Since Tomorrow

by Morgan Nyberg

  Grace said “Will, can you come over here? Come and look at these plants and tell me if I should take them. I need your advice.”

  There was silence, and soon the snick of Grace’s scissors. Will cleared his throat and said, louder “From all this it follows that we should use such obstacles on one flank to put up a relatively strong resistance with few troops, while executing our planned offensive on the other flank.”

  “Will!” Grace said his name sharply but quietly.

  Will cut a few more canes and then stepped forward into the pale tangle. He pushed the canes aside with the hand holding the scissors and dragged the quarter-full bag behind him. “Grampa” he called “where are you?”

  Back at the edge of the cattail bed King whined.

  Will stopped to listen. Grace was moving toward him. He said “You know what else, Grampa? Keep our troops covered as long as possible. That’s what von Clausewitz says. So, for example, if you were our troops and I was the enemy...”

  “Will!” Grace’s cry was this time both sharp and loud.

  Will stopped, looked around, looked back at the trampled plants, started left, stopped, stepped back, started right, stopped. He began to cry, but managed to stutter “Only pursuit of the beaten enemy gives the fruits of victory.”

  Then Grace was there. She laid a hand on his shoulder. She said softly “Will, Will, Will.” He did not try to evade her. She said “King is worried. Let’s go back for a minute and see him. Your grampa isn’t lost. It’s just that sometimes he doesn’t hear too well. I see you’ve got a lot of canes. More than me. Come on, let’s go count them.”

  They weaved back along the rough path Will had made. When they emerged from the bed of cattails King rose and put his front paws on Will’s shoulders and licked at his face, but Will pushed him down. Grace dumped her canes onto the wet grass. “Let’s count them” she said. But Will just let his bag fall, and tossed the scissors on top of it and stood looking back into the cattail bed.

  Grace said “Will, don’t bother your grandfather about war. Not today. Don’t make him think about... well, death. He’s already...”

  Will had stopped crying. He said, without turning to face her “He’s old. I need to help him.”

  “I know you do. And you should. Only, sometimes we think we’re helping someone but really we’re...”

  Will spun and shouted into her face, shouted in his shrill boy’s voice “He’s my grampa! Don’t you tell me what to say to him! Don’t you ever do that!”

  Now Grace was weeping, suddenly, wildly, with her hand over her mouth. She turned and walked away a few paces and stood there sobbing. She let one hand hang limp. King went to her and nudged the hand with his nose. Grace sat on the sodden ground, wiping at her face with her hand.

  When Will approached and squatted beside Grace he saw that from somewhere she had produced a half-full green plastic bottle of the potato hooch that his grandfather kept in the bottom cupboard. She gave a last shuddering sob, and he watched her unscrew the cap, take a deep swallow and screw the cap on again. She set the bottle on the ground. King lay down on the grass beside them. Will waited.

  Grace said “You don’t know what day this is.”

  Will shook his head.

  “I guess it’s time you knew. I don’t think he’d want me to tell you, but I’m going to anyways. You know he keeps a calendar?”

  Will nodded.

  “He knows the year. He knows the month. He knows the day.”

  Will said “Christmas is comin’. That’s all I know.” He put a hand on Grace’s shoulder.

  “Yes” said Grace. “Christmas. Bonfires and singing and the men getting drunk. Have you ever noticed how your grandfather is never happy around Christmas?”

  “No, I never noticed. He’s not? Every year?”

  “Every year. Only, this year it’s worse. Because of... well... the way things are. In the past he’s always tried not to show it. He didn’t want to upset you.”

  “People are supposed to be happy at Christmas. Because it’s the darkest day and winter will soon be over.”

  Grace said nothing for some time. She appeared to want to speak, and several times made a sound or two. Finally she closed her eyes and said “This is the day your grandmother died. Forty years ago.”

  Will said “Oh.”

  Grace said “He never told me. Daniel Charlie did. And... oh Will...” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “It’s also the day your mother died. Five years ago. And the earthquake too. The earthquake was at Christmas. That’s why he’s... That’s why Christmas... That’s why you shouldn’t...”

  Will leapt up and ran to the edge of the cattails. He called “Grampa! Grampa! Where are you? I’ll come and get you.”

  “No, Will" warned Grace “It’s best to...”

  Far along the edge of the cattail bed there was a rustling. King rose and pricked up his ears and then wagged his tail and finally saw Frost emerge and ran to meet him. Frost strode rapidly toward Will and Grace, with King prancing at his side. Frost was dragging his plastic bag, empty.

  Will waited, then ran to his grandfather. Without slowing, Frost ruffled Will’s hair and said very cheerfully “Hey, what’s all the noise? I thought there was a riot. Thought I’d better come and investigate.” His face was luminous against the rain clouds.

  Will’s face was as bright as Frost’s. He said “What’s a riot?”

  “You don’t know what a riot is? I knew your education was deficient. A riot is a crowd of troublemakers. But it turned out to be only one boy. Imagine my surprise.”

  Will laughed, turned to Grace. For some reason she looked desolate, ready for more tears. Frost said heartily “Yes, if I need a general in a few years I’ll know where to look, Will von Clausewitz von Terrain von Otherflank.”

  Will laughed, an abrupt shriek. Grace shook her head and looked down at the ground but smiled slightly.

  Frost said “Here. I thought of something. A little change from Clausewitz. Enough Clausewitz. Would you like to hear something about the principles of peace?”

  Will nodded and leaned against Frost and almost put his thumb in his mouth. Frost placed a hand on Will’s shoulder and faced Grace. He said “Grandson, you’re not the only one who can fire off quotations. This is Shakespeare.” And he recited. “Sweet are the uses of adversity... da-da da-da da-da... and this our life, finds tongues in trees, books in the brooks, sermons in stones, and blood in everything.”

  Grace again clapped her hand to her mouth. Will looked up, frowning. Like a snuffed candle the light went from Frost’s face. “Did I say blood?”

  Grace nodded, trying to choke back her tears.

  “Not blood” said Frost. “Not blood. Good. Good in everything.”

  Will lifted his grandfather’s hand from his shoulder and tugged. “Come on, Grampa, let’s go home.”

  Frost looked weak and baffled. He looked as if his knees could give out. He pulled his hand loose from Will’s grip. He glanced around, as if he had misplaced something. “Oh dear” he said in his small, sandy voice. “Scissors.” Still dragging the empty bag, he started back quickly, like a man needing shelter, toward the point where he had emerged from the cattails, with Will tugging at his poncho and saying “Grampa, Grampa" as the rain came down hard at last.

  20

  Tyrell drew the bowstring back. At the same time he raised the bow. It was another cold, foggy day. There was no wind. The arrow streaked away, and there were exclamations from those who stood behind Tyrell. Two hundred paces to the west, in an empty potato field near the old railroad tracks, a row of six faintly visible black shapes hung on supports. The arrow, in its tight spiral, was almost impossible to track in the mist, but Tyrell said “Close. Not bad. So that’s the range. Them bags are Langley’s soldiers, okay? Try and put an arrow in them.”

  Five people with bows stepped forward. Frost was one of them. Each plucked a nail-tipped cane from one of the several piles on the ground. Frost hesitated before t
ouching his arrow. But then he placed it on the string, drew the bow and released the arrow. He said “These glasses are magic. I got a soldier.”

  Tyrell said “Them glasses are bullshit. You got a rotten spud.”

  Wing, who stood next to Frost, said “Tyrell, that ain’t no spud. That’s a pile of horse shit. If I ever want any horseshit killed I’ll just holler for Frost to get his bow.”

  Tyrell said “Wing, you shot good. Megan, you got about half way. Ryan, you shot too far. Noor, you got a soldier.”

  There were cheers and clapping. Except for Frost’s and Wing’s guards, all the residents of the domicile were there. About twenty had bows.

  Noor said “That arrow had a life of its own. It’s all just luck.”

  Tyrell said “No, it’s all about getting’ the right range. That and shootin’ a hell of a lot of arrows. Daniel, you got a soldier too.”

  Daniel Charlie said “My ancestors would be proud.” He reached back over his shoulder and hauled his white braid forward and kissed the remaining triangle at the tip of his eagle feather. He said to Tyrell “You teach good, paleface.”

  “Paleface, my ass!” said chocolate-skinned Tyrell, and there was laughter.

  Old Joshua said “If we just wait for a clear day we could see for ourselves where our arrows go.”

  Frost said quietly “They’d see our targets from Fundy’s Bridge, Joshua. And they’d see us collecting the arrows.”

  More people stepped forward with bows and took their shots, and Tyrell told them whether they’d shot well or not. Most of them could draw the bows all the way back. When old Brittany’s turn came she could only pull the bow an inch, and her arrow spun off the bow and fell at her feet, but she did not seem to notice. Tyrell said “You got two soldiers with one arrow, Brittany. Now, that’s shootin’.”

  Brittany shouted in a voice like a girl’s. “Take that, you dirty drug bastards! I’ll teach you to mess with Frost’s people.” Then she stepped on the arrow and snapped it.

  More people came forward with bows and took their shots. Old Burnaby. Kingsway. Night. Granville. The old man and the younger one who had come with Megan from Town to live at the farm.

  They were gathered almost under the foot of the bridge, near a portion of the south wall of a building. The other walls had fallen, forming a vast ruin of concrete slabs grown over by blackberry. This section alone remained standing. It blocked the view of Fundy’s Bridge.

  “Okay, Will” said Tyrell.

  Will and Arthurlaing and Surrey and Salmon’s girl Cloud, and Rain’s two girls ran forward beside the railroad tracks, toward the six black shapes. Little Skytrain wanted to run with them, but he was not much more than a toddler, so his father scooped him up. Arthurlaing was smaller than Will. His blond hair was long and dirty. He had a knee-length wool shift and limped as he ran. Will stopped a few times to wait for him, and then jogged along beside him. Cloud and Rain’s girls and Surrey ran ahead and started shouting as they spotted arrows and headed toward them. Their shapes grew faint as they approached the targets.

  Frost said “I doubt if they’ll find them all.”

  Daniel Charlie said “They can look again stomorrow, after we take the bags down. Anyways, there’s lots more cattails and lots more nails.”

  On the other side of the standing wall, among the bushes, weeds and vines that thrust up through the fissures of the buckled concrete floor, there was a commotion, a sudden rustle of leaves. Now a shout, a “God damn!” a “Watch out!” and old Brandon stumbled out around the end of the wall.

  He stopped abruptly when he saw the crowd. He thrust out a plastic bottle with some clear liquid in it. He wagged the bottle and said “I got hooch, Frost. I’m too smart for you.” He laughed and attempted a little dance but lost his balance and stumbled forward, then backward, then stood there wobbling.

  People watched Brandon for a while, but soon looked away. Waving the bottle, Brandon began to sing. “Frosty the snowman....” Nobody turned toward him. He could not seem to recall the next words of the song. He set his bottle on the ground very carefully. He watched it for a few seconds, urging it, with a patting motion in the air, not to move.

  Several bows lay together on the ground. Brandon picked one up. He took an arrow and placed the end of the arrow against the bowstring. He heaved the bow up and drew back the bowstring and bellowed “Robin Hood!”

  Suddenly everyone saw what he was doing. There were shouts of “Brandon, no!” and “The kids!” and “Stop him!” Daniel Charlie, who was closest, snatched the bow away, but the arrow had already gone.

  There was not a sound, not a movement from anybody as the arrow climbed, began to fall, and finally became invisible in the mist. Near the six black targets the silhouettes of the children darted unpredictably.

  Tyrell said “It’s down. They’re safe.”

  Now there was a grunt of fear from Brandon. Frost swung hard and slapped him, knocking him back. As Brandon waved his arms for balance Frost slapped him again, and Brandon fell, begging “Don’t kill me, Frost!” Blood was flowing from his nose and from a split in his lower lip.

  Frost knelt on Brandon’s chest with one knee and gripped his wild and matted white hair with both hands and thumped his head on the ground, then again, and again. Then he stood, looming over him, jabbing a finger down at the bleeding face. He yelled “Once more... once more... any little thing.. and you’re gone, you’re off this farm!”

  They had knocked over Brandon’s hooch. Frost picked up the bottle and turned and jogged away toward the children, shaking out the remaining liquid as he went.

  An excited gabble of voices faded behind him. He slowed to a walk, noticed that he was still holding the bottle, tossed it aside. Soon he heard the children. Here’s another one and I got the most and You don’t got more than me. In the fog they did not look quite real. Near the six black shapes of the targets they dashed first one way, then another in an aimless angular dance of phantoms.

  Frost stopped. He turned and looked back at his people. The jabbering mass of them. From here, through the fog, they were more phantoms. He turned toward the river, which he could neither see nor hear. He bowed his head and closed his eyes and drew a long breath of winter air. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands. Blood. This he studied for a full minute. Then he found some grass where he could wipe off most of it.

  He walked on, and there were welcoming calls of, Hi Grampa and Frost, Frost, lookit all the arrows I got. They came and showed him their fistfuls of canes. Cloud and the two other girls cradled theirs in their arms. Arthurlaing said “Frost, lookit mine!”

  Frost said “Do you think you got most of them?”

  “I think so” said Will.

  “Take them back, then. Don’t run, though. You might fall and stab yourself.”

  Will and Arthurlaing walked. The others ran.

  Frost watched them for a few seconds, then went on slowly to the row of targets. The plastic bags were simply draped over warped one-by-twos that were driven into the earth. About ten feet separated each target. Frost stood looking at them, almost as if he expected them to speak. He examined his hands again, detected a remaining streak of blood, wiped it against his poncho. He turned his head slightly to the right. Fundy’s Bridge was half visible, ghostly.

  He went up to one of the bags. An arrow was dangling from it. He freed the arrow and turned and started back. Then he heard something behind him, a voice calling his name. From the west two silhouettes were approaching through the fog, two men.

  “Their slain also shall be cast out, and their stink shall come up out of their carcasses, and the mountains shall be melted with their blood.”

  Frost sighed. He watched the silhouettes take on three-dimensional form as they came closer. The tall, bald man. The young man, black haired and handsome, with his awkward lunging strides, in his real blue shirt and real trousers. No dogs today.

  “And the people shall be as the burnins of lime. As thorns cut up shall they b
e burned in the fire.”

  Frost stood there with his arrow.

  “Frost! Frost!”

  “You don’t have to shout, Abraham.”

  And then they had stopped, each an arm’s length away, both of their faces aimed at Frost, the older man’s face aggrieved and outraged, the younger man’s eager, desperate.

  “Where’s Noor? Is Noor here?”

  Fundy cocked his wrist for a backhand slap, but Solomon detected the motion and stepped away before Fundy could deliver.

  “When the enemy shall come like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord shall lift up a standard against him.” Frost glanced at the fist Fundy was waving. But there was no bible gripped in it.

  “Where is she?’ said Solomon. “Is that her there? I see her! I see Noor!”

  Frost sighed again and gave his attention to the arrow in his right hand, Noor’s arrow or Daniel Charlie’s. Tyrell had not lied. His eyesight had after all been remarkable.

  “Will you help me, Frost? Will you help me lift up a flag against my enemies? Against your enemies?”

  Solomon started off at a trot toward the crowd of people gathered near the foot of the bridge. His father ignored him, but Frost frowned as he watched Solomon grow faint in the mist.

  “Will you, Frost? Be ye strong therefore, and let not your hands be weak. For your work shall be rewarded.” With the same hand that Fundy had used to threaten Solomon he reached out and seized Frost by the shoulder, and he glared with an expression both terrible and imploring.

  Frost turned away from Fundy and started back, walking quickly. Fundy strode beside him, still glaring.

  “Abraham, you have an irritating way of getting worked up without saying exactly what it is you’re worked up about.”