Since Tomorrow

by Morgan Nyberg

  The path swung westward toward the foot of the bridge. There were three-storey buildings on either side, with erosion channels running between them. In a few places these had undermined the road, and the asphalt had sunk, and Noor had to lead Beauty across the depressions before remounting. A few of the buildings had slid down and forward and rested at angles over the old street.

  Here and there faces appeared at dark windows, but Noor did not acknowledge them. She sat up very straight and held her spear upright. It had a triangular blade the size of a hand. Smoke was rising from one of the buildings. As she passed that building, she saw without turning her head that a man with a crossbow was standing behind a glass window. Where the path ran smoothly she urged Beauty to move a little faster.

  She came to a place where the road had been washed out, and the path dipped into a wide and deep gully with sloping sides. She got down and again laid her spear and sword across the bags and held the cargo in place as best she could as Beauty inched down the slope. Beauty had to struggle a little to make it up and out of the gully as Noor pushed the cart. They came out of the gully into a circle of six people.

  There were three men and three women. Only one of them was not naked, a woman with a layered loincloth of blue and white plastic. They had grey skin that hung flabby against bone, and patches of sparse stringy hair. Their eyes were deathly tired but full of fear and determination. They stood well away from Noor, weaving and feinting like wrestlers, making noises of either aggression or terror. One of them, a man taller than the rest but with no more meat on his bones, blocked Beauty’s path. He was holding a warped eight-foot length of two-by-four, which he gripped like a baseball bat.

  Noor snatched up her weapons, and the addicts stumbled back. Two of them fell. She shouted “Don’t!” But the man swung the two-by-four at Beauty’s head. He was weak and slow. Beauty reared up, and the two-by-four hit the bottom of a hoof and spun out of the man’s hands. His momentum carried him forward, and one of Beauty’s hooves pawed down on a shoulder. The man cried out and fell. Another man, on Noor’s left, darted in, but Noor jabbed her spear in his direction. His feet skidded out from under him, and he crab-walked backward out of range. A woman on her right made a grab for the bag of squash. Noor slashed her across the wrist. The woman screamed and ran.

  Noor skipped up onto the bag of squash and shouted “Hah!”, but Beauty was already running. A squash in the bag rolled under Noor’s foot, but she leapt anyway and came down off balance on the wide target of Beauty’s rump. One wheel bounced over the man who had tried to brain Beauty. The other wheel bounced over the fallen two-by-four. There was a dull crash of buckets in the cart.

  The way was almost smooth, and Noor let Beauty run. After a hundred yards she managed to slow her down and to sooth her and finally to get her to stop. She talked to her and patted her for a few seconds and then checked the cart. One of the buckets had fallen over and lost its plastic covering and the water. One of the sandals was gone. The full bucket and the other empty one and the squash and the hay and the hooch were still there.

  She looked back. The man that Beauty had stomped was crawling slowly toward the side of the road. He was dragging one arm. Off among the buildings and the rain gullies and the stubble of brush, below the road, toward Salt Creek somewhere, the woman she had cut was still screaming.

  Soon the path turned onto Town Bridge. Just to the east she saw again the huge gully that had swallowed the Town end of Town Trail. Here it was shallow but very wide. Water flowed steadily into Salt Creek.

  There were perhaps a dozen people spaced along on the south slope of Town Bridge. Of these a few had wool garments. One had a sword that he carried in his hand. They all stopped and watched the woman and the horse and cart pass. The man with the sword raised his free arm in a kind of salute. Noor nodded. A man in a plastic shift held up a small stereo speaker. A woman called “Lookit.” She had a light bulb. Noor steered Beauty over to her and stopped and leaned and took the bulb and examined it and handed it back and continued up the bridge.

  At the cusp of the bridge a man with a crossbow stood on the west sidewalk. He rested against the railing and idly watched the few people passing up and down the bridge, all of whom moved to the far sidewalk as they drew near. Noor also directed Beauty as far away from the man as she could. The man was clothed thickly in rabbit skin and had rubber boots. He was stocky and had a bushy brown beard. Near him on the sidewalk was a pile of split cordwood. A small fire was burning at his feet. Noor smelled the smoke that the breeze carried to her side of the bridge.

  The man called “Nice day for a horse ride.” He had a deep raspy voice.

  Noor kept moving.

  “Going to give me a ride on your horse?”

  Noor leaned toward him and spat.

  “Come and get warm at my fire. You look cold.”

  Noor was past him, but she did not move away from the eastern sidewalk.

  “Really cold.”

  She edged out a ways into the roadway.

  “I think I’ll just shoot you and take your horsy. They say horse meat is good.”

  Noor stopped and slid off Beauty. She walked briskly in the man’s direction. She held her sword in her left hand and in her right the spear, in throwing position. The man stopped leaning on the railing and started trying to load his crossbow. Noor stopped about thirty-five yards away. She said “Go ahead. I’ll give you time to load up. Then I’ll let you take a shot, which will miss. Then I’ll come and stick this sword through your fat gut and throw you and your fire off the bridge.”

  The man finished loading his crossbow. He aimed it at Noor. The expression on his face was not very different from the expressions on the faces of the addicts Noor had left behind ten minutes earlier. The crossbow was trembling.

  Noor said “Can you swim?” She waited a few seconds, then walked backwards down the bridge to Beauty and mounted and went on.

  To the northwest, beginning at the north end of the bridge, rose a vast sprawl of towers, a desolate world of looming ruins. Between these she sometimes glimpsed fragments of the charred mountains. Finally the sun sank below the western edge of the broken cloud cover. It struck a pane of glass somewhere and made a point of gold until another hulking ruin got in the way. Noor checked her load - hay, water, squash, hooch, one sandal – and continued down the bridge.

  26

  It is a clear night, crackling cold. The light of a full moon is increased by a sheet of snow on the ground. The mountains gleam pale in the northern distance. The eerie light exposes the whitened wastes of the south slope of Town across the river, the crouched masses of Frost’s Bridge and the rapid transit bridge and Fundy’s Bridge and the perfectly vertical bulk of the domicile. It reveals the empty fields and ruins and foundations of Frost’s Farm, the beams and hoppers of the industrial plant, the dozen silhouettes of half-dismantled frame houses in the burbs to the south and the few leafless trees scattered among them.

  Near the domicile a small fire blazes, with people milling around it, whose shadows flutter against the base of the building. A substantial deposit of embers has formed, and around the fire there is a wide circle of trampled mud. Conversation flares up in a short loud burst and two or three ejaculations of laughter, and then it fades. In the resulting silence Frost hears children, far away from the fire, stomping the frozen surface of the one-inch snowfall to make it crunch, yelling from time to time. Frost and the other men hold plastic half-litre bottles of hooch.

  There is now another sound, something being dragged across the frozen crust. Frost lifts his head to see what it is, and then Tyrell and his woman Emma, and Jessica and Zahra. Daniel Charlie stands there weaving, staring slack-jawed into the fire, but finally turns as the sound comes closer. He has a head of dense black hair, and a wispy black moustache, His daughter Star is holding his arm to keep him from pitching into the fire.

  Joshua says “It’s Steveston.”

  Brittany cries out in her voice of a nine-year-old �
�He’s got a board.”

  There is cheering and waving of bottles. Steveston progresses from the chill moonlight into the light of the fire, dragging the board with one hand and holding his hooch with the other. “Merry Christmas” he says, and lets the end of the board fall onto the fire.

  Spark fly up, and there are laughing exclamations of annoyance or approval, accompanied by jets of frosty breath. Even Daniel Charlie gives a start. His eyes grow wide and he decides to do a jig, but he loses his balance. He is rescued by Star as he leans over the flames, waving his free arm for balance. He spills a dollop of hooch that flares when it hits the embers. His braid hangs over the fire, with the eagle feather dangling. A finger’s length of barbs is missing at the fat end of the feather.

  Jessica reaches and draws the black braid aside. “Jesus, don’t barbecue your feather.” There is laughter.

  The end of the board catches and burns with strong yellow flames. Frost watches a spark land on his fur poncho and scorch a few hairs before it dies. The firelight dazzles on the scratched lenses of his wire-rim glasses. He is not wearing a hat. His greying hair is as unruly as the flames dancing near his feet. Frost has not cheered or laughed. He takes a sip from his bottle.

  Tyrell says “You drug that all the way from the burbs.”

  Steveston says “I wanted to walk. I might never get to see snow again. Probably never at night.”

  Daniel Charlie snaps upright. “Huh? Snow?” He turns from the fire. “What the hell!” He stumbles away from the fire and the laughter, toward the white fields, muttering baffled exclamations, with Star still holding his arm.

  They watch the board burn. Two protruding nails glow red. Zahra is holding Noor, wrapped in a small wool blanket. Steveston takes the baby from her, and Zahra takes his bottle and drinks from it and winces and shivers. She leans against Steveston and puts an arm around him.

  Frost studies his daughter’s man. Steveston is as tall as Frost but much sturdier. Steveston kisses Zahra on her bare head, then glances with slight embarrassment at Frost, who manages a smile. For an instant he can see the difference in the colours of Steveston’s eyes, one green, the other blue. Steveston wobbles a little. Zahra takes the baby back, and Steveston takes his bottle back.

  In the distance Daniel Charlie is heard, proclaiming “Snow! Holy Jesus!” and they all laugh, even Frost.

  Soon the end of the board has burnt away. There is not much left of the fire. With the edge of his sandal Tyrell scrapes a few unburnt scraps onto the embers – bits of branches, lengths of blackberry vine, chunks of peat, clumps of cattail fluff. He is frowning, weaving a little. He takes a long drink, grasps Emma’s forearm for balance and squats. He and the others look up as the board slides forward into the new flames.

  “I know what you’re up to. The spuds told me.” Having come forward to push the board, Fire now steps back. But as the board catches and flares she is coloured by the increased light. The wild reddish hair. Below her poncho the dress of multi-coloured rags, the shapely calves. She backs away into the moonlight. She says “The spuds say watch out for Christmas. Give me a drink, Frost.”

  Frost says “You shouldn’t drink, Fire.”

  “Give me a Christmas drink.”

  Tyrell says, slurred “Go on, Frost, for Christ sake. It’s Christmas.”

  Frost moves the few steps to where she is waiting. She takes a drink, waits a few seconds, takes another and returns the bottle to Frost, who comes back to his place among the others.

  Steveston says “What else have the spuds got to say?”

  Fire says nothing.

  Steveston says “Come on Fire, tell us about our evil plans. We’re curious. Tell us what our evil plans are, and we’ll tell you if you’re right.”

  There are chuckles.

  Tyrell, who is squatting by the fire, says “Leave her alone.”

  Brittany and Jessica and Joshua stare fixedly into the flames. Steveston and Tyrell glare at each other. Frost’s eyes tick between the two men. Zahra looks up at her man, says “Hey, don’t. It’s Christmas.” She secures her grip on the bundle of their sleeping child and lays her free hand against Steveston’s cheek and smiles. Emma squats beside Tyrell and tries gently to take his bottle, but he moves it away and elbows her aside and glowers at the flames.

  Steveston shrugs and smiles and says “Never mind, Fire. Merry Christmas.” He lifts his bottle to salute her. Fire steps farther back into the moonlight.

  The end of the board is blazing now. Suddenly Brittany spins and takes three strides away from the fire, counting “One. Two. Three.”

  Someone calls “Go, Brittany!”

  Brittany has a poncho and a wool kilt. Below the kilt her bare legs are as skinny as pencils. She has a head of tight brown curls, a sharply rectangular face and thin lips, which she compresses as she turns back to the fire. She is four and a half feet tall. On the opposite side of the fire Steveston and Zahra and Jessica move aside. Brittany darts forward and leaps over the fire, calling “Happy times!” Her girl’s voice cuts through the night. Around the fire there are cheers. From several points far out in the moonlight voices of children and men and women call back “Happy times!”

  But Brittany’s charge has caused Tyrell to lose his balance. He flails, then sits in the mud. There is laughter, in which Tyrell does not join. Emma helps him to stand. Then she leaves his side and counts off three steps and turns. This time everyone except Frost and Fire and Tyrell shouts with her as she clears the flames. “Happy times!”

  There is a continuous noise of frozen snow crunched under rapidly moving feet as children race in from the fields, laughing and shouting. The sound grows louder. Richmond and Newton jump the fire at full speed to the cheers and applause of the adults. “Happy times!” they cry in their little boy voices. “Happy times!” cry little Dawn and Night.

  The few adults who had been wandering in the moonlight are now drawn to the fire. The cheers grow louder as the shouted toasts of Happy times! multiply, and bottles rise more frequently to lips.

  “Dad, hold Noor.” Zahra jumps the fire. Jessica jumps, and Emma and Joshua. Tyrell and Steveston jump. Brittany jumps again. Even Fire darts in quickly and jumps but does not call Happy times! and as quickly races away into moonlight.

  Those gathered around the fire, including the arrivals from the fields, have backed away to make room for the jumpers. But Frost backs away farther. He has given Noor back to Zahra. He does not jump and does not manage to wish Happy times!

  The children keep jumping until they grow silly and weak-kneed and are told to stop before they fall into the fire. With the adults who had come in with them they drift away like ghosts into the moonlight and snow.

  Except for the diminishing footsteps of the children it is silent. People move in close to the fire once more. The end burns off the board. The flames shrink, leaving mostly glowing embers, into which every person stares blankly, as if the foretaste of happy times has faded with the flames. No one pushes the board forward.

  Now there is a voice, faint but very clear, from the direction of the burbs. People lift their faces, as they did when Steveston appeared with the board. The voice is singing.

  I’ll have a blue Christmas...

  Frost produces a frown of mild disgust. He sighs and utters the first words he has spoken in hours. “It’s Brandon.”

  ...without you.

  The voice is small but every syllable is as clear and penetrating as the moonlight. Zahra and Tyrell and Steveston and Emma appear to listen intently. Perhaps they have not heard these words before. Frost just shakes his head. Then, suddenly, he looks terribly forlorn.

  I’ll be so blue just thinkin’...

  Frost sags, as if a weight has been placed on his shoulders.

  ...about you.

  The singer leaves long gaps between phrases, and is louder and closer each time he resumes.

  ...blue snowflakes start fallin’...

  No one around the fire looks very happy. Tyrell and St
eveston and Brittany weave on their feet. Joshua burps. Tyrell spits into the embers.

  ...blue memories start callin’.

  Zahra is staring forlornly across the fire at the glint of moonlight on a tear that has pooled on the rim of her father’s right eye.

  Brandon comes around the corner of the domicile. Like the other men, he has a bottle in his right hand. His wild, dark hair hangs over his shoulders. He walks with a purposeful stagger toward the fire, wearing a self-satisfied expression, as if he has a surprise that he might deign to share with the others. In his left hand he is carrying a thin flat box about six inches wide. He stops, spreads his arms, and sings, deafeningly, perfectly on pitch, with vibrato,

  You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white...

  He takes a drink. Then, focusing only on the dying fire, ignoring his audience, he determinedly proceeds. At the fire Brandon hands his bottle to Steveston, because he needs both hands to open the box above the embers. A quantity of small ornate figures tumble from the box. Immediately, small flames lick around the figures.

  Brandon sings, but quietly now, distracted by the sight of his offering catching fire,

  But I’ll have a blue, blue...

  One of the objects has bounced away from the embers. Steveston manages to hold both his own bottle and Brandon’s in one hand. He bends and picks the object up, turning it in the light of the increasing flames. He says “This is a beautiful thing. We shouldn’t burn these. What are they, Frost?”

  Frost says hoarsely “They’re chess pieces. It’s a game we used to have.”

  Steveston cries, angered “Jesus Christ, Brandon, you’ve burned up a game! You’re burnin’ up a beautiful game! We could’ve played it! We could’ve used it!”