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 touching 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.