Lookit.
A half-panel of crushed drywall. Five empty tin cans with no labels. A Christmas tree ornament — this was a shock, the simple splendour of it almost painful in all the drabness. Noor acquired it.
She made her way to old Wing’s party. He had only one wagon, with potatoes and carrots.
Wing said “That’s a good dog. Which one is that?”
“This is Puppy. Yeah, she’s a good dog. Sit, Puppy.” The dog sat. Noor patted its shoulder.
Wing said “The Parts Gang are puttin’ together a new wagon for me. It’s on a big car chassis, Chrysler or somethin’. A bit heavy for a steer. When you going to have a colt for me?”
“Soon as we find a stallion. You seen anybody tradin’ for a stallion?”
“No, but I seen a woman tryin’ to trade the best part of a tricycle.” Noor and Wing laughed, but the guards did not.
“Your men don’t know what a tricycle is” she said. “I had one when I was a kid. My dad made it from bits and pieces.”
“Yeah, Steveston was good at things like that. Speakin’ of tricycles and stuff, it looks like our friends have got themselves some new toys.”
“The Skag Crew?”
Wing tilted the white wisp of his beard toward the area under the bridge. Noor spotted the skagger right away even though the only signs of his allegiance were a pair of hard eyes and the fact that he was not frantically trying to barter. “What is that he’s got?” she asked.
“It’s a crossbow. Made from a leaf of an old car spring. I saw some others too. The Parts Gang must’ve put them together for them. I can’t see a skagger havin’ enough brains to build one of them things.”
People came forward to barter. A roll of nylon fishing line, brown and brittle. A warped two-by-four with a single bent and rusted nail.
Noor wandered off. A young man in a plastic poncho leaned over the dog and waggled something in front of her face. He did not bother saying Lookit, but just smiled a sly and toothless smile. It was a lens from a magnifying glass. Faces and shapes swam in the glass as he twisted it. She took it to examine. It was three inches across, perfect except for a small chip at the edge. Soon, with only the von Clausewitz, the Christmas bauble and the lens in the bottom of her bucket she moved forward to deal with Skagger Langley.
He stood near the Frost wagons, watching the transactions with his big guard, Freeway. “You want to deal for skag you better save some of them spuds” said Langley. “You got any meat?” He was thin, clean-shaven and short-haired. His had a pointed nose and receding chin. The skin of his face was scaly and blotched red. He scratched at it habitually. He wore a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt with words on it. Pink Floyd. His eyes were like Noor’s — they gave away nothing. He wore real boots and had a pair of unused black leather shoes draped over a shoulder by the laces.
Noor said “What’ll you take for the shoes?”
“They’re for me” he said. He had a high-pitched voice that had a whine to it.
“They’re not your size. They’re too big for you and they’re too small for your fat-ass guard.”
The guard, Freeway, wore a long wool poncho and cut-off rubber boots. He and the dog were trying to stare each other down. Puppy’s lip quivered slightly. As did Freeway’s.
“Got any meat?” said Langley again.
“No meat. What’ll you take for the shoes?”
“You don’t want shoes. You want skag.”
Noor said “Don’t tell me what I want. I know what I want.” They both looked away. They both spat. Freeway and Puppy continued their eyeball combat until Noor turned to Freeway and said “Would you like to hold her?” She offered him the leash. Freeway stepped back, smiled weakly and shook his head. Langley stepped between Freeway and the dog and punched Freeway in the face. Noor pulled Puppy back. Blood streamed from Freeway’s nose, and tears ran down his cheeks, but he did not move. Puppy barked at Langley.
Langley looked at the river for a minute, until his face became less red and the dog stopped barking. Then he said “You need skag for your medic.”
“You got big ears.”
“I’ll take all the spuds you got left.”
“I’ll give you half a wagon.”
They were quiet again for a while, watching the transactions at the wagons. A sewing needle earned a month of food.
“One wagon” said Langley. “The big one.”
“Throw in the shoes.”
“You deliver.”
“Deliver?”
“Deliver the spuds.”
“Give me the skag now. And the shoes. We’ll deliver.”
“When? I got a hungry crew.”
“In a few days. The workers are busy harvestin’. Grampa will be visitin’ the squatters.”
“Everybody busy makin’ the world a better place. Hey, why don’t you bring the spuds? You never seen my house. I got stuff you ain’t even dreamed about.” He reached to touch her arm. She drew it away. His face reddened again and his eyes narrowed. He gave a little snort and an ugly smile. ‘Well then, maybe I’ll just have to come to your place. I hear you got a nice farm. I like farms.” He pulled a plastic bag from his jeans pocket. It was half full of dark flakes and powder, a couple of ounces. He tossed it to Noor.
“Don’t burn me, Noor” he said. “I don’t care who your granddaddy is.”
She stepped forward through the semicircle of guards and dogs and told Marpole not to trade the produce in her wagon. The pair of shoes looped through the air past her shoulder and landed on the heaped potatoes. Soon she saw Langley and Freeway make their way down the riverbank to the Park boat to trade for cordwood.
When she turned away from the river a woman was trying to come forward. The woman appeared to have nothing to trade. She was carrying a baby. It was wrapped in blue poly. “Please.” she wailed. “She’s going to die.”
Noor motioned her up to her wagon.
“She’s going to die” the woman said again, more quietly. She had a torn wool poncho but no shoes. The skin of her face was flabby and yellow. Her eyes were yellow too. Most of her lank brown hair had fallen out. The baby was thin. Its eyes were half open, but there was little life in them. It did not move or make any kind of sound. It did not look at Noor or at anything else. “Are you tryin’ to trade your child? We don’t trade for children.”
“No” said the woman. “Just take her. She’ll die if you don’t.” Her cheeks were wet.
Just then there was a yell from down the riverbank, and Noor looked away from the woman. Langley’s guard, Freeway, was pointing up toward the part of the market that was near the bridge. Noor heard the word jacket. Langley and Freeway hustled up the bank and bulled into the crowd. In a minute there were shouts. Noor saw a skagger pushing through the crowd, with his crossbow held above his head. Further away she caught a glimpse of a raised sword. They were converging toward Langley and Freeway. Noor saw people rushing away from that point. There were more shouts. The Frost dogs all started barking. There was a man’s scream.
A few seconds later Freeway stepped back into view on the riverbank and stumbled down it. He was dragging a man’s body toward the water. Langley emerged from the crowd and walked part way down the bank. Freeway had his right hand wrapped around the man’s hair braid. The body, naked from the waist up, showed no resistance nor any kind of movement. It left a sketchy trail of red on the rocks and on the shards of culvert scattered on the bank. It was the man who had the fire makers, Kits.
Freeway took a wrist and an ankle and heaved the body into the river. It floated at the river’s edge for a while. Then the current slowly took control, and the racing grey-brown tide claimed Kits’ body. It bobbed upriver, gaining speed, and soon appeared to be nothing but a peeled scrap of driftwood.