He said softly “Quiet now, Grace. Be quiet now.”
“Talk to him, Frost.”
Frost said nothing for a while, then “Are we ready?”
“The farm gone. All of us dead. You’ve got to lead, Frost.”
“Grace, please….”
She said “Okay.”
Frost backed the plastic curtain open again. He called Daniel Charlie and nodded to Jessica, and they came into the room. Daniel held the man’s shoulders down, and Jessica crouched opposite Grace and leaned on both thighs. The knife work was fast and did not bother the man much. But from the depths of his trance he screamed as blood sprayed from the blade of the hacksaw. And soon Frost stood there looking down at the severed leg he held in both hands, a thing heavier than stone.
35
Noor gazed down the trail, waiting while Beauty drank. The rain had let up a little, but the light had not improved — the day had turned dark with thick low clouds, and it was late afternoon as well, with the dusk gathering quickly. In the distance the rickshaw rested again on the fractured sidewalk in front of the big building, among leafless scrub. It was perhaps in a different position, the shafts pointing now toward the street whereas before they had pointed toward the building. In the monochrome of the sinking day the quilt on the seat seemed to glow with a threatening light, the light of a dream, pink as a dog’s tongue.
Noor saw no one, heard nothing but the drizzle. Beauty lifted her head, and Noor poured out the remaining inch of water and set the bucket on the cart. She looked up, and in a glassless display window fifty feet away she saw a man.
Behind him the interior of the old shop was dark, and he was standing a few feet back from the window. He was barely a silhouette. Noor stared at him. Finally the man lifted a hand. He said “Frost’s Farm.” It was an old man’s voice, powdery and broken.
Noor said “Yes.”
The man let his hand fall. He waited. He said “Be careful.”
Over the window there was a broken, faded and dirty sign, with painted letters behind a hard sheet of transparent plastic. There was enough light to read the single remaining word.
Meats.
The man stepped back and merged with the darkness.
When Noor looked again down the trail the light was almost gone.
She swung east at the big building. Even this close there were no human sounds, no smell of food, only the thin background stench of excrement, of Town. There was also the soothing smell of the wet horse, who moved steadily along the dirt trail under the empty black windows of apartment blocks.
Then Noor heard something. She whispered “Whoa” and Beauty stopped. She listened. It had been like the cry of a nighthawk in summer twilight. But there were no nighthawks in this cold dusk and rain. It had been the brief scream of a woman, distant, muffled by walls.
She clucked, and Beauty moved on. She kept listening but heard only the soft thuds of the hooves of the workhorse, the small rattles of the cart, and the hushed patter of drizzle on her own shoulders and on Beauty’s back. Fifty yards ahead was the point where the trail turned south again, down to Frost’s Bridge. The dark faces of three-storey apartment buildings with blackberry vines sprawling among them like a range of low hills kept her from seeing down that stretch of the trail.
She whispered part of a song. “The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er. But neither have I the wings to fly. Give me a boat, that can carry two, and both shall row, my love and…”
Ahead, Langley came around the curve of the trail. He was walking fast. He had the leather jacket, the tight jeans. His soldiers followed close behind, crossbows slung on their backs. They were silent, but she heard a few sounds now, murmurs, crossbow bolts clinking in their bags. She swung Beauty hard, and the horse reared. But twenty-five yards behind, two soldiers stood on the trail, with their crossbows raised. Noor soothed the horse and went forward again.
Langley stood waiting. The soldiers, about twenty, took their swords out and moved past Langley and formed a circle around Noor and Beauty and the cart. The two with the crossbows joined them.
Langley said “Toss your spear down.”
She took the spear with her left hand and let it fall.
“Now your sword.”
She dropped the sword beside the spear.
“Get down.”
She swung her right leg forward and over Beauty’s back and sprang lightly to the ground. She said “You were down at Frost’s Bridge.”
Langley said “Is that so?”
“How come?”
“She wants to know why we were down at her granddaddy’s bridge.” Langley smiled at his men. He looked at her again, and there was no smile. He stood three feet away, scratching at one scabrous cheek. He said, still quietly “Well Noor, what’s your guess? What do you think we were down there for?”
“You’re never going to take it.”
“You been in Town?”
She did not answer.
“You missed all the fun. Didn’t she, boys?”
One of the soldiers, a squat, muscular fellow with a pale face that was bright in the dusk, said “Your men kilt Broadway. And your dogs kilt Jericho.”
Noor glanced down. Langley had one foot on the spear. He bent and picked up the sword by the blade and handed it to the man who had spoken.
Freeway, towering behind Langley, said in his throbbing bass. “And yous shot me in the ass.”
Langley clenched his fists, appeared to deliberate, unclenched them, said evenly, without turning “Shut up.” He waited. Freeway was silent. Langley said to Noor “That goddamn Fundy and his crew tried to get his bridge back. Ain’t that somethin’!” His voice had risen. The whine was there. His eyes widened. He produced a choked chuckle. He shook his head. “It’s been a long day for these men, Noor. Killin’ all them fools. Runnin’ from the dogs. Gettin’ shot…”
“In the ass.” It was Freeway.
Again Langley seemed to grapple for self-control.
One of the men said “Give her to us, Langley. For what they done. It’s only right.”
Langley said “Does that sound fair, Noor? Sounds fair to me.”
Noor said “Is Grampa all right?”
“Grampa?” The word seemed to delight him. “Nice old Grampa. No, he’s not all right. He’s a fool like Fundy, and he’s going to end up like Fundy, takin’ that long swim in the river. We thought maybe he’d have all his dogs over on Fundy’s Bridge, but he’s got a few here on this one too, so we decided to call it a day. Hell of a day, right men?”
The same man spoke again. “We deserve a treat, Langley. We worked hard. We got shot at. Let us have her.”
Another man said “For Broadway and Jericho.”
Langley said “Yeah. Maybe. But what about me, you selfish bastards. Doesn’t Langley get a treat?” He reached and touched Noor’s cheek with a fingertip. The hand smelled like soap, like the Camay in the bag on the cart. She moved her head away. He slid the fingertip down over the swell of a breast. He said “That’s a nice vest. You been to see Robson? Robson’s going to find out a thing or two. Him and that Church Gang. He’s on my list. For some reason you people don’t understand what’s happenin’. Which is why I say you’re fools. Fools do learn, see, but they learn the hard way. The way Fundy learned.” He said to the soldier “My treat first. If I like it I keep it. If I don’t it’s all yours.”
Someone said “You won’t like her, Langley. Look how ugly she is.” A couple of the men laughed.
Langley ignored him. He said “Dogs. I guess I better get some dogs of my own. Then we can have a great big dog fight.” He leaned forward slightly toward Noor, lowered his voice as if to confide. “But did you know… Did you know I got my own dogs?”