Morgan Nyberg - Since Tomorrow

It was going to be a cloudy day, not very cold. Because of thick overcast the morning light was slow in coming. Granville stood looking southward down the street, toward the river. When he could make out the pink of the quilt on the seat of Langley’s rickshaw he backed away until the big building was hidden from view by a two-storey structure that was buried under a heap of blackberry vine.

He squatted and held his head in his hands and rocked from side to side for a few minutes. Then he rose and walked back to the street from which he had withdrawn. He stared again at the rickshaw. He took a breath and walked out into the middle of the street and turned left and started down the trail.

Half a block from the building he stopped and looked up. On the roof, dark against slightly paler clouds, a guard with a crossbow was watching him. Granville lifted a hand to the level of his shoulder and gave a small wave and tried to smile. It started to rain.

He stopped and waited a dozen paces from the street door. No one came out of the building, but he did not go forward to knock or call. From here he could not see if the guard was still on the roof. He closed his eyes and let the drizzle fall on his face, as if it might be the last chance in his life to do so. A small noise came from inside the building.

There were double glass doors. One of these opened without a sound, and Freeway came out. Leaving the door open he glanced at Granville, hawked, spat, came down the building’s three steps, turned, hoisted his long poncho and urinated powerfully against the building’s scabby paint. He dropped the poncho and drew his sword and came toward Granville. He said “God damn you.”

Granville took a step backwards.

Freeway said “You woke me up.” His basso voice was ragged with sleep, like a cement mixer loaded with boulders. He swatted Granville on the arm with the flat of his sword.

Granville winced and said “Ow, don’t!” but did not move.

Freeway looked at him for a few seconds, then said “Frost send you?”

Granville shook his head rapidly, kept shaking it.

“You want skag?”

Granville nodded, again at length.

Freeway said “We trade at the market. Not before breakfast in the god damn rain.” He swatted Granville again. This time Granville managed not to react. Freeway said “Well? Where’s your stuff? You think skag is free? Hey, maybe you can be my breakfast. I give you skag, you let me eat your leg. Yeah.” He poked Granville with the point of his sword. Granville whimpered. “But addicts taste like shit. Well?”

Granville was shaking. He nodded his chin toward the river and Frost’s farm beyond it.

Freeway half turned. What he saw was rain. What he saw was the wet road, with patches of half rotted stems of fireweed in the twisted asphalt, and white-berried leafless bushes. What he did not see was stuff. He looked back to Granville, who said “I’ll give you Frost.”

Freeway observed him for a minute. He sniffed, hawked, spat, walked away. At the glass doors he motioned with his head. He went in and held the door open until Granville had passed him. Then he closed it and slipped his sword under his belt.

Freeway led Granville through a vestibule with a floor of hard tiles. There were two doorways. One led to stairs. Freeway continued through the other, a doorless entry into a large room that smelled of wood smoke. Here there was a carpet. Where it was not worn through to concrete it was as hard as the tiles of the vestibule. There was no furniture. Some of the dawn’s dismal light entered from glassed windows in two walls. In the corner between the two windows stood a heating stove, with split wood heaped near it. A real stovepipe ran through a jagged hole in the wall. From cracks in the stove’s metal, and from the damper near the bottom, orange light leaked. These were the only sources of light within the room itself.

Two soldiers squatted by the stove, one on either side. Each wore a wool poncho and a wool kilt. One had leather sandals, and other had laced work boots. Their matted hair hung loose over their shoulders. They stared at Granville, who had stopped two steps in from the vestibule. Freeway stood over the stove, with his back to Granville, warming his hands. Using a fold of his poncho he opened the lid of the stove. Light from the fire played on the high ceiling. He went to the heap of split wood and took a chunk and dropped it into the stove and closed the lid. He said “I brung breakfast.”

One of the soldiers said “I ain’t eatin’ no more addicts.”

The other one said “They taste like shit.”

Behind Granville someone said in high-pitched irritability “It’s you.”

Granville turned toward the voice. Then he backed a few steps further into the room.

Under his open leather jacket Langley wore a ski sweater with a bright Scandinavian pattern. Long underwear hung down under his jeans, to the tops of furry slippers. He went to the stove and opened it using his sweater. He looked down into the stove for a minute, as the tips of flames licked up into the room. Then, using the sole of his right foot, he kicked one of the soldiers. The man, who had been squatting, crashed onto a shoulder. His kilt slid up, and a pale leg flailed briefly, until he scampered away. The sound of Freeway’s laugh filled the room like a volley of cannons. Langley slammed the stove lid shut and glared at Freeway, who stopped laughing. The other soldier rose, made a wide circle past Langley, and stood leaning in a dark corner.

Langley said “How’s life at Frost’s?”

Although Langley was not looking in his direction, Granville shrugged.

“How come you come so early? I’m grouchy before I eat. You were at my farm –you ought to know that.”

“That’s true too. I mean…. So’s Frost don’t see me. If it’s daylight he can see stuff far away. He’s got one of them things that can make it look close.”

“Frost’s got a block-your-door? Hell, I could use one of them! What else has he got?”

“He’s got bows.”

“I knew that. You snuck here in the dark to tell me he’s got bows?”

“And sharp points on the arrows.”

“Not nails?”

“They made them out of car metal.”

Langley paced in front of the stove. “What else has he got?”

“I know everythin’. I can help you beat him. If you…I mean…”

“If I what? You want to trade, let’s trade.”

Freeway said “He wants skag.”

Langley said “You want skag? You get tired of makin’ the world a better place?” He scratched at his face. “Well, I got skag till the cows come home. You tell me what’s happenin’ at Frost’s, and I’ll keep you so skagged up you can give up walkin’, and just float around like a… like a cloud. You want to float like a cloud? You want to float over that bridge every day or two and tell me what’s happenin’ at Frost’s?”

Granville said “Yeah. That’s what… I mean, you can say that again. But I don’t want skag. I mean, thanks, but…”

Freeway said “You said you wanted skag. God damn you.” He sounded offended. He put his hand on his sword handle.

Langley said to Freeway “Will you shut up?” and to Granville “Okay. Don’t worry. It ain’t time to worry yet. I could still be willin’ to trade. What is it you want, if you don’t want skag? You want to visit one of them women I got upstairs? Or two? Three? Is that what you want? You want to spend some time with that there Snow? She’s worth everythin’ you got to tell about Frost’s Farm and then some. Ain’t that right, Freeway?”

“I don’t know, Langley. You never let me…”

“Didn’t I say shut up?” Then, to Granville “What do you say? What do you say, Planville? Ain’t that your name?”