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Great Writing - Home > SF > Under a Mastic Tree — part one
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Science Fiction and Fantasy
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| Under a Mastic Tree — part one | |
| By andybyers | ||
| 18 March 2008 | ||
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This story is set in Brandon, Manitoba, about fifty or sixty years from now. This is the first part of three. The clicking sounds were flat, lifeless, heavy in his ears; they came steadily. He did not hear them anymore. He heard only the silence when the batteries ran out, or the mosquito-like whine that rose in pitch and volume whenever he drew closer to a mark. He was hearing it now. High, sharp, piercing. He swept the plate back and forth before him, letting the rise and fall of the pitch tell him exactly where the target lay. When he was satisfied, he set the finder aside, and reaching into the bag on his hip, he knelt, and carefully planted the tiny red flag that indicated where death lay in waiting, just inches below the surface. And then he stood, stepped around the mine, and began to seek the next. He climbed the hill, and smiled when the tree came into sight. He always glanced around when he was up here, making sure he wasn’t seen, no covetous eyes were watching. The tree was his watchman, and he reached his arm down into its hollow maw and found, as always, that the tree had honoured his trust: the brass case was still there, cold and solid to the touch. Glancing around one more time, he flipped the lid open. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of military scrip, carefully counted out half of it, and tucked the bulk of the remainder into the case where a much large sum already resided. He carefully placed the little box back into its hiding place. Of the amount he still held, he tucked just a few bills back into the breast pocket of his jacket, and jammed the rest back into his hip pocket. He patted the tree a couple of times, and ducked down the wooded side of the hill. The mail line at the depot was always long. As he waited, he amused himself with trying to imagine what the place had once looked like. He compared it with photographs he’d seen. The pictures never seemed quite real. How could it ever have looked that way? But this was what people said. He had to believe things had once been better, if he were ever to believe they’d one day be better again. Otherwise, how could people ever know? “Name, address,” the woman recited when it was his turn. “Belanger, Kensington Crescent,” he said. The woman turned, checking the slot, and returned. “No mail,” she said. “What’s new.” He turned and left. As he left the building, he pocketed one of the size B envelopes, as he always did. He had grown adept at forging the government mark that proved payment, and he inked it onto the envelope’s upper right corner, careful to smudge it to mar its legibility and enhance its authenticity. Slowly, in a style consciously not his own, he printed his family’s name and address on the envelope, tucked the money from his hip pocket into it, and sealed it inside. Rising from the dirt mound, he slipped the envelope into his pocket and dusted himself off. He wandered up Smithfield Road, past the overturned tanks and burned out jeeps that had years ago ceased to hold any fascination for him, and made his way home. “Cammy! Hey, Cammy!” He turned, watching his brother come into sight from behind the rubble. “How’d it go?” Cameron shrugged. “Same as usual. Pulling vegetables. What changes?” David smiled as he came up. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “Same in the claims office. Stamp, file. Stamp, file. Nothing much changes there either.” “Why are you walking?” Cameron asked. He slowed his pace. David panted, wincing as the badly-padded rests of his crutches dug into his armpits. “Aw, bus never showed up,” he sighed. “Probably broken down again. Maybe tomorrow.” “You shouldn’t go if you don’t see it,” Cameron said. “That’d be nice,” David grumbled, “if we were rich enough to turn down a day’s work. I wouldn’t mind.” “I know,” Cameron nodded. “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t go… I just meant you shouldn’t have to.” “I know, Cammy.” Cameron pulled the envelope from his jacket. “Hey,” he said, “I think we got a letter from Uncle Jack.” David looked. “Aw, great. That’ll make Mom happy. Be a load off her mind. That’s terrific.” Cameron smiled, nodding. The building was in a good location, as things went. It was near the edge of town, so the area wasn’t too crowded. It was near the local hand pump, not far from a route that crossed the river into town—at least, when it deigned to show up—and the power grid was underground, and so was one of the more reliable ones in the city. Interruptions in service almost never happened; at least, unintentional ones. When they arrived, the street was dimly lit, as the neighbourhood was currently on the 4 p.m. to midnight power shift. “I think I like power in the evenings best,” Cameron said. “Me too,” David said. “Hot suppers. I don’t mind a cold breakfast, but supper should be hot.” “I wish it could be like that all the time.” “It will be, one day. It’s coming.” “Sure.” Cameron helped David up the steps; thankfully, their apartment was on the first floor. Their father had paid for that favour when they’d moved in, years before. At first it just made fetching water convenient. Now that David only had one leg, it was a double blessing. But one that probably would not have pleased their father. “Hi, Mom,” David called as they entered the apartment. “Hi, Dave,” she called from the kitchen. “I’m home too, Mom,” Cameron said, kicking off his shoes. Their mother appeared. “Oh, both my men come marching home together. How were your days?” “Same as always, for us both,” David said. “Except…” Cameron said, and pulled out the envelope. He watched his mother’s face light up, brighter than anything cast by the orange bulbs in the ceiling. “Is it?” she asked. “I think so,” Cameron said, handing it over. “Open it and see.” She jammed her finger into the corner and tore the envelope open. With a sigh of relief, she retrieved the bundle of cash. “Praise God,” she said. Cameron smiled. His mother had long ago stopped wondering why her uncle never sent word, only money. She was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Oh, and,” Cameron said, and pulled the other bills from his jacket pocket. David reached for the wages in his own pocket, and the two of them handed the money to her. She smiled her gratitude. “You’re both good boys, you know. Not like some of the louts around here.” A white-maned face appeared in the kitchen doorway, warm and wrinkled by a grin. “Fellahs,” he greeted them. “Hey, Granddad.” The old man turned; having greeted his grandsons, the chair beckoned him back. “What’s the good word today?” Cameron entered the kitchen, where the stomach-teasing aroma of his mother’s soup was bright and loud as if to make up for the dim lights and the ghostlike whispers coming over the short wave radio on the table. “You tell us.” “Word is that that council in Paris is making headway,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Just like the old days, huh, Granddad?” the girl beside him said. “Starting to look that way, princess.” David set his crutches against the wall, gently waving off Cameron’s help as he eased himself down into a chair. “You won’t like it, Tammy. School used to last about twenty years before the war.” “I heard that,” she laughed. “I don’t think that could ever have been true.” “Oh, pretty near,” Granddad said. “Sometimes, even longer.” “When would anybody ever get anything done?” Tammy scoffed. “Things were complicated then. People had to know a lot more than they do now.” “Like with the steel works in Pittsburgh,” Mom said. “Complicated jobs. Things like that are starting up again. People are going to need more schooling.” “The oil fields out west, things like that?” Tammy said. Silence passed for a moment, while the radio whined and muttered. “Things like that,” Granddad said. “I wish Dad would come home,” the girl said. “We all do,” Mom said. She stirred the pot. Tasted. Salted. “They ought to have a continental council over here like they’re having in Europe,” David said. “We could really use it.” “Things are getting better,” Granddad says. “Hasn’t been any border trouble for a while. It’ll happen.” “I’m more worried about China coming back,” David said. Granddad laughed, stubbing out his cigarette, reaching for another. “That’ll be a while. We showed them a thing or two.” “Showed us some stuff first, I think.” “We kept what was ours,” the old man said, his pride quiet, but in evidence. “Mostly,” David said. “But it seems to me there was a time you could go from Brandon to Calgary to work in the oil fields, or to Toronto or Montreal, without asking anyone’s permission.” “It’ll be that way again, don’t worry. Sooner or later people will come to see there’s no point in bickering over scraps. But it takes time to build the economy back up. It was the economy collapsing that really led to the wars. It wasn’t that people wanted to fight; they just got desperate. I remember how it was.” “Well, I wish they’d get on with it,” Mom said. “If that happens, do you think we’d see Dad again?” Tammy said. Granddad patted her shoulder. “We’ll see him.” [End of part one]
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