by Moira Young
Dammit, Em! I says. Now look what you done! She jest looks at me, dazed. Take tiny sips, I says. Or you’ll git the cramp.
When I think she’s had enough, when she starts to look a bit better, I give Nero a drink, then fill a tinny fer Nudd that he empties with two slurps of his big pink tongue.
I squeeze the skin to see what we got left. Git a sick feelin. Half a skin. That’s it. I take the tiniest sip myself, then slip it back over my shoulder.
Emmi’s sittin up. She looks at me, her blue eyes bright in her dusty face. An I wonder why I never noticed it before. Her eyes is jest like Lugh’s.
Sorry, Saba, she says.
Ferget it, I says. It was time fer a break anyway.
I’m jest liftin Emmi back onto Nudd so’s we can git goin agin.
The wind flings sand into my eyes. I pull my sheema down to pertect ’em. Wind’s pickin up agin, I says. We’ll hafta watch it. I go to yank Em’s sheema down too, but she stops my hand.
What’s that? she says.
What’s what? I says.
That. She points straight ahead. Over there.
I look. A plume of dust, bout a league away, is rollin towards us.
What is it? says Emmi. Another dust storm?
I shade my eyes an squint. I dunno, I says. It’s too far away to tell yet an there’s too much dust, I … hang on.
What? says Emmi.
Looks like a sail, I says, frownin.
You mean … a sail on a boat? Like the one Lugh made fer the skiff?
Yeah, I says. That kinda sail.
But boats go on water, she says. Not on land.
The dust clears fer a moment an I see what’s comin at us. This one does, I says.
It’s a boat all right. Well, more like a raft from the look of it. A flat wooden platform ridin high offa the ground on big tires. A hut in the middle, tucked right aginst the mast. A patchwork sail billows out, filled with the wind. It’s headed this way.
They must of seen us by now. I look around. Nowhere to hide. Not a hummock, not even a rock. Flat in every direction.
I slip my crossbow offa my back. Hand the waterskin to Emmi.
All right, Em, I says. Listen to me an listen good. If I tell you to go, you go. No questions, no backchat, no tricks. You turn Nudd around an ride outta here. Let him have his head an he’ll take you back to Mercy at Crosscreek. He knows his way home. An he’ll know where to find water. If Nudd drinks it, that means it’s safe fer you to drink. D’you unnerstand?
Yes, she says.
Good. Now promise me you’ll do what I say.
She hesitates. I grab her hand, look straight into her eyes. Promise me on the life of Ma an Pa. When I tell you to go, you’ll go.
I promise, she says.
I fit a arrow to my crossbow. My heart bangs aginst my ribs, my knees shake, my breath comes shallow an fast.
The landboat scuds along the plain towards us. It’s movin fast. There’s a person at the front. Leanin back, pullin hard on what looks to be a big wooden bar.
I take aim.
I can hear shoutin. As the boat races closer, I start to make out the words. Sail down! Let the sail down!
Suddenly, the top bit of the patchwork sail rips away, snatched by the wind. The rest of it collapses to the deck in a big heap.
The boat goes outta control. Anchor! yells the voice. Throw out the anchor!
Somethin goes flyin offa the back attached to a long rope. A big chunk of metal. Looks like a big fish hook. It hits the ground an skips along behind, throwin up clouds of dust.
But the boat keeps on comin. Look out! the voice screams. Take cover!
There’s a terrible screech. One of the back tires comes free. It bounces high an goes spinnin off across the plain. The boat tips back an hits the ground with a almighty crack. It jackknifes. Skids this way, that way, shriekin an blowin dust all over the place.
I’m still stood there, froze to the spot, my bow drawn.
Saba! Emmi yells. What’re you doin?
I grab Nudd’s rope an we dive outta the way. Nero flaps off in a panic.
The boat scrapes to a stop, right where we was standin.
There’s silence fer a moment. Then there’s a great groan an the boat tips forwards. Another silence. Then, I really must work on those emergency stops, says the voice.
There’s a little old man. He’s clingin to the mast like a lizard on a stump.
Don’t say a word, I whisper to Em. I’ll take care of this.
Good day to you! he cries. I … er … let me just get my—
He reaches into his coat.
Don’t move! I yell. I run in front of the boat. I aim my bow right between his eyes. Hands up! I says.
Wait! he says. We come in peace! We mean you no harm!
Let go of that mast. I take two quick steps closer. Put yer hands up.
I assure you! We have nothing worth taking, my fearsome friend!
We? I says. Who else you got on there? Tell ’em to come out.
Did I say we? I meant I. I! No one here but me! A slip of the tongue, an error under duress!
I let fly with a arrow. It sticks in the mast jest above his head. He lets out a frightened squawk. Then he hollers, Miz Pinch! Miz Pinch!
A head struggles out from the heap of sail. A woman.
Emerge from your nest, my dove, he says. There’s … er … this delightful young lady would like to meet you.
She might have gray hair, but she’s a rawboned giant, the woman who shoves the sail aside an stands up. She’s got a long head like a horse an pock-pitted skin, red an angry-lookin. She takes one look at me an says to him, Yer a idiot, Rooster.
I said hands up! I says.
They raise their hands above their heads. They gotta be the strangest pair I’ll ever see. He only jest comes to her waist. He’s got a fat round belly set on top of skinny little bird legs an he wears a cookin pot on his head fer a helmet. His tunic’s cobbled together from the kinda rubbish you’d find in a landfill—cloth, slippy bags, shimmer discs an what have you. There’s pieces of tire strapped around his knees.
That it? I says. Jest the two of yuz?
Yes! He bobs up an down, lookin like a silly quail. Yes, that’s it! Please—I beg of you, my dear—please don’t hurt us. You see, I have a weak heart and the slightest—
It’s only a girl, you old fool! Miz Pinch kicks him in the ankle. Hard. He crumples in pain.
Yes, my heart’s delight! he gasps. But, as you can see, she’s a veritable warrior, armed and—
Keep yer hands up or I’ll shoot agin! I yell.
They raise their hands. If thievin’s yer game, the woman says, we ain’t got nuthin worth takin.
I ain’t no thief, I says. Who are you? What’re you doin out here?
Rooster Pinch at your service, he says. Man of business and captain of the good ship Desert Swan. And may I present my lovely wife Miz Pinch, whom you’ve already—
Shut up, I says. I nod at the woman. You do the talkin.
We’re pedlars, she says. On our way to Hopetown. We got blown off course.
Show me what yer peddlin, I says.
Well, what’re you waitin fer? she says to him. Show her the trunk.
I … I’ll have to put my hands down, he says.
Go on, I says. But no funny stuff.
He disappears inside the hut an comes out bum first, draggin a battered metal trunk behind him. He throws back the lid an starts liftin out bits of junk, holdin ’em up fer me to see—a couple of dirty glass bottles, pieces of bashed up Wrecker tech, a shovel, one squashed boot.
All right, I says, git back there with yer wife. Then, Emmi, I yell, git over here! She rides over on Nudd. Climb on an take a look inside that hut, I says. Check if they got any weapons.
She slides off Nudd’s back, scrambles on board, scampers past ’em an ducks inside the scabby little hut. I keep my bow aimed at the pair of ’em.
He clears his throat. Lovely day, he says.
&n
bsp; His wife clips him round the ear.
Emmi comes out agin.
All right? I says.
She nods. All clear, she says an jumps down to stand beside me.
You got water on board? I says.
Miz Pinch jerks her head an he goes scurryin into the hut agin. Comes out with a big plastic jug.
Take it, Em, I says. Fill the waterskins.
He hands it down to her an she hurries to do what I told her.
Now that I know they ain’t got weapons, that they ain’t nuthin but a pair of shabby old pedlars, I ain’t quite sure what the form is. Don’t seem to be much point in shootin ’em. They stand there with their hands up, lookin at me.
Jest then, Nero decides to see what’s all the fuss about. He drifts down an lands on Pinch’s cookin pot helmet. Leans over an pecks him on the nose.
Ah! says Pinch, battin him away. Crow! Go on! Go away!
I lower my bow. All right, I guess yer okay. You can put yer hands down.
There you go, my treasure! Pinch says to his wife. I knew she was a good ’un!
Miz Pinch snorts an goes inside the hut.
That’s what I call magnanimous! cries Pinch. That’s what I call sporting! He slides down offa the Swan, grabs my hand an pumps it up an down. Well met, my gladiatorial friend! You have a merciful soul! A compassionate soul! A rare thing in these dark days, I assure you. Now … I know that such a model of justice wouldn’t wish to hinder a man’s efforts to remediate the cause of his most unfortunate … er … his most un—er … Dear me. I seem to have lost my train of thought.
You better fix that wheel, I says.
That’s it! he says. Precisely!
Well, git on with it.
Pinch scurries off to fetch back the tire that bounced away. I go over to help Emmi finish fillin our waterskins. Then we drink till our thirst gits quenched an make sure Nudd an Nero git plenty too. The sounds an smells of cookin is startin to drift outta the little hut on the Desert Swan.
Emmi sniffs the air. That sure smells good, she whispers.
My belly’s squeezed tight. My mouth waters. It’s bin a long while since we et the last of that jackrabbit.
Pinch rolls up, pushin the tire in front of him. He’s outta breath an the sweat pours offa him.
You wanna hand with that? I says.
I help him prop up the boat. Then he gits his toolkit an we set to puttin the tire back on. Emmi sits crossleg a little ways off, drawin in the dirt with a stick.
You need tighter fixins on this, I says. Lemme see what you got in that kit.
He raises his hands to the sky. Not only merciful but a mechanic, he says.
While I pick through a glass jar of metal bits, he says, I’m afraid we intellectuals aren’t very practical, my dear. I’m a constant trial to Miz Pinch, her cross to bear, but she never upbraids me for my failings, at least, not as much as I deserve.
You sure do talk peculiar, I says.
Ah! I knew you were a right ’un! he says. He wipes his hands on a kercheef, then reaches into a deep pocket in his coat an pulls somethin out. He holds it like it’s a babby bird or a feather or the most precious thing in the world. It sure don’t look like much. Two bits of brown leather wrapped around lots of thin little pieces of dried old leafs or somethin.
It’s a book, he says. He gives me a look like I oughta be impressed.
You don’t say, I says.
He folds back the top bit of leather. Then the first leaf. Then the second. They’re covered all over with black squiggle marks.
Funny kinda leafs, I says. I reach out my finger to touch one.
Careful! Pinch brushes my hand away. It’s paper. Pages made of paper. It’s most ancient. Delicate. Rare. I found it locked away in a metal box.
I seen them squiggles before, I says to him. On landfill junk. I spit on the ground. That ain’t nuthin special. Bloody Wrecker tech.
Oh no, it’s good Wrecker tech. Noble even! From the very beginnings of time. Those squiggles, as you call them, are letters. Letters joined together make words. And words tell a story. Like this one.
He turns the pages over like he don’t wanna disturb ’em.
It’s the story of a great king, he says. His name was Lewis Ex Eye Vee. The Sun King of France.
France, I says. Is that around here?
No my dear, he says. It was a far away land, long long ago. Back in Wrecker times. The Sun King has been dead for many hundreds of years. Here, this is what he looked like.
He holds the book out to me. The lines an squiggles on the page curve into the drawin of a man.
He’s got thick curly hair down past his shoulders an piled high on top. Animal skins thrown over one shoulder, trailin behind him onto the floor. Fancy shirt with frilly collar an cuffs. Short, puffy little britches that show his legs. High heeled shoes. Sword at his side. Walkin stick.
His people worshipped him, he says. They thought he was a god.
Well I never heard of him, I says. An he wouldn’t of got far in them shoes. How’d you come to know all this?
There are some people—very few, mind you—who still have the knowledge of words and books. When I was a boy, he says, I was lucky enough to meet one such woman and she taught me to read.
So, the way you talk, I says, all them funny words. That’s on account of … readin?
Yes, he says. Yes, I suppose it is.
Think I’ll give it a miss then, I says.
Rooster! Rooster Pinch! Where’re you at? It’s Miz Pinch’s screechy squawk.
Here, my angel! Pinch cries.
You better not be gabbin instead of workin!
I’m not, my angel! We’re not! He takes the book an pops it back in his pocket.
We start in on the repairs. But it’s like he cain’t stop hisself talkin, cuz almost right away he says, She looks to be a smart little gal, your sister. Bright as a button. I can always tell.
She’s a pain in the neck, I says. You got kids?
A son, he says. Then right away he says, The sun is fiercely hot today, don’t you find? He mops at his head, lookin up at the sky. There’s no other word for it but fierce. Most uncomfortable. We could certainly do with some cooler weather, but ah … sorry my dear, you were asking … ah yes, children. Sadly, my wife and I were never blessed.
He ducks his head down. Like he don’t wanna meet my eyes.
Yer lyin, Rooster Pinch. Why would you lie about havin a kid?
We work in silence fer a bit. Then, like I don’t give two hoots, I says, Where was it you said you was headed?
Hopetown, he says. My heart jumps into my throat. But, he says, as my good lady wife mentioned, the wind changed and the Swan was blown off course. We should have been heading due north.
Hopetown’s due north of here? I says.
That’s right, he says.
Well, if that don’t beat all, I says. Hopetown’s where we’re headed too. We’re jest on our way there.
He darts me a quick look. Well, well, he says. What an extraordinary coincidence. What a fortuitous meeting indeed. I don’t suppose you’d like to … climb aboard and sail with us?
I believe we might like that very much, I says.
Then let us strike hands on it! He holds out a greasy paw an we shake hands. You’ve got yourself a ride, young lady.
Why’d you tell him that? Emmi hisses.
I grab her arm an pull her away where we cain’t be heard. Don’t you listen to nuthin? I says. They’re headed fer Hopetown. That’s the place Mercy told us about, where they might of took Lugh. He might be there. An if he ain’t, it’s a good place to start. We can maybe ask around, find things out.
So we’re gonna go with ’em? she says.
That’s right, I says.
She folds her arms over her skinny chest, shakes her head. I don’t like it, she says. An I don’t like them. Not one bit.
It don’t matter what you like, I says. I gotta find Lugh. An any way that helps me find him faster, I’m gonna take it
.
You never listen to me, she says, her face all sulky. What about Nudd? We cain’t jest leave him here.
He seems to know we’re talkin about him. He lowers his head an butts it gently into her side.
We’ll set his head fer home, I says. Mercy’ll be glad to see him.
Do we hafta do it now? she says.
I nod.
G’bye, Nudd. She strokes his soft nose, kisses it. You stay outta trouble.
She stands back.
Go on home, Nudd, I says. Go home to Mercy. I give him a slap on the rump an he takes off across the plain, back the way we come.
It feels kinda funny, jest lettin him go like that, says Emmi.
Miz Pinch’s voice comes from behind us. I jest about jump outta my skin. A pony like that ain’t got a hope of outrunnin a wolfdog pack, she says.
Saba! says Emmi. Call him back!
It’s all right, Em, I says. He’ll be fine.
Suddenly, with her so close fer the first time, I realize how big Miz Pinch is. Over six foot, with broad shoulders, rough man-sized hands an strong lookin arms covered with dark hair.
Grub’s up, she says.
We sit on deck to eat—me on a upturned bucket, Emmi on the floor an the Pinches on rickety wood chairs they pull outta the hut.
Miz Pinch digs into the cookin pot with a long wooden spoon an slops a hearty helpin into a battered tin basin.
Dried boar an sourberry, she says. She holds the basin out to me. That’ll fill yer belly.
Pinch goes to grab it. She hauls off an whacks his hand with the spoon. Whacks him so hard he howls. She glares at him.
That ain’t yers, she says.
An this one’s fer you, girlie. She fills another eatin tin an hands it to Emmi, who digs right in.
My squeezed belly’s so happy to be filled that I scarf down the lot double quick. When I’m finished, Miz Pinch hands me a chunk of flatbread. She gives a bit to Em too.
There you go, she says. Mop them bowls clean. Cain’t go wastin good food. It’s nice to see young ’uns with good appetites, ain’t it, Rooster?
To share our modest portion with fellow travelers on the dusty road of life, he says. It’s just the thing, my dear! That’s what it’s all about!
