Trader

by Charles de Lint

  I used my thumbnail to pull the blade out of the handle and it locks into place. It’s a beautiful steel. A serious blade, one that’ll hold its edge for a long time.

  “And keep the carvings simple,” he adds. “That way you’ll make more and sell more.”

  “This knife...” I begin.

  “I know. It’s a beauty.”

  “I can’t accept—”

  He shakes his head. “Who says I’m giving it to you? That’s a loan, plain and simple. I’ll expect it back in a couple of weeks, same shape as it was when I lent it to you.” He gives me that grin again. “So one of the first things you’re saving up for is a hone stone, Max, because I like my blades sharp.”

  I’m only half listening to him. I can do this, I think. I’m already remembering branches, bits of roots and the like that I saw coming here from the headland. I can work at this today, and maybe, if I’m lucky, make enough to give myself a stake. It’s work I can live with. Work that’ll connect me to what I was, that’ll allow me to think and plan while I’m hopefully making the money I’ll need to see Buddy and me through these hard times.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I tell him.

  “So don’t.”

  Simply standing here, holding the knife, I can almost feel the wood underhand, read its grain, follow the ley lines from knot to center cut and up and down the length. I’ll want a soft wood to start, I think. Something I can work with easily and fast. Cedar or pine. I’m looking forward to it, yearning to get back to it, as though working with wood is something that’s a lifetime in my past instead of only a few days.

  Then I have to wonder: Why can’t I read people the way I can read the wood?

  Bones is still watching me with those dark eyes of his, looking deep, under my skin. “Just remember how it went down with you and me today,” he says. “Remember it, and when you get the chance, pass it on.”

  “I will.”

  He sits back down on his stool and continues setting up. “Meanwhile, you’d better hustle yourself some supplies and get settled before even all the mediocre spots are gone.”

  I want to say something more. I want to enthuse about his generosity to me, a complete stranger, but I realize he honestly doesn’t want to hear it. He meant what he said. He gave me a piece of good fortune and just wants me to pass it on when I get the chance. It makes me more curious than ever as to what brought him here, where he came from, but this time I don’t make the mistake of asking.

  He smiles again when I give him a nod, as though while he’s sitting there, he can look right into me, straight through the skin and bone, and read my mind. I give him another nod, then start off across the lawn, heading for Fitzhenry’s wilder acres.

  “C’mon, Buddy,” I say. “We’ve got work to do.”

  I get maybe ten feet away from where Bones is sitting on his stool.

  “And, Max,” he calls after me.

  I turn to look back at him.

  “You need a leash for Buddy. A leash and a collar, but anything’ll do. Even a piece of rope.”

  “Why?”

  Bones points to a sign. I read down a list of things you can’t do in the park and find the one about no unleashed dogs. Bones digs around in his pack and comes up with a coil of stiff, braided twine.

  “Here,” he says, tossing it to me. “Keep this handy for when you see a cop.” I catch the rope and wonder how Buddy will react to it. Will he understand that I’m not trying to steal a piece of his freedom? That it’s just something we’ll have to do to maintain appearances, but really, he’s still going to be free to come and go as he pleases? I look down at him and his trusting gaze meets mine. I guess I’ll worry about it when the time comes.

  “Thanks,” I tell Bones, and we set off again.

  5 NIA

  Nia really wanted to know: What were you supposed to do when your world came to an end, when there was nothing you could count on anymore? What was the point of even trying to go on?

  But there was no one to ask, no one to turn to. No one she could trust to be who they were supposed to be. She had only herself—and perhaps the stranger she’d seen in the hallway outside of Max’s building. They were the only ones that knew that the pod people were really here. That there really were aliens setting up house in other people’s bodies.

  No one else was going to believe her. No one else could be trusted. She was going to have to spend the rest of her life like this, hiding, trying to be invisible, starting at every sudden noise, looking at a familiar face and seeing a boogieman’s eyes looking back at her.

  For now she was relatively safe, hidden between a Dumpster and the back wall of an alley running off Bunnett Street, sitting on a stack of newspapers that were waiting there to be recycled. But how long would it last? How long before she had to be on the move again? Hugging herself, she stared at the graffiti sprayed on the wall of the building on the other side of the alley. The words didn’t really register. Something ruled. Something else sucked. Somebody loved “A.L.”

  Nia stared down at her feet. She was cold and scared and more miserable than she’d ever been before. Last night she’d run for what seemed like hours, hard and far, half-blinded with tears, run until she finally stumbled up against the side of an unfamiliar building somewhere on the east side, panting, clutching at a stitch of pain that started where her thigh met her torso and went straight up into her chest, grabbing at her lungs.

  The trek back to familiar territory had taken all the nerve she could muster because there weren’t simply the usual dangers of the streets to worry her. There were the pod people as well. The ones that had stolen first Max and then her mother. And how many others had they taken? she’d asked herself as she skulked through back alleys and lanes, avoiding any contact with people. She didn’t know how many of them were walking around with some alien thing sitting in their heads. Didn’t know if the monsters were out looking for her right at that moment, scouring the streets for the kid who’d discovered their secret. She could only assume the worst.

  The blocks around Bunnett Street weren’t any safer than the east side. They were too close to Palm Street, the strip clubs and bars and Men’s Mission; a combat zone of hookers and junkies, street toughs and worse. The only people in this part of town were the lost and the needy, the hopeless— and those that preyed upon them. She was as likely to get mugged or raped here, as captured by the pod people, but at least she knew where she was, knew there were dark alleys where she could hide until morning. And feeling so lost and helpless herself, she fit right in with the rest of life’s losers who gravitated to this part of town. So she went to ground, here behind the Dumpster, and waited for the longest night of her life to finally be over.

  Her spirits had lifted a little when the sun finally rose, but now that the morning was here, she didn’t know how she could go on. All night long she’d concentrated on making it through the night. Well, now she had, only nothing had changed. She still couldn’t go home. There was still no one she could turn to for help. If anything, things might now be worse. The streets would soon be full of people, the sidewalks clogged with them. There would be no avoiding them. How many of them were pod people? Maybe all of them. Maybe the whole city had been taken over, everyone except for her.

  The idea made her feel sick. She had to lean her cheek against the cold bricks of the building beside her and wait for the vertigo to pass.

  The whole city...

  She knew it was impossible. But then, so was what had happened to her mother and Max. She thought of the old joke—Is it still paranoia when you know everyone’s out to get you?—but it didn’t make her feel like smiling. It just made her feel worse, because it was probably true. Neither her mother or Max was particularly important in the overall scheme of things. They didn’t have anything to do with running the city, running the country. They didn’t have the kind of power that the pod people would want to acquire. It made more sense for them to take the people at the top and then work their w
ay down to those less important. And anyone who got in their way...

  Nia shivered, hugging herself harder. She found only marginal comfort in the circle of her own thin arms.

  No, she really couldn’t go on like this. With only a few hours of being on the run under her belt, she couldn’t imagine living like this for days or weeks or longer. She might as well turn herself over to the aliens now and get it over with. Maybe, once they took over her body, they’d store her brain in the same place where they were keeping her mother’s and at least she wouldn’t feel so alone.

  Except...

  She sat up a little straighter, chewed on her lower lip. Went back over the bits and pieces of that surreal conversation she’d overheard between the alien Max and the stranger who’d claimed to be Max. If she’d understood them correctly, the aliens hadn’t so much taken Max, like in that dumb movie where she’d first heard about pod people, as switched his brain with someone else’s.

  It was all so hard to work out. Had it only happened in her building? Then why hadn’t they got her as well? A vague, kind of desperate hope rose in her. If people’s brains were being switched from one body to another, then might her mother not be out here, somewhere in the city, wearing somebody else’s skin? If she could find her mom, then maybe they could—

  The clang of a metal door opening made her jump to her feet. A tall, heavy-built man stepped out into the alley, muscles straining under his T-shirt as he manhandled a pair of large green garbage bags, heavy with refuse. Nia froze, not knowing what to do. She wanted to bolt down the alleyway, but the man was already between her and the safety of the street beyond. She tried to shrink back behind the Dumpster, but it was too late. His gaze turned in her direction, found her. Anger clouded his features.

  “Got you this time!” he cried.

  He dropped the garbage bags and came for her.

  She’d never seen him before in her life, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. He was one of the aliens, out looking for her. And now he had her.

  Fear galvanized her. She darted from her now useless hiding place, tried to slip past him, but he was too fast. A meaty hand closed on her shoulder, jerking her back.

  “You think it’s a riot, dontcha?” he said. “Spraying up my walls with your paint and crap. Well, let’s see how funny you find it when the cops take you downtown.”

  “I...I...”

  She’d had it all wrong—and so did he. He wasn’t one of the pod people and she hadn’t been spray-painting his walls. But she couldn’t get the words out.

  “And don’t think I’m not going to press charges,” he told her, dragging her back toward the door. “I’ve been just waiting to catch one of you little buggers back here.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she finally managed. “I was only—”

  “Oh, I understand,” he said. “I understand plenty. You’re too goddamned lazy to go to school and too goddamned lazy to work. Your parents can’t control you and you think you own the world. But let me tell you something, little lady. I don’t have to take your crap.”

  He’d almost dragged her into the rear of his store now. Nia couldn’t see what sort of a place it was, what he sold, because her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dimmer lighting inside, but she knew she wasn’t going to let him take her in there and call the police. The police would call her mother and then that...that thing pretending to be her mother would come down to the station to take her home...

  “Please, don’t,” she tried, grabbing hold of the doorframe.

  An incredulous look flooded the man’s features.

  “Gimme a break,” he said. “After all the crap I’ve taken from you and your friends, you think I’m going to let you go now that I’ve finally managed to grab one of you? I don’t think so, kid.”

  His fingers dug deeper into her shoulder and he gave a sharp tug, pulling her away from the doorframe. She was unbalanced for a moment, then steadied herself. Before he could pull her further inside, she hauled back and kicked him in the shin with the toe of her combat boot.

  “Jesus!” he cried.

  The grip on her shoulders loosened and she pulled free, tearing off down the alleyway before he could grab her again. He followed, but fear lent her a speed he couldn’t match. By the time he reached the end of the alley, she was already halfway down the block.

  “You little bitch!” he yelled after her. “I’ll remember your face and if I ever see you around here again I’ll...”

  His voice trailed off until she couldn’t hear him anymore. During a glance over her shoulder, she saw he’d given up his pursuit, but she kept on running all the same. Panic had taken over again, the same as it had last night. She kept expecting a passerby to grab her, for the faces of the people on the street to suddenly peel back like latex masks to reveal monsters underneath.

  Straight down Bunnett she went, across the intersection at Perth Street against the light. Car horns blared around her, brakes squealed, but she kept on running. Panting, now. Tears in her eyes. A mindless wail erupting in the back of her head, deafening her inner ear. She made it down another block and was about to dart across Palm Street when a hand grabbed her and pulled her back onto the curb.

  She spun out of the grip, eyes wide with fear, but unable to focus.

  “Watch yourself,” her rescuer said.

  When she started to go across the street again, he caught hold of her once more. A cab came by, only just missing her, the driver leaning on his horn and shouting at her.

  “Have you got a death wish?” the man asked.

  She pulled free once more, but this time leaned up against the lamppost. She hugged the metal pole, gulping air. She could make out her rescuer now, just some ordinary businessman, suit and tie, clean-shaven, a look of concern in his eyes. Cars and buses went by on the street beside her, going faster than they should, the way everybody drove in the city. On the other side of the street she could see Fitzhenry Park, the long line of concession carts along the sidewalk at this edge of the park, the businesspeople crowding around them.

  “What’s the matter?” the man asked. “Has someone been—”

  She registered the light change and bolted into the street again, this time with a green light in her favor. She heard the man call out from behind her, but she ignored him, made it safely across the street, onto the sidewalk where she almost collided with a food cart. The vendor shouted at her to be careful as she dodged it. She had a bad moment in the midst of all the businesspeople. She started flashing on monstrous faces again, pod people trying to grab her, but the crowd opened up for her, the suited men and women stepping out of her path, and then she was free of them, on the lawn and running for the trees.

  6 ZEFFY

  It was almost noon when Zeffy walked up to ground level from the subway stop at Stanton and Palm and stepped out onto the street. Immobile, she was an island around which the flow of pedestrians broke. She blinked in the sunlight, shifting her guitar case from one hand to the other. Across the street she could see the trees of Fitzhenry Park towering over the high stone wall that encircled much of the park, chestnuts and oaks, birches, pine and the scrubbier cedars. There was a gate here, on the corner, with stone lions guarding either post, but the path went straight into the park, south and east, away from the section she wanted where the buskers and vendors congregated in front of the War Memorial. Deeper into the park, the path branched off and eventually bore one back to the memorial, but it was a longer, more roundabout route. Easier to walk the two blocks down Palm Street and come to the memorial from the street.

  Oh god, she thought, as she finally set off again, joining the pedestrian flow. Her nerves were already fluttering and she hadn’t even opened her case yet. She really didn’t know if she was ready for this. She was only here because Tanya had shamed her into it.

  Never vain, she’d still spent hours deciding what to wear. She wasn’t sure of the protocol. Did she go as herself? Did she dress as if she needed the money? Tie back
her hair or wear a hat? In the end she went for comfort. Red high-tops and a Cock Robin T-shirt that she’d had made from the cover of their Best of album. Faded Levi’s and a white cotton sweater that she’d rolled up and stored in her knapsack in case it got cool. Hair put up in a loose bun from which stray strands were already escaping. A touch of lipstick and eye shadow.

  It felt wrong, but then she knew however she’d left the apartment would feel wrong. How she looked wasn’t what was giving her butterflies. It was the whole idea of standing behind her open guitar case in the park, playing music and expecting people to toss change in because they liked what she was doing. As if.

  She’d never confused her desire to perform with her ability to do so. The chops, she had. Hours of working on scales and chord progressions, finger-picking techniques and flat-picking. More hours honing her songs, her voice, her phrasing, her projection. The place where it all unraveled was when there were more than a couple of people listening to her. When there were strangers watching her, looking straight under her skin, right into her heart where she was a shy little girl again, in a playground, in the halls at school, ostracized from the other children for no more apparent reason except that it had happened, become a habit, stuck until she finally left that environment, that old neighborhood, and went on to university.

  There she was able to reinvent herself—perhaps too well, sometimes overcompensating for her shyness with a boldness that surprised even herself. That became another habit, in and of itself, so much so that she, along with everyone who met her, thought that she’d always been this way. The illusion held for her until she performed. Then it dissolved, the old hurts coming back to her when she stepped onstage, as though childhood were only yesterday, held at bay by no more than thin gauze, and she knew she’d never wholly escape the little girl she’d been. The little girl, trying so hard to please her peers, yet never succeeding.