Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(80)

The tent was nearly deserted. The hemp panels hung limp and damp, tinted by a ruby light. There was the sound of dripping from somewhere and the sounds of people still abed all around. Quietly bundling lengths of course twine, sacks and a harvest knife took only a moment. These she placed in the market basket. Then she pulled on a pair of cracked and ill-fitting goggles, wrapped a scarf tightly across her nose and mouth, pulled a shawl over her head and prepared to depart for her morning errands. It all felt so ordinary. The goggles rode on her forehead for the moment, not yet necessary though ready for use, and as a final measure Joyce pulled on a pair of gloves. They were a good pair with only a few holes. They had been a gift from one of the other Penitents. Thus protected, she stepped through the tent flap into the wider world.

That world was made indistinct by the fog. The towers were no more than silhouettes and the sun was a red glow, but they led the way. Follow the shadows toward the dawn and then turn right at the main road. That road was called Boundary. A rusty sign told her that, though it gave no indication what boundary it might mark. Farther up she would cross Kingsway. She did not know which king. The Caretakers were the only rulers Joyce knew.

For much of the way the road was still reasonably good. Most of the old surface was gone but the holes were regularly filled with gravel and the invasive brambles kept down by the traffic. It was only a short walk, easy for a young woman even if she were carrying a burden, but that morning the weight on her shoulders was heavier than it had ever been. She stopped, held back a sob. All she wanted to do was return to her bedroll and cry herself to sleep.

That would not get her vegetables in or make the stew or banish her problems. That was not how she had lived. She would not live that way now.

Joyce raised her eyes toward the crest of the hill and began walking once more. She climbed to where Boundary and Kingsway met on the high ground. The mist was thinning now. Only a breath of wind stirred the air. Joyce glanced to the east and gauged how much time she had before that wind rose in earnest. That was perhaps an hour away. She moved more quickly. She was nearly at the farm.

It was an orderly tangle of wind breaks, vegetation and dew traps. Stone hedges bordered most of it and divided the fields. At this time of morning there were only a few people about. These were the overseers considering the necessary tasks for the day. Most knew Joyce by name. She usually wound her way through the fields on the way to prayers, the route more direct than following the road, and that had been her intention this morning, but once in the fields she seemed to take root. She needed to pray but she realized quite suddenly that she did not want to go to the meeting. Perhaps they knew about her betrothal. There would be questions and congratulations and offers of help with the arrangements. There would be excitement and solemn declarations. She could not face any of that. What she most earnestly wanted was a time of solitude.

Removing the gloves, Joyce knelt with her knife in hand. Rosemary and parsley were growing from a cleft between two rocks. Sage grew a little farther on. Her blade cut cleanly through the stalks and sent the water drops falling like jewels. Perfume rose to scent the morning. She worked quickly, sorting the harvest as she went. This was a good spot. It had not been gleaned in some time, half-hidden as it was by a large bush. On any other day this would have been a perfect moment.

“Hello.”

Joyce started. She had been lost in her work and the other had approached quietly. She looked up to find a man leaning over the wall. He was young and thin. Wisps of blond hair escaped from beneath his hat. A heavy scarf was wrapped around his neck, ready to cover his mouth and nose when the wind rose. His goggles were likewise around his neck, hanging loose by their straps. He had a pleasant face, strong but open. Three nails glinted on the left breast of his rough coat.

“I suppose it is too late for dawn service?” he asked.

Joyce looked at the sky, judging time by the colour in the east. “They will be doing the confessions now, so it would probably be done by the time you got there.”

He nodded, then observed, “You didn’t go.”

“No,” she admitted the obvious. “I will make my prayers privately.”

“Sometimes I like to pray alone, too, but I had hoped to meet the people.”

“You are new here?” Joyce asked, though it was unnecessary. She knew everyone in the local Convocation. When new members arrived, they were usually brought to the market tent to be introduced to Joyce and her stew. Those new arrivals were becoming more frequent. The community was growing.

“I am from the Prairies. My people ranched in the foot-hills.”

Joyce had only a vague idea of where the Prairies might be. She knew that they were to the east across high mountains and that the journey was difficult and dangerous. She said as much.

“An uncle of mine works on the train. He arranged for me to travel with some cargo. They have had problems with the mountain men and are happy to have another man on board if he can fight.”

“Can you fight?”

“All members of the Convocation must be warriors,” he said rather too seriously.

Joyce giggled and then caught herself. Such frivolity was unbecoming. She said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock you.”

“It’s all right. That sounded like a boast but I did not mean it that way. I can fight when I have to. The mountain men raid us too and we have to defend what we have.”

“Are you going to Vancouver?”