Wind spun toward Frost. “We didn’t come all this way for vegetables.”
“Fine. I’ll give you some milk too.”
“Milk don’t keep.”
“Neither does meat.”
She stood there, with no answer. She said “We come a long ways.”
Frost said “I’ll be generous with the spuds.”
“We come all the way from the parts yard. ’Cause we thought we was gettin’ meat.”
“Well, I guess you better start back.”
“You son of a bitch! You ain’t gettin’ no wagon! You ain’t gettin’ nothin’!” She jabbed her finger at Frost, took a step toward him. King growled.
Frost said “Fine. You keep it. I didn’t want it in the first place. Daniel, give me a hand to throw the flywheel back on.” But Daniel Charlie did not move. He and Frost waited.
Wind sighed, shook her head, explained to BC “We got to take vegetables.” She sounded defeated. “There’s eggs. And milk. You like milk.”
Everyone watched BC. After a few seconds he said “What!” It was like someone pretending to be enraged. He threw up is arms again, and his eyes widened around the nail-hole pupils. Perhaps he thought he was shouting, but his voice was hardly louder than a whisper. “I can’t trade vegetables. You got to give us meat. Fair’s fair.”
Wind nodded to Frost, said “Okay. Give us what you said. It’s a long trail home.”
Daniel Charlie said “I’ll take care of it” and started toward the domicile.
BC turned carefully and went and stood over the flywheel. He bent and tried to lift one edge but could not budge it. He straightened, squinted back along the River Trail and started walking back the way he had come, with his arms flopping loosely.
Wind called “Where the hell you goin’!”
Frost handed the alternator to Will and the arrows to Wing. He went to the cart. Although the woman lunged she was too late. Frost stepped away with the black plastic bag. He called “BC! Hey! You forgot something.”
BC stopped. He turned and came back. He had a foolish grin. He said “Forgot my food.”
Frost said “This is food in here?”
Wind said “Food. For the long trail home.” She held out her hand. A hopeless smile stirred for a second on her lips.
BC also held out his hand. Frost stepped backward away from him. He reached into the bag and took out a half-litre plastic bottle that was a quarter full of murky liquid. He let the bag fall.
BC said “That there’s mine.”
Frost kept walking backwards away from him. King growled again, stepped forward a few feet.
Wind clasped her hands and bent her knees, beaten. She pleaded “No, Frost. He needs it. Don’t take it. Please.”
With the hand that was holding the bottle, Frost punched BC hard in the face. BC took half a step back and fell. As if he had practised the procedure many times, he drew his knees up and tucked his chin in and covered his head with his arms. Frost kicked him in the back. BC cried out but stayed curled up. Frost was wearing sandals. He hurt his toe and also cried out, but kicked BC again. King leapt in silently, bit BC on the buttock and leapt away. BC shrieked. Frost bellowed “You made the crossbows that killed Fundy’s men! You traded for skag!” He kicked him again. King darted in and bit him again in the same place, and BC shrieked again. Frost hollered “Don’t come around here asking for meat!”
Wing turned away and stood there with his handful of arrows, staring off toward the river. Will dropped the alternator and watched, with his hands clasped to his face.
Wind rushed forward and pushed Frost away from her man, but Frost got in another kick before he stumbled back. King faced Wind, snarling wildly and flashing his teeth.
Wind turned cautiously from the dog. She helped BC up onto hands and knees. BC tried to get up but finally found it easier to proceed on all fours. Wind walked beside him to the cart. A ribbon of blood and mucous dangled from BC’s nose. She hoisted the shafts so that the back end of the cart was close to the ground. BC sprawled onto the cart. His bare feet hung off the back. He held his backside, where the kilt was torn and bloody. Wind pulled the shafts down and turned the cart. Without a look at anyone she leaned into her load and gave a grunt and started back along the River Trail.
Will took two steps backward, away from Frost, as if this tall man limping toward him were a stranger wearing his grandfather’s face. But then he stopped and lowered his hands, and Frost saw that Will’s face was also streaked with blood, from a cut finger the arrowhead had given him in the workshop. Frost ran his hand — the one that was not holding the skag — over Will’s hair, and with the rainwater that collected on his fingers he wiped the blood away.
41
The rains had washed the bridge, but King could still smell the dead dogs. He would stand almost motionless with his nose an inch from the pavement, then move quickly to another point and stand there sniffing, and then, after a minute, to another. Not even Will could dissuade him from this dismal and endless fact-gathering.
It was an afternoon of high slow-moving cloud, not very cold. A small fire of damp brush and peat smouldered beside the lane divider. It was ignored by everyone except Will, who squatted by it, feeding in twigs and blowing on embers.
Among those on Frost’s Bridge there was no conversation, just an aimless pacing, an empty staring at the weed-grown roadway, glances toward Town, glances across to Fundy’s Bridge. Most of them had bows, and they had bags of arrows at their sides, with the points uppermost so as not to pierce the bags. They had swords as well, but the spears leaned against the western railing. Even Will had a bow and a bag of arrows, both of which lay beside him as he perfected his adjustments to the fire.
Tyrell was there, and Airport and Marpole and Hastings and Deas. Frost paced as aimlessly and as worriedly as the others. Daniel Charlie and Jessica and Noor leaned on the eastern railing, looking down at the water. Only Noor and Jessica did not have bows or arrows. Noor was wearing the embroidered waistcoat, which added no more joy to the afternoon than Will’s fire. Some of the shields that had not been turned into arrowheads were ranged along the western curb.
King was so absorbed in his endless sniffing that he was not the first to notice a figure approaching from the Town end of the bridge. In fact everyone, even Will, was now watching the man trudge up the slope toward them. No one fitted arrow to bowstring or snatched up a shield. Only when Tyrell said “It’s Hemlock” did King look up and bark. Then he wagged his tail and took off down the bridge to meet Margaret, who was racing up toward him.
While the dogs frolicked Hemlock the Messenger plodded onwards with his long lunging barefoot stride. Under the pink toque he thrust his face out like a tortoise. He carried his length of rebar in his right hand.
He squatted by Will’s smoky little fire and laid down the rebar and warmed his hands. Jessica handed him a bowl of cold boiled potatoes. Everyone hovered over him while he ate. The dogs were tearing in circles around the group, but when Margaret saw the food she jumped up against Jessica’s legs until she was given a potato. When Hemlock was done he handed the bowl back to Jessica, wiped his hands on his fur kilt and stood. When he found he was facing Noor he turned away.
Frost said “You made it into Town.”
“And I made it back safe.”
Hemlock walked over to the western sidewalk and stepped up onto it and stood there tall and slouched. He faced his listeners. He spoke loudly. His voice was deep and mournful.
“I took a chance on goin’ to the market. The Park Crew was there tradin’ cordwood to Langley’s men. When they was done they took me back to the Park on their boat. So that’s how I got into Town. Well, close to it. The Park ain’t exactly Town.”