The Pesthouse (13 page)

'We'll either have to throw out half of our possessions, ditch the barrow and carry what we can, and that is not a good idea. We've not got much — but what we've got we need,' he continued. 'Or else we'll have to find a path where wheels are helpful rather than a hindrance. In other words...' He pointed toward the disappearing train of mules, '... that road. Our wheelbarrow will fly along that road.' That dreaming road.

It did not take them long to reach and climb the first of the two parallel mounds that protected the road from the wind and then to descend the sloping, grassy berm, varicosed with gopher trails, to the flat corridor itself. It was almost as wide as the river at the ferry point in Ferrytown, and that made no sense at all. The widest transport that had ever passed through Ferrytown was only three horses wide, while this great swath of track would easily take two teams of horses, each fifty wide or more. It had to be the pathway of a giant or else to have been designed to carry something huge and heavy, those wooden war machines, perhaps, that Margaret had heard talk about — the ones that broke through walls, or shot boulders in the air, or hurled fire.

The road, indeed, seemed built — by how many laborers and over how many years, at what immense cost? — to take great weights. Its now damaged surface, much degraded by the weather and time, was comprised mostly of chips of stone, loose grit and sticky black rubble, which only the toughest of plants — knotweed, sagebrush and thistle — had succeeded in penetrating. Along the verge, behind thick curbs of fashioned rectangular rock and what seemed like rusted metal fences, thinned to a finger's breadth by corrosion, were clumps of jimson, not yet cut back by the frosts, their summer trumpets rotting at their bases. There was nothing edible for travelers — unless they craved hallucinations and stomach cramp or could, like beetles, dine on rust. The going, though, despite the often uneven rubble, was almost as easy as Franklin had hoped. Margaret could climb on board again, to rest herself. ('Don't let me make you ache,' she said.) The barrow, aided by a slight decline in the easterly direction, was quick and easy to maneuver. Franklin had only to lift it a little by its handles and it almost rolled forward on its own, anxious to make progress.

To tell the truth, Franklin's chosen route, though fast, was tedious. Protected by the mounds of earth, it was impossible to tell if any breeze or any storm clouds were building up on a far horizon or even if there was any danger in the wider world. Margaret had resigned herself to feeling a bit uneasy on the Highway, but she had voluntarily allowed her Pigeon to win in their dispute about her fears and so would have to make the best of it. She had not minded Franklin's unexpected tone of voice. Her brothers, though they were both much smaller men than Franklin, had been greater bullies in their time and much louder in their arguments, so she was used to bombast. She would have been more surprised, and perhaps a little disappointed, to have gotten her own way easily. It was better, all in all, to be in the care of a man who was strong and determined to have his way than to place her trust in what was known by the women in Ferrytown as a lily-liver, whatever that might be exactly. Franklin had expressed himself. She had allowed him to. Now the responsibility was his. She could hold him to account if anything went wrong.

Late in the afternoon, with the sun too low to light the road but the sky still brightly blue beyond the escarpments, they caught up with the mule train and its two attendants, a boy not much more than twelve years old and his father. One of their mules carried their personal effects, including a large canvas tent. The other seven were laden with jugs, pots and crocks.

Margaret had been persuaded that she ought to wear her blue scarf, hiding her shaven head, so that unless a stranger scrutinized her eyebrows too closely, her recent illness could remain a secret. The potman and his son did not seem too alarmed when finally they halted the mules with their sticks and turned to exchange greetings. The size of Franklin could not have been reassuring from a distance, but his manner was mild, and his smile — something Margaret had noticed with increasing satisfaction — was disarming. She might, she thought, when they were sleeping side by side in their barrow bed that night, allow his hand to hold hers, or even let her head rest on his shoulder, the bristles of her scalp against his beard. What harm could come of it? A man who would go back for her, to rescue her three talismans, a man who was so sweetly timorous, a man who could remove the flux with his enormous thumbs, must surely deserve something more than words of gratitude.

Franklin and Margaret introduced themselves to the potman as Ferrytowners, and, instinctively, as brother and sister. A woman of her age could not admit to traveling with an unrelated man. But claiming to be husband and wife would have been not only embarrassing to themselves but unconvincing to strangers. There was their age difference for a start. Six or seven years, possibly. And then the careful, respectful formality that still existed between them and would not persist between lovers and certainly not between spouses. The potman raised an eyebrow, though. 'You're not exactly twins,' he joked, surveying the immensely tall, black-bearded man and the pale, tiny redhead, scarcely reaching his chest.

'Different mothers,' Margaret said. 'Mine died.' That much was true.

They traveled together for a short distance until the escarpments at the edge of their road flattened out entirely into a broad, barriered semicircle and provided them with daunting views across a debris field of tumbled stone and rock, stained with rust and ancient metal melt. Colossal devastated wheels and iron machines, too large for human hands, stood at the perimeter of the semicircle, as if they had been dumped by long-retreated glaciers and had no purpose now other than to age. Hardly anything grew amid the waste. The earth was poisoned, probably. Twisted rods of steel protruded from the masonry. Discarded shafts and metal planks, too heavy to pull aside even, blocked their paths.

Margaret had seen a lesser version of such things before, in the historic north of Ferrytown, where once there'd been, or so tradition claimed, a vast workshop that produced shoes in enormous numbers, though why people could not make shoes for themselves in their own homes was never clear to her. The flaking bodies of machines were still buried there, and, as Margaret knew from her own experience, even to that day if anybody turned the soil in that area, they'd be unlucky not to find shiny buckles or little metal eyelets, presumably for boot laces, among the loam of rotted leather. But she — and certainly Franklin — had never encountered such mighty metal blocks before or such a profligate display of waste by these ancestors. The smell was oily, acidic and medicinal, the sort of smell even a skunk would avoid. This had to be the junkie that she'd heard reported, third, fourth hand, from stories that had managed to cross the river back to Ferrytown, even if the storytellers hadn't.

In Ferrytown, metal things were sometimes prized and always hard to come by. People could manage without. Margaret's family had owned only the silver cup, some bluish pewter cooking pots, some knives, a crude iron grate that Grandpa said was owned by
his
grandpa and half a dozen grandpas beyond him, a hand-beaten kettle, a very useful shovel and an ax. Margaret herself possessed — or had possessed — her silver necklace and the coins she had found in the river shale when she was a child. But that was all. Carts could not get by entirely without a little metal toughening, on wheel rims, for instance. And boat builders and carpenters could manage wood more easily with sharp-edged tools. But generally metal objects were not preferred to those fashioned out of timber or leather or bark or root or withies or cane or wool or gourds or clay or fur. There were so many obliging materials that one could use without going to the time-consuming and dirty trouble of mining and smelting.

It was fascinating, if disturbing, to stand now among the bludgeoned stones and rusting cadavers, trying to imagine what America had been all those grandpas ago, while the potman and his son hunted round for any thin metal scraps that they could scavenge and use as staples for fixing broken shards of clay. Margaret and Franklin did not speak. They retreated, shaking their heads, baffled but excited by the presence of so much antiquity, until they noticed signs of life on the outskirts of the junkie. Smoke was rising from the entrance of a sheltered cave of debris beneath an overhang of collapsed stonework. An elderly man in his fifties with a graying beard came out into the daylight, looked across a little nervously at the potman and at Margaret and Franklin, and finally called out a word of greeting.

Franklin, as the younger man, would have to walk across to introduce himself. He left Margaret in charge of the barrow and the lead rein of the mules, and made his way across the debris. As he got closer and could see into the deep darkness of the shelter, he recognized the little carriage that they'd spotted earlier that day. A pair of carriage horses were tied against a wall of squared stone, mossy green, at one side of the cave, where there were pools of greasy water. The old man's family — his wife, a son — were sitting round their fire, warming their knuckles. There was a grandchild sleeping in a reed-weave basket with a mattress of fishnet.

They spent the night together in the dry shelter of the stone and metal cave, all of them, three 'families' sharing their provisions as travelers should, sharing the fire, and glad of the company. When they had eaten and Margaret had handed round her taffies as a treat, especially for the potman's boy, they took it in turns, according to their seniority, to tell the stories of their emigration so far.

The carriage family were from a riverside community, much farther south than Ferrytown and on the opposite bank. There was no work or trade for them anymore. The river was narrow there, and so, while it had once been good for fishing, it was not suitable for ferrying and profiting from travelers, as Ferrytown had done. The old man, Andrew Bose, and his wife, Melody, had been net- and creel-makers, employing eight hands and growing rich from their efforts. Their son, Acton, had been a fisherman and fish merchant. 'Also doing well for himself,' added Melody. 'He was much admired.' But when the village started to empty as
striking out
offered better prospects than
staying put
, the fish and net trade beached itself. Acton became his parents' last remaining customer for nets. They became the only ones to buy his fish. The Boses hoped to sit their problems out. Things would get better. Only a fool would leave the river bank, because whatever happened there you would never run short of water or food. But then their daughter-in-law died in childbirth, and Acton determined to leave for somewhere less ill fated. His parents were too old to stay behind alone, though their son had not insisted that they join him and the baby. On the contrary. But it was time for all of them to 'face the facts and leave'. So, once the child had been weaned by the last of the village pay-moms and cut her first two teeth, they'd shuttered up their house and joined the exodus. Andrew had his tools with him, he said. There was bound to be work for a net-maker as soon as they reached water. Net-makers were always valued and respected wherever there were boats.

The potman and his son — both named Joey — had traveled from the south from a market town where, once the region's farms had failed and folded and their owners had joined the emigration, there was no work, no market, no demand for pots, and so no supper on the family table. The elder Joey had made the future easy for himself by first sending his wife and their three other children ahead in the company of neighbors. Then he'd traded some silver for the mules, loaded up his stock of finished pots, his tools and some powdered fixing clay, and followed on, taking his time. He and his son had survived during the two months of their journey so far by doing pot repairs in exchange for food and lodging. The Joeys had been in Ferrytown ten days before, and they had sealed the cracks in several of the guest house's earthenware water ewers, and had stapled broken plates and dishes in many of the wealthier homes. 'My wife knows it's her job to break as many pots as she can, ahead of me,' he said. 'She does the damage. I do the repairs.' In just a few days' time, he hoped, he'd meet up with his wife again, somewhere on the coast. 'I'll find her, you can bet. She's got a laugh can shatter clay. That's why I married her.'

Any plans that Margaret had for heads on shoulders and holding hands had been postponed. She and Franklin had made up beds at the back of the shelter a little distance from each other, as brothers and sisters — and certainly
half
brothers and sisters — must. But their knees had touched for several heartbeats during their evening at the fireside, and they were content to stay in this good company until their eyes dropped shut. It was such a pleasure just to listen and to talk with friendly strangers. But Franklin, avoiding the true story of what had happened to them and their families in Ferrytown, had hardly started to amuse the net-makers with his account of how Margaret had fished for birds in the forest, when — silently, appallingly — the band of rustlers arrived.

How had they been so careless? The eight travelers must have been half blinded by staring into their fire and deafened by their own conversations and their laughter not to have heard so many heavy feet surrounding them, or to have picked up on the sound of horses. They realized that they were snared only when, suddenly, the remaining brightness of the night from the moon and stars and from metal luster was blocked. Too ill prepared for trouble, too shocked to stand and run, they could only sit exactly where they were and look up at the silhouettes of six or seven well-armed men who, attracted — invited almost — by the smoke, the flames, the throb of human voices, had crept up as evenly as wolves on a sheepfold.

Everyone could see enough by firelight to know what kind of men these were. Their faces were too weather-beaten to be townspeople. Their clothes were not the clothes of emigrants, designed for warmth and durability, but the highly colored, quarrelsome garments of men keen to be noticed and alarming. Their beards were tied in braids with ribbons. Their legs were bowed from a life on horseback. They were not clean. Their smiles were far too sharp to promise anything but cruelty.