Since Tomorrow

by Morgan Nyberg

  “Yeah. Must be. Or his dog wouldn’t have come.”

  “I see she’s going to give you some pups.”

  “Would you like one of them?”

  “I would, Noor. We have none. Grace killed them all.”

  King leapt up against Wing, and he staggered from the force. Noor pushed the dog down. The other dog danced on its hind legs until Wing bent and patted it. It then rolled over, and Wing rubbed its bulging belly and crooned about how wonderfully ugly it was.

  But suddenly Margaret scrambled to her feet, and she and King raced past the domicile and toward the old exit ramp. Their barking and yapping grew faint. Behind Noor and Wing Beauty produced a prolonged and operatic whinny.

  Wing said “Jesus Christ! I think you may have a visitor.”

  The barking now got louder. A horse came around the corner of the domicile, tossing its head and kicking at the raucous dogs. It was not a workhorse but a riding horse, a tall stallion of a coppery hue that gleamed in the cold sunlight. On the horse sat a man draped thickly in skins. A mass of pale hair hung over his shoulders, and a voluminous blond beard hid most of his face.

  Noor shouted “King! Settle down!”

  The dogs fell silent, but Beauty’s excited squealing rang out like a siren. The stallion threw its head up. Its black eyes flared. It burst into a gallop. The rider rocked backward, and his heels flew up. As the horse passed Noor and Wing it slowed enough to perform a series of stiff-legged jumps that sent the rider flying.

  He landed on his feet but off balance, and careened forward into Noor and tumbled on top of her. They both grunted as they hit the ground. His hat flew off, and his hair fell around her face. A warm current of breath burst over her cheeks. As the stranger pushed himself up, Noor looked into a pair of humiliated eyes as blue as the sky that framed his head. He cast around for spots in the muddy grass on which he could place his hands, so as not to place them on Noor. With stiff elbows and a stilted awkwardness he got to his knees.

  Although Wing helped him to rise, Wing was ignored. The man bent and held out both hands to Noor. She pushed her fur garment down over her knees. Then she grasped the hands and rose stumbling and laughed and brushed hair from her face.

  The man said “God! I’m sorry!” It was the voice of a young man, reticent but lively. “That horse…! Are you all right?”

  Noor laughed again. “Perfect! I’m perfect.”

  The man said, turning momentarily to acknowledge Wing “I’m from South. That god damn horse…! I had to swim him across beside the raft. I knew he’d try to get even. This is Frost’s farm, ain’t it?”

  “It is” said Wing.

  “I heard there might be someone here could use the services of a stallion.”

  The three turned toward Beauty’s yard. The horses stood face to face over the fence. Their heads bobbed in a frenzy of excitement, their eyes bulged, and the day was filled with their wild pealing.

  Wing said “Maybe I’ll get my colt after all.”

  The man said to Noor “I’m Blaine.”

  Noor shook his hand. It was calloused and strong.

  She nodded her chin toward his face. She said “You split your lip.”

  He touched it, observed the smudge of blood on his fingertip. “On your forehead, I think.” He smiled slightly, which must have hurt, for he said “Ow.”

  She smiled.

  He said “Are you Noor?”

  She nodded.

  “I thought you must be.”

  57

  Another winter came.

  Noor sat near the woodstove, in the wheeled office chair. The apartment was not absolutely dark. A thick wax candle burned on the table, and some light escaped from the damper of the stove. She had a little more flesh on her face now, but on this night it hung flaccid from weariness. She swung the chair from side to side, but the baby continued to cry. She rose and walked the length of the apartment, bouncing the child and making gentle sounds of “sh-sh-sh”. She laid the baby over her shoulder and rubbed its back. The child went on crying.

  She tried feeding it again, and this time it worked, and Noor stood at the big window as she let the infant suckle. There was so little light in the apartment that her own reflection was no more than a feeble suggestion on the glass. She gazed out, as if there might be things in the darkness visible to her alone.

  Now that the baby had stopped crying, the only sounds were the wind in the stovepipe and the low hissing of the damp peat in the stove. But then there was a sound of running footsteps. Noor smiled. The footsteps grew louder and finally slapped on the concrete steps of the domicile, along with the scrabbling of dogs’ feet.

  Blaine said “No, you can’t come in.” And in a few seconds the door of the apartment opened, and he was saying excitedly “It’s ready.”

  Noor said “Close the door.”

  But Blaine left it open and took the candle from the table and went into the adjoining room. Cold air flowed in from the corridor. He called “Get your poncho on. Bring Aisha. She should see this.” There was a rustling of plastic. He came out of the room gripping the heavy candle in one hand and the lip of a large black plastic bag with the other. He set the candle back on the table and eased the bulging bag to the floor. He opened it gingerly and reached in and withdrew a light bulb and laid it beside the candle on the table.

  He came across to where Noor was standing at the window. He touched her face with his cold fingers. Noor coaxed Aisha from the nipple. Blaine took the baby. She was quiet and smiled up at him in the dimness of the apartment as he made silly noises and wrapped her in a rabbit skin blanket. Noor put on her long cloak and took the baby again.

  The other dogs pranced and played as they made their way toward the river, but King walked calmly at Noor’s side. There was a path through the graveyard, visible as a darker track against the dark grass. Noor looked down as she walked with the baby, careful of where she placed her feet. Although it was a cloudy and moonless night there were hints of reflected light from the plastic on some of the grave markers.

  Noor stopped among the graves closest to the river, but Blaine went on a little farther.

  The river beat a quiet and steady rhythm against the paddles of the water wheel.

  Blaine called “Ready?”

  Daniel Charlie answered “Try it.”

  A spot in the darkness between Noor and the river produced a sputter of dull flashes. Blaine’s face flickered there, with the light sieving for an instant through the curls of his beard.

  Noor said “Oh!”

  The bulb went out.

  Daniel Charlie called “Is it screwed in tight?”

  Blaine answered “Just a second.”

  The light came on and stayed on. It was a feeble radiance, pulsing like a fragile heart in time to the beating of the water wheel.

  Daniel Charlie whooped.

  Blaine let out a shriek that startled Aisha and caused her to wail, until Noor soothed her.

  A muffled exclamation burst from one of the windows of the domicile.

  From up on the bridge, Tyrell’s cannon blast of a shout cracked the night.

  More shouts welcomed the creation of electric light. There were outcries from across the river. The dogs all howled and were soon joined by coyotes somewhere off in the delta.

  In the tiny, wavering pool of light Daniel Charlie and Blaine danced a frenzied mazurka and laughed like fiends.

  Careful to keep her balance as she held her daughter, Noor lowered herself to her knees on a mound of earth. She held Aisha in her left arm. With her right hand she reached down and touched a grave marker. Her own tear splashed between her fingers. She smoothed it away with the rainwater that had collected in wrinkles of the plastic. She ran a fingertip along the contours of the letters carved into the wood underneath. The light was so weak. Yet, with each pulse the name blossomed momentarily.

  Frost.