Since Tomorrow

by Morgan Nyberg

  Frost walked on in his rough sleeveless shirt and shapeless trousers, watching where he put his feet, holding the sword in one hand and King’s leash and the black bag in the other. He scanned the mob even more keenly now. The dark frames of the glasses made him look like a tall thin bird. Frost, stop, lookit. He was confronted by an old woman.

  “Hello, Megan” he said.

  “I never showed you this, Frost.” Megan had some weight on her, and some colour to her face. Her weathered skin and her white hair were clean. She had a long, well-made wool poncho and an animal skin hat and leather sandals and a sword. She handed Frost a folded square of paper, glossy and coloured. Megan took King’s leash and said “I like your specs.” She squatted beside King, who rolled over and had his tummy scratched.

  Frost unfolded the paper. It was a sheet from a magazine, a full page colour photograph. It showed a sunny day. A young woman wearing a white blouse and shorts was sitting on mown grass. She had blond hair that hung loose over her shoulders. A young man in a red singlet and jeans lounged near the woman, leaning back on his elbows. Both of them appeared to be laughing. Above them spread the canopy of some deciduous tree with a thick trunk. Beyond the tree there was blue water and a section of beach with people in bathing suits. Beyond the beach rose tall buildings, with sunlight reflecting from some of the hundreds of glass windows. And far beyond the buildings, reaching high above them, there were mountains dark with a dense blanket of forest, and near the tops of the mountains there were patches of snow.

  Megan rose and held out King’s leash to Frost. But Frost just stood there gaping at the picture as if he were in a trance. Megan dropped the leash and threw the bag of squash over a shoulder and gave Frost’s arm a squeeze and headed out into the rain.

  As Frost approached, Wing called “I was lookin’ forward to seein’ your Guccis again. It gave me somethin to live for. Now I’m disappointed. But those glasses almost make up for it.”

  They shook hands. Frost said “I can see.”

  Wing said “I can too. I can see you getting’ pneumonia.”

  Like Bailey, Wing had two guards, who nodded greetings to Frost. One of them laid his spear against the wagon and grabbed out some hay and tossed it down for the steer, who nosed it around a little before taking some and chewing it lazily.

  Frost said “I can get another poncho. But I know I’ll never find another pair of glasses that can make me see. Now, what on earth are you doing here with your wagon?”

  Wing shrugged, looked down and nudged a flake of plastic with a sandal. “I know. We should be home playing parlour games and getting drunk and enjoying the fruits of the harvest. Just like you should. But look at these folks. Damn, Frost, I can’t see half of them survivin’ the winter. So I...”

  “You brought them food.”

  “We’ve got plenty.”

  Frost looked in the wagon. There was about a quarter-load of potatoes. There was more straw for the steer. And there were styrofoam cups. A broken concrete building block. Half of a pair of scissors. The head and neck of a small black plaster swan. A plastic ice cream bucket split down the side. Electrical wiring. Nylon twine. Plastic bags.

  Nor far away several people stood watching them, eating potatoes.

  Frost said “You came all this way for charity.”

  Wing shrugged.

  “Through the rain.”

  Wing said “It wasn’t rainin’ when we left.” And after a long pause “Also, I guess I wanted to get away.”

  Frost waited.

  Wing said “One of my men died. Young Fraser. A fever hit him and he went in three days. Had a woman expectin a kid’. I thought I’d feel better here, but.... You lost someone too, I hear.”

  “Fire.”

  “Fire was famous” said Wing. “She was with you a long time. I’m sorry.”

  They watched the steer chewing for a minute. Then Frost nodded for Wing to follow him. He left King sitting loose by the wagon, and he and Wing walked down to the edge of the water, away from the crowd. Frost said “I didn’t come to trade either. These glasses were just luck.” He looked around. Although no one was near he dropped his voice. “I saw Steveston.”

  “Steveston? What Steveston? You don’t mean....”

  Frost nodded.

  Wing said “Noor’s dad? I thought he was dead.”

  “We all did. But he’s not. I saw him when I went to Langley’s place. He’s working for Langley. He makes the skag. I managed to talk to him, tried to get him to come home, but he wouldn’t come. I think he’s addicted. Langley pays him with skag, like the other workers.”

  “Does Noor know?”

  Frost shook his head. “I don’t want her to know. Not unless I can get him back.”

  Wing said “Do you think he’s still there?”

  “I doubt it. After the harvest Langley sends them away so he doesn’t have to feed them. I saw one of them just now. He stole something and traded it for skag.”

  “Did you think Steveston might show up here?”

  “I was hoping.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open. And my ears.”

  “But don’t say anything. Where do these skaggers stay, any idea?”

  “Some of them took over that buildin’ at the Town end of Fundy’s Bridge. One of my boys followed them a couple times. They live well, courtesy of Langley. There are others who hang out around the downtown market. And then there’s the bunch at his place – you saw them.”

  “He told me he doesn’t want to stay out at Wesminister anymore. He wants Fundy’s farm”

  Wing suddenly looked grim. He spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He wants more than Fundy’s farm.”

  They watched the water, but soon turned away, and it was as if the river had marked their faces with its single cargo of despair and resignation. Frost shook his head. He said “Megan traded me... You might as well see it.” He still held the magazine page, folded again into a small square. He handed it to Wing and they looked at it together.

  Wing said, with a shudder in his voice “Damn, Frost. Why’d you have to show this to me. I’d pretty well forgotten, which is good. God, where is it? It’s Kits Beach, isn’t it? And that’s the West End.”

  “And that’s Grouse Mountain.”

  “And that’s Mount Seymour. Jesus. There’s snow. Are you going to show this to...?”

  “To Will? No. It’s best if he doesn’t see how it was. He has a better chance to be happy if he doesn’t know too much. I’m not even going to show Noor.” Frost folded the sheet. There was a pocket stitched onto his trousers. He stuffed the picture into it. They started back toward the wagon. King stood up and wagged his tail.

  And suddenly Frost was running. He ran past Wing’s wagon and headed right into the crowd. Those who saw him coming leapt aside if they could. He managed to dodge almost everyone, but a woman in a poncho made from a real blanket was struck, and those nearby were peppered with her bowlful of overripe blackberries. King was on Frost’s heels, the leash whipping and bouncing behind.

  Ahead another man was running. He had a poly kilt that rustled madly as he tried to make it out from under the bridge and into the open. But Frost had started while the man was still standing quietly behind an old woman, while the man was still reaching for the spirit level that she held at her side.

  King dashed past Frost and leapt at the man’s back, and the man sprawled forward into mud, still holding the spirit level. While King snarled and roared, Frost drew his sword. He placed a foot on the man’s back and tapped an ear with the point of the sword. The man let his face sink into the mud. Frost said “Settle down" and King was more or less quiet.

  The old woman came and took her spirit level. Frost said to her “I could use one of those, but I’ve got nothing to trade. Take it down to Bailey. He’s at the far end.”

  There was no muscle on the man’s back. There was yellowish skin and there were ribs. He had hair that looked as if it could be red, but almost all of it
had fallen out. The rest fanned out in the mud from a few patches at the top of his head.

  Wing was there now with one of his guards, who stood in the rain with his spear ready. Frost stepped back and said “Get up.” King growled as the man stirred. Frost pulled King back by his leash. The man tried to heave himself up but could not. Wing and his guard helped him up. Frost said “Let’s go out where we can talk.” They walked out into the rain, away from onlookers. The man turned unsteadily to face Frost. He was young and would have been handsome if his mud-covered face did not look so much like a skull.

  Frost said “What’s your name?”

  Understanding the question seemed to take a long time. Then the man blinked, and his eyes brightened slightly. “Gra...” – he cleared his throat – “Granville.”

  “Did I see you at Langley’s?”

  The man glanced past Frost into the crowd. Frost looked over his shoulder. The tall skagger in the tweed overcoat was watching. His crossbow rested on a shoulder, pointing upward.

  Frost said “Don’t worry about him. He’s nothing. Tell me. I’ll pay you good.”

  The man nodded.

  “You were in the field, harvesting the pods.”

  The man nodded again.

  “And now he’s let you go because he doesn’t need you anymore. And you’ve got to steal to feed your habit. Just like your friend who stole the hunting knife.”

  The man said nothing, but kept glancing toward the skagger. Frost gave Wing a look and Wing motioned for his guard to leave them, and the guard went back to the wagon. Then Frost said “Where’s Steveston? Stevie– where’s Stevie?” The man shrugged and looked down at the mud. “Does he come here? Or is he still at Langley’s? Maybe Langley needs him. Does Langley need him?”

  Still looking down, the man said “You said you’d pay me.”

  Frost said to Wing “Just a minute.” He left King there and walked back through the crowd, who were all watching in silence. He found the woman he had crashed into. He led her by the elbow to Wing’s wagon and filled her blackberry-stained bowl with potatoes. Wing hurried over and added the half-pair of scissors and the broken swan.

  Frost gave Wing a pat on the shoulder and went back through the crowd and out into the rain. He said to the man “I’m going to give you a better price than you ever imagined. I’m going to give you back your health. Let’s go.”

  The man stiffened and his eyes widened. He suddenly looked capable of running fast and far. But Frost indicated the direction with his sword, and King growled, and they started walking.

  Frost looked back into the mob under the bridge. He saw Bailey open one of his black plastic bags and reach in with both hands and lift out the carcasses of two sheep and hold them up and then set them back in. He saw the skagger hand Bailey the bone-handled hunting knife and take the bag. The woman with the spirit level was there too. After haggling a moment she gave it to Bailey and took his bag of wool. The woman the knife had been stolen from stood nearby. She looked as broken as the half of Frost’s wire-rim glasses that she held in her hand.

  Frost and King and the man followed the wide muddy trail north toward the foot of the bridge.

  12

  It was cold and clear and quiet, and there was no smell except the smell of the river. The pale dead grass was wet with dew. The thistles drooped dark and soggy. Will had his own poncho, and he had sweatpants and sandals. Shaughnessy wore two ripped and dirty pullover shirts and a wool kilt and shoe-like things of plastic that Will tried not to look at. They were heading in the direction of the river.

  Shaughnessy said “Someone died at your place.”

  “Fire” said Will, and after a while “I never liked her. But I never wanted her to....” He looked away. Then he looked up at the empty blue sky and said “I bet it snows this winter.”

  “Snows? You crazy?” answered Shaughnessy.

  “It’s pretty cold.”

  “Not cold enough.”

  Will said dreamily “Everythin’ is all covered in white. Kind of like a big soft white blanket. And my grampa says if you go out in the middle of the night you can still see, because the snow reflects the light.”

  “There ain’t been snow since my dad was young. You’re crazy.”

  “And it’s all calm and peaceful and quiet.”

  Will’s coarse black hair was trimmed to above his ears. He was thin and swarthy. Shaughnessy was taller and sturdier and had a heap of almost white hair that hung in tangles over blue eyes in which there was a fleeting cast of pain or of anger. He said “It ain’t going to snow, and you know it.”

  “Hushed” said Will. “It’s hushed.” He shook his head sharply, as if putting an end to the reverie, then said “You really ought to come to my place. I’ve got some real books. There’s one about war.”

  Shaughnessy said “Why don’t you say somethin’ that makes sense. You know I can’t go to your place.”

  “I know, but you ought to.”

  “Well I can’t.”

  “But how come you can’t?”

  “This again? You know why. My dad says so.” He sounded both bored and exasperated.

  Will said “But I don’t understand why not.”

  “Yes you do. We talked about this already. A hundred times.”

  “Explain it to me again. Maybe I’ll understand this time.”

  As they walked, sunlight played on some lengths of looped copper wire that each boy held in his right hand.

  Shaughnessy said “It’s because your grampa is a liberal.”

  A rabbit darted away. It had been invisible in the dead grass. It bounded and dodged toward a blackberry patch.

  “I know” said Will “but what is that? What is a liberal? That’s the part I don’t get. Why does it keep you from comin’ to my place?”

  “I don’t get it either. Like I said a hundred times. All’s I know is I can’t go to your place because your grandfather is a liberal.”

  They were silent for a while, each boy appearing to think aggressively about the matter. Then Will said “I’ve got an idea. If you came to my place you could see for yourself that my grampa isn’t a liberal. Also, I could show you how to read. Then you could go home and tell your dad my grampa isn’t a liberal, and you could show him that you could read, and he’d let you come and play whenever you feel like it so you can get an education.”

  Shaughnessy stopped to glare down at Will. “I thought you were smart.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “If I don’t know what a liberal is, how would I know if your grampa isn’t one?”

  They walked on. In the grass near the path Shaughnessy saw a piece of a branch, thick as an arm. He kicked it. It crumbled. He said “Rotten. I thought maybe we could burn it.”

  Will said “You could come to my place and not tell your dad.”

  “Naw, he’s pretty sick. I’d feel bad lyin’ to him.”

  “I wonder why your dad thinks grampa is a liberal. Do you think someone told him?”

  “Oh, I know someone told him.”

  They stopped. “Who? Who told him?”

  “Bundy told him. When he come to pray for my dad to get better.”

  “Damn” said Will as they started walking again. “That Bundy. First he wrecks it so you can’t come to my place. Then he lets the skaggers take his bridge. Did you know he’s a bundamentalist?”

  “I’m not surprised” said Shaughnessy.

  Both boys laughed. Shaughnessy said “Whatever that is. It must be the opposite of a liberal. And Solomon is in love with your sister.”

  “I know” said Will gloomily. “That’s another damn thing.”

  Something touched Will’s hand, and looking down he saw that Blackie was now walking beside him. Shaughnessy said “How come the dogs don’t get caught in the snares?”

  “Grampa teaches them to smell the wire.”

  “Your grampa’s smart.”

  “He’s real smart.”

  Just at the river’s edge was a g
arden. There were sections of carrots and turnips still in the soil. The garden was edged with concrete building blocks or pieces of blocks. A path led through the garden toward the river, through the dark soil and the potato leaves left there to decay. The path was also lined with blocks.

  A wooden barge floated near the bank. The boys stood admiring it for a minute. It was about sixty feet long and was moored sideways to the shore. The wood above the waterline was well rotted, and there were deep ragged holes where chunks had fallen out. The near side of the barge rested on the riverbed ten feet out. From each of the near corners a rusted cable ran to the bank and disappeared in blackberry vines. A walkway of two-by-fours ran at an angle from the bank up to the deck of the barge.

  “Daniel Charlie made that for her” said Will. “It’s called a gangplank.”

  Will went first up the walkway, then Shaughnessy. Blackie refused to attempt it and sat on the bank with his ears erect, looking worried, whining a little.

  The deck of the barge sloped away slightly. A dozen large plastic flower pots lined its edges, and in each pot there was a rose plant. On a few of the plants there were still some blossoms, red and orange. In the middle of the deck sat a ragged-looking shack of corrugated fibreglass panels, concrete blocks, vinyl siding and sheets of polyethylene. An old woman emerged.