Blood Red Road
Page 17
You don’t say, I says.
He folds back the top bit of leather. Then the first leaf. Then the second. They’re covered al over with black squiggle marks.
Funny kinda leafs, I says. I reach out my finger to touch one.
Careful! Pinch brushes my hand away. It’s paper. Pages made of paper. It’s most ancient. Delicate. Rare. I found it locked away in a metal box.
I seen them squiggles before, I says to him. On landfil junk. I spit on the ground. That ain’t nuthin special. Bloody Wrecker tech.
Oh no, it’s good Wrecker tech. Noble even! From the very beginnings of time. Those squiggles, as you cal them, are let ers. Let ers joined together make words. And words tel a story. Like this one.
He turns the pages over like he don’t wanna disturb ’em.
It’s the story of a great king, he says. His name was Lewis Ex Eye Vee. The Sun King of France.
France, I says. Is that around here?
No my dear, he says. It was a far away land, long long ago. Back in Wrecker times. The Sun King has been dead for many hundreds of years. Here, this is what he looked like.
He holds the book out to me. The lines an squiggles on the page curve into the drawin of a man.
He’s got thick curly hair down past his shoulders an piled high on top. Animal skins thrown over one shoulder, trailin behind him onto the floor. Fancy shirt with fril y col ar an cuf s. Short, puf y lit le britches that show his legs. High heeled shoes. Sword at his side. Walkin stick.
His people worshipped him, he says. They thought he was a god.
Wel I never heard of him, I says. An he wouldn’t of got far in them shoes. How’d you come to know al this?
There are some people—very few, mind you—who stil have the knowledge of words and books. When I was a boy, he says, I was lucky enough to meet one such woman and she taught me to read.
So, the way you talk, I says, al them funny words. That’s on account of … readin?
Yes, he says. Yes, I suppose it is.
Think I’l give it a miss then, I says.
Rooster! Rooster Pinch! Where’re you at? It’s Miz Pinch’s screechy squawk.
Here, my angel! Pinch cries.
You bet er not be gabbin instead of workin!
I’m not, my angel! We’re not! He takes the book an pops it back in his pocket.
We start in on the repairs. But it’s like he cain’t stop hisself talkin, cuz almost right away he says, She looks to be a smart lit le gal, your sister. Bright as a but on. I can always tel .
She’s a pain in the neck, I says. You got kids?
A son, he says. Then right away he says, The sun is fiercely hot today, don’t you find? He mops at his head, lookin up at the sky. There’s no other word for it but erce. Most uncomfortable. We could certainly do with some cooler weather, but ah … sorry my dear, you were asking … ah yes, children. Sadly, my wife and I were never blessed.
He ducks his head down. Like he don’t wanna meet my eyes.
Yer lyin, Rooster Pinch. Why would you lie about havin a kid?
We work in silence fer a bit. Then, like I don’t give two hoots, I says, Where was it you said you was headed?
Hopetown, he says. My heart jumps into my throat. But, he says, as my good lady wife mentioned, the wind changed and the Swan was blown of course. We should have been heading due north.
Hopetown’s due north of here? I says.
That’s right, he says.
Wel , if that don’t beat al , I says. Hopetown’s where we’re headed too. We’re jest on our way there.
He darts me a quick look. Wel , wel , he says. What an extraordinary coincidence. What a fortuitous meeting indeed. I don’t suppose you’d
He darts me a quick look. Wel , wel , he says. What an extraordinary coincidence. What a fortuitous meeting indeed. I don’t suppose you’d like to … climb aboard and sail with us?
I believe we might like that very much, I says.
Then let us strike hands on it! He holds out a greasy paw an we shake hands. You’ve got yourself a ride, young lady.
Why’d you tel him that? Emmi hisses.
I grab her arm an pul her away where we cain’t be heard. Don’t you listen to nuthin? I says. They’re headed fer Hopetown. That’s the place Mercy told us about, where they might of took Lugh. He might be there. An if he ain’t, it’s a good place to start. We can maybe ask around, find things out.
So we’re gonna go with ’em? she says.
That’s right, I says.
She folds her arms over her skinny chest, shakes her head. I don’t like it, she says. An I don’t like them. Not one bit.
It don’t mat er what you like, I says. I got a find Lugh. An any way that helps me find him faster, I’m gonna take it.
You never listen to me, she says, her face al sulky. What about Nudd? We cain’t jest leave him here.
He seems to know we’re talkin about him. He lowers his head an but s it gently into her side.
We’l set his head fer home, I says. Mercy’l be glad to see him.
Do we hafta do it now? she says.
I nod.
G’bye, Nudd. She strokes his soft nose, kisses it. You stay out a trouble.
She stands back.
Go on home, Nudd, I says. Go home to Mercy. I give him a slap on the rump an he takes of across the plain, back the way we come.
It feels kinda funny, jest let in him go like that, says Emmi.
Miz Pinch’s voice comes from behind us. I jest about jump out a my skin. A pony like that ain’t got a hope of outrunnin a wolfdog pack, she says.
Saba! says Emmi. Cal him back!
It’s al right, Em, I says. He’l be fine.
Suddenly, with her so close fer the rst time, I realize how big Miz Pinch is. Over six foot, with broad shoulders, rough man-sized hands an strong lookin arms covered with dark hair.
Grub’s up, she says.
We sit on deck to eat—me on a upturned bucket, Emmi on the floor an the Pinches on rickety wood chairs they pul out a the hut.
Miz Pinch digs into the cookin pot with a long wooden spoon an slops a hearty helpin into a bat ered tin basin.
Dried boar an sourberry, she says. She holds the basin out to me. That’l fil yer bel y.
Pinch goes to grab it. She hauls of an whacks his hand with the spoon. Whacks him so hard he howls. She glares at him.
That ain’t yers, she says.
An this one’s fer you, girlie. She fil s another eatin tin an hands it to Emmi, who digs right in.
My squeezed bel y’s so happy to be l ed that I scarf down the lot double quick. When I’m nished, Miz Pinch hands me a chunk of flatbread. She gives a bit to Em too.
There you go, she says. Mop them bowls clean. Cain’t go wastin good food. It’s nice to see young ’uns with good appetites, ain’t it, Rooster?
To share our modest portion with fel ow travelers on the dusty road of life, he says. It’s just the thing, my dear! That’s what it’s al about!
Git every last drop, she says, that’s the way. Al done?
Thanks, I says. I hand our bowls back. I yawn. Emmi rubs her eyes.
You girls feelin sleepy? says Miz Pinch.
My eyelids is feelin so heavy al of a sudden. I yawn agin.
Guess I … ain’t used … to … al this walkin …, I says.
Saba, Emmi yawns. Why do I feel … so … tired …?
She curls up on deck an right away, she’s fast to sleep. Somethin ain’t right here. I git to my feet. I stagger a lit le.
He folds back the top bit of leather. Then the first leaf. Then the second. They’re covered al over with black squiggle marks.
Funny kinda leafs, I says. I reach out my finger to touch one.
Careful! Pinch brushes my hand away. It’s paper. Pages made of paper. It’s most ancient. Delicate. Rare. I found it locked away in a metal box.
I seen them squiggles before, I says to him. On landfil junk. I spit on the ground. That ain’t nuthin special. Bloody Wrecker tech.
Oh no, it’s good Wrecker tech. Noble even! From the very beginnings of time. Those squiggles, as you cal them, are let ers. Let ers joined together make words. And words tel a story. Like this one.
He turns the pages over like he don’t wanna disturb ’em.
It’s the story of a great king, he says. His name was Lewis Ex Eye Vee. The Sun King of France.
France, I says. Is that around here?
No my dear, he says. It was a far away land, long long ago. Back in Wrecker times. The Sun King has been dead for many hundreds of years. Here, this is what he looked like.
He holds the book out to me. The lines an squiggles on the page curve into the drawin of a man.
He’s got thick curly hair down past his shoulders an piled high on top. Animal skins thrown over one shoulder, trailin behind him onto the floor. Fancy shirt with fril y col ar an cuf s. Short, puf y lit le britches that show his legs. High heeled shoes. Sword at his side. Walkin stick.
His people worshipped him, he says. They thought he was a god.
Wel I never heard of him, I says. An he wouldn’t of got far in them shoes. How’d you come to know al this?
There are some people—very few, mind you—who stil have the knowledge of words and books. When I was a boy, he says, I was lucky enough to meet one such woman and she taught me to read.
So, the way you talk, I says, al them funny words. That’s on account of … readin?
Yes, he says. Yes, I suppose it is.
Think I’l give it a miss then, I says.
Rooster! Rooster Pinch! Where’re you at? It’s Miz Pinch’s screechy squawk.
Here, my angel! Pinch cries.
You bet er not be gabbin instead of workin!
I’m not, my angel! We’re not! He takes the book an pops it back in his pocket.
We start in on the repairs. But it’s like he cain’t stop hisself talkin, cuz almost right away he says, She looks to be a smart lit le gal, your sister. Bright as a but on. I can always tel .
She’s a pain in the neck, I says. You got kids?
A son, he says. Then right away he says, The sun is fiercely hot today, don’t you find? He mops at his head, lookin up at the sky. There’s no other word for it but erce. Most uncomfortable. We could certainly do with some cooler weather, but ah … sorry my dear, you were asking … ah yes, children. Sadly, my wife and I were never blessed.
He ducks his head down. Like he don’t wanna meet my eyes.
Yer lyin, Rooster Pinch. Why would you lie about havin a kid?
We work in silence fer a bit. Then, like I don’t give two hoots, I says, Where was it you said you was headed?
Hopetown, he says. My heart jumps into my throat. But, he says, as my good lady wife mentioned, the wind changed and the Swan was blown of course. We should have been heading due north.
Hopetown’s due north of here? I says.
That’s right, he says.
Wel , if that don’t beat al , I says. Hopetown’s where we’re headed too. We’re jest on our way there.
He darts me a quick look. Wel , wel , he says. What an extraordinary coincidence. What a fortuitous meeting indeed. I don’t suppose you’d
He darts me a quick look. Wel , wel , he says. What an extraordinary coincidence. What a fortuitous meeting indeed. I don’t suppose you’d like to … climb aboard and sail with us?
I believe we might like that very much, I says.
Then let us strike hands on it! He holds out a greasy paw an we shake hands. You’ve got yourself a ride, young lady.
Why’d you tel him that? Emmi hisses.
I grab her arm an pul her away where we cain’t be heard. Don’t you listen to nuthin? I says. They’re headed fer Hopetown. That’s the place Mercy told us about, where they might of took Lugh. He might be there. An if he ain’t, it’s a good place to start. We can maybe ask around, find things out.
So we’re gonna go with ’em? she says.
That’s right, I says.
She folds her arms over her skinny chest, shakes her head. I don’t like it, she says. An I don’t like them. Not one bit.
It don’t mat er what you like, I says. I got a find Lugh. An any way that helps me find him faster, I’m gonna take it.
You never listen to me, she says, her face al sulky. What about Nudd? We cain’t jest leave him here.
He seems to know we’re talkin about him. He lowers his head an but s it gently into her side.
We’l set his head fer home, I says. Mercy’l be glad to see him.
Do we hafta do it now? she says.
I nod.
G’bye, Nudd. She strokes his soft nose, kisses it. You stay out a trouble.
She stands back.
Go on home, Nudd, I says. Go home to Mercy. I give him a slap on the rump an he takes of across the plain, back the way we come.
It feels kinda funny, jest let in him go like that, says Emmi.
Miz Pinch’s voice comes from behind us. I jest about jump out a my skin. A pony like that ain’t got a hope of outrunnin a wolfdog pack, she says.
Saba! says Emmi. Cal him back!
It’s al right, Em, I says. He’l be fine.
Suddenly, with her so close fer the rst time, I realize how big Miz Pinch is. Over six foot, with broad shoulders, rough man-sized hands an strong lookin arms covered with dark hair.
Grub’s up, she says.
We sit on deck to eat—me on a upturned bucket, Emmi on the floor an the Pinches on rickety wood chairs they pul out a the hut.
Miz Pinch digs into the cookin pot with a long wooden spoon an slops a hearty helpin into a bat ered tin basin.
Dried boar an sourberry, she says. She holds the basin out to me. That’l fil yer bel y.
Pinch goes to grab it. She hauls of an whacks his hand with the spoon. Whacks him so hard he howls. She glares at him.
That ain’t yers, she says.
An this one’s fer you, girlie. She fil s another eatin tin an hands it to Emmi, who digs right in.
My squeezed bel y’s so happy to be l ed that I scarf down the lot double quick. When I’m nished, Miz Pinch hands me a chunk of flatbread. She gives a bit to Em too.
There you go, she says. Mop them bowls clean. Cain’t go wastin good food. It’s nice to see young ’uns with good appetites, ain’t it, Rooster?
To share our modest portion with fel ow travelers on the dusty road of life, he says. It’s just the thing, my dear! That’s what it’s al about!
Git every last drop, she says, that’s the way. Al done?
Thanks, I says. I hand our bowls back. I yawn. Emmi rubs her eyes.
You girls feelin sleepy? says Miz Pinch.
My eyelids is feelin so heavy al of a sudden. I yawn agin.
Guess I … ain’t used … to … al this walkin …, I says.
Saba, Emmi yawns. Why do I feel … so … tired …?
She curls up on deck an right away, she’s fast to sleep. Somethin ain’t right here. I git to my feet. I stagger a lit le.
