Noor, carrying her spear, was going into the domicile as Hemlock was coming out. He was wearing now a pink toque with a pom-pom. Noor paused briefly to shake his hand as the dog jumped up against her. Then she passed on into the building. Hemlock picked up Margaret and tucked her under his slicker and walked off toward the old road and faded in the torrent.
38
Sunset the next day was a cold, brief and bitter orange. Frost was running. Further up the bridge Hastings had pulled well ahead. Frost stopped and walked, breathing hard. Then he ran again. Hastings had now reached the top and joined the others. Noor was among them. In a cluster they watched Frost approach. He was walking again because he saw finally there was no need to hurry.
The dogs lay scattered across the roadway, some on one side of the lane divider, some on the other, among vomited pieces of half-digested meat and pools of diarrhea. Frost stood watching for a minute, but there was no movement from any of the animals. He bent and laid his hand on each one, but there was no breath and no heartbeat. Each time as he stood he said the name of the dog. He said it quietly but clearly, as if this were a newly created but necessary rite.
And also as if it were necessary those watching him repeated the names, muttered them raggedly, in no kind of union. Blackie. Beast. Puppy.
Frost knelt beside Puppy and looked closely into her eyes, but they were still. He sniffed near her mouth, the lolling tongue. Stronger than the vomit, there was a smell of garlic. He stood. He said “Puppy.”
Some of his people repeated the name.
Then he said “Arsenic.” He turned and looked down the bridge. Granville was already halfway down, his hair like a muted ember, receding in the twilight. The men and Noor came and stood near Frost.
Tyrell said “What’s that?”
Daniel Charlie said “It’s a kind of poison.”
Frost said “They used to use it to kill slugs. It gives off a smell like garlic.” His voice was broken and weary. He walked away and stood on the east sidewalk, facing upriver, with his back to his people.
Tyrell said “Do we bury them?”
Frost didn’t even look at him.
Noor was pale and shaken. In a voice hoarse from crying she said “I’ll go and get a wheelbarrow.” She started down the bridge.
Frost turned finally, wiped tears from his cheeks and walked across to the other sidewalk. On the other bridge, Fundy’s Bridge, even against the western glow, he could make out Wing’s red jacket. He said “Tyrell, call over and ask.”
Tyrell stepped up beside Frost and cupped his hands around his mouth. His shout cracked the windless silence. “How’s your dogs?”
A few seconds later a man’s small voice came back.
“All dead.”
The men shuffled a few paces away from the dogs and from each other. They stood shaking their heads or staring at nothing. But Daniel Charlie and Tyrell remained near Frost.
Daniel Charlie said “It was an awful thing to see, Frost. Awful. I’m glad you weren’t here.”
Frost turned from the railing. “I should’ve seen it coming. It’s obvious. So obvious. Did Granville bring the meat?”
Tyrell and Daniel Charlie both nodded.
“Who took the meat to the other bridge?”
Daniel Charlie said “I think Jessica did.”
Frost said “Someone put the poison in at the farm. Did Jessica cut up the rabbits?”
Daniel Charlie said “Probably. Jessica didn’t do this, Frost.”
“I know. Where was Granville going? Why did he take off like that?”
Neither man had an answer.
39
She waits on the dike, sitting where the grass has been worn down. She is the only one waiting. She loosely holds the twine leash of a dog who lies with his chin resting on her bare foot. It is a warm afternoon in late spring, with some cloud. Perhaps the wind has shifted, for there is a tiny smell of new leaves, a smell like honey, and the only trees are far to the north on the slopes of the mountains.
At the river’s edge the raftsman lies sprawled on his back on his raft. An arm is thrown over his eyes. He lifts the arm, waits, as if he is listening to the river through the timbers of the craft. He sits up, waits another minute, then stands and steps off the raft onto the bank. He walks to her up the slight incline. He is about her age. He has a knee-length kilt but wears no shirt and is tanned chestnut brown. His grey beard and hair are like a cloud that envelopes his upper body.
The dog rises and stares at him.
He says “You ready?”
The woman stands.
He says “We better talk about how you plan to pay.”
“I brought spuds.” She lifts a large plastic bag from the ground beside her. It is less than a quarter full, for she lifts it easily.
He smiles with a slight bitterness and shakes his head and says “I got too many spuds already. They’ll go rotten before I can eat them all. Do you got any tools?”
“They took my tools when my dad died.”
“Who took them?”
“Neighbours. Friends.”
“Your dog didn’t chase them off?”
“He thought they had come to visit. He’s not very smart.”
The dog stands looking up at the raftsman, wagging his tail.
“He looks smart to me.”
The man turns and walks down to his raft. The woman and her dog follow. At the edge of the water the man says “The tide is good now. We better go.”
“Well, how am I going to pay?”
He steps onto the raft. It bobs slightly. “I’ll take your dog.”
She stops, steps back. “You can’t have my dog.”
“Why not? What do you need a dog for? Where you headed?”
“I’m going to Frost’s Farm.”
“Frost? He already gots plenty of dogs. He don’t need another one.”
“Well you can’t have my dog. There might be coyotes up ahead. Anyway, I can’t give him up. What do you need a dog for?” There is a kind of quaver in her voice, a sense of persistent unsureness.
He spits into the water. “There are people who would like to smash my head in with a rock and dump me in the river and take over my business. They’ll think twice if I got a dog. Any coyotes come along, you can chuck them spuds at ’em.” He smiles.
She walks away with the dog. She stops, waits, turns, comes back. “I can’t stay there anymore. I just can’t.”
“What’s his name?”
A pair of tears spill down her cheeks. “Shadow. His name’s Shadow.”
At the far side the woman steps off the raft. In spite of the animal’s frantic barking she has not looked back. But now she does. The dog is sitting there tied to a bush at the top of the dike, watching, quiet at last.
She says “Do you know the way?”
“Just stay on the trail. You’ll see his bridge at the north arm. They live in a tall buildin’ that looks like it’s goin’ to fall over.”
“They?”
“Frost and his people. They’ll have room for you.”
She walks through the afternoon beside the old highway. Although she is barefoot it is easy going on the delta soil. If there are any birds they are quiet. She hears only her own footsteps. Once she sees a man a few hundred yards away, working in his garden. There is a half-collapsed building that could once have been a church. Faintly she hears him singing.
She sees nothing ahead but more of the same flat brushy landscape. The mountains seem no closer. Far off to her right the tips of the superstructure of Nobody’s Bridge catch the last of the day’s sun. The coyotes begin their yipping. She walks faster.