the four men was the tallest one, with long, sun-bleached curls. He pointed with his right hand and Eddy saw a scar running down his forearm that looked like the slit in the top of a loaf of bread, as if his arm had grown too fast and simply split the skin. Its edges were clean.
Knife cut, Eddy thought, and moved closer still. Outcast?
A shorter man with a black beard pulled at his claw necklace, adjusting it. “Probably the same. They all are here, I told you.”
The blond leader dismissed him with a low gesture. “Deborah, is it? May I see the child?”
Deborah looked down and spread her hands nervously over Myles’s head, indicating a field around the toddler’s body. “She just pooped. It’s disgusting, really.” She made a sound she intended to be a laugh, but it croaked out of her, as flat a pronouncement of panic as a scream.
The blond raider leaned over the table and snatched Myles by one arm. He brought the child up and sat her on the table.
“No,” Deborah said, clearly begging. “Please, no.”
The fair hair on the backs of his hands shone in the early-morning light. He lifted up the child’s green dress and peered under.
“Female,” he said as he picked Myles up and handed her to the youngest of the four. The young man looked confused.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Hold it, idiot. We’ll put it on the truck and run it back to Estiel.”
The young man held the child like he’d never seen one before.
Deborah tore her way out of the stall and went to the child, who was beginning to look distressed. “Please. Please, she’s so little. You don’t know how to take care of her. She’s very . . . She’s delicate. Sickly. Probably won’t last through the winter. Please leave her with me.”
The young man looked up at his blond leader, uncertain. Eddy sidled closer, coming up behind the tall man, sizing him up.
His hairy blond hand reached out again and pinched the deep rolls of fat on Myles’s leg. “It’ll live through the winter. Say good-bye.”
Deborah was already crying so hard she could barely breathe. “Please. Please don’t take her. Please don’t.”
All around, the market had come to a standstill. It was only merchants and their helpers this early in the day, but no one moved or spoke.
“You know the deal, horsewoman. Are you going to let us have it, or do we have to convince you?” One of his big hands disappeared inside his leather jacket and waited there.
Deborah stroked the child’s face and the two of them cried piteously, Deborah because she understood and Myles because she did not.
“Sweet baby, I love you. I love you so much. Be good and be quiet. Be safe. Alright? Be safe. I love you. Mommy loves you.”
The black-haired man pulled Deborah away and pressed something into her shaking hands. She let it fall to the dirt and Eddy saw that it was a bullet, small caliber and handmade.
Deborah fell after it, sobbing into her hands.
The tall man led them back toward the gates, the youngest struggling to carry the screaming Myles.
Eddy didn’t fully understand what he had seen. Why would they just stand there and let that happen? Don’t they fight to keep their own? Who’d take one bullet for a living girl child?
He looked down at Deborah, reduced to an animal in grief. He looked around at the merchants, who were all very busy at finding something else to do. A few of them were hiding tears.
Fuck this.
He stepped into the middle of the road, lining them up with his eye. The sun blinded him again.
“Hey!”
The four of them turned, surprised. The blond one walked forward and blocked the others.
“What?”
Eddy’s mouth went dry. Four bullets in. I’d have to hit all of them and miss the baby and not lose a single shot. And fast enough that they couldn’t shoot back.
He started to speak and a whisper came out. He cleared his throat. “You can’t just take a child. There aren’t many of those in the world, you know.”
The tall blond man flexed his scarred arms and squared his stance. “This child is the rightful property of the Lion of Estiel. You have a problem, I suggest you take it up with him.”
Something passed between them. Some wordless measurement was taken. The blond turned his back when he realized Eddy was no threat, just a young man brave enough to yell but not dumb enough to shoot.
Fuck me.
Eddy realized too late that no one was going to stop them. He hadn’t moved fast enough, and the people of Jeff C
ity hadn’t moved at all.
Myles’s wailing could be heard until the roar of the truck returned and then faded. Eddy could hear people coming to console Deborah, who was keening high and endless now. He stared into the direction of the rising sun for a long time, until his forehead was hot and his soul was sick.
Should have shot them should have shot them I should have at least tried and shot them. I should have died for her.
Where are you right now?
It was the question he always asked. It brought him back to the present moment.
He fought for breath. He wanted badly to touch his gun but settled for touching his bow.
He walked out of Jeff City and didn’t look back.
The Book of Etta
Year 104 in the Nowhere Codex
Spring
Just left Jeff City. They make good cloth there. Bought a bow. Saw a girl stolen by raiders wearing claws. Seems like the mark of the Lion. Reminds me of something, but I don’t know what. Walked all day, headed east.
Walked all day.
Walked all day. Made arrows and shot a rabbit.
The moon was a little fatter than new. Eddy figured it would be full when he was close to Estiel. The roads between Jeff City and Estiel were deserted. Eddy saw no blackened campfires, no telltale piles of shit to show that people traveled this way on foot.
By truck, though. Maybe.
He didn’t look at the map. He followed the broken black of the old highway and knew from every map study he had ever done that this road, like all roads, headed into the old city with the Arch.
He did not think of the city.
He walked late into the day, tired but wanting to make up miles he had lost on a fruitless bird hunt in the morning. He was hungry but hadn’t caught or found anything good in two days. He had decided to make wheat porridge tonight as soon as he found a good place to camp, but made himself continue until something sheltered came along. The wind had the sharp, cold tang of an incoming storm. He wanted a roof.
Up ahead, the road humped up and over the remains of a gas station, and a smaller road led north toward a cluster of houses. Eddy quickened his step as the houses came into view; almost none of them looked burned.