Cargo

by Michael F. Flynn

Early morn, and the sun is up, though the proof would be hard to come by, for the clouds are low and the color of old dishwater. Bright threads of white flash through them like the shuttle of a loom, and distant rumbles follow soon after. A sudden rush of wind rolls through the snug Moren Valley, tousling the grass and whipping the tall, thin trees.

Little Jace runs through the woods as fast as he can, though the brush grows close and thick and there is no trail. He trips on a stone and sprawls into the ancient leaves and cast-off bark that litter the woodland floor. But he is a small boy and resilient and aside from abrasions on his palms and knees he feels no pain. The urgency of his mission propels him to his feet, and shortly he breaks into the open ground at the edge of the village. “Uncle Nob!” he cries. “Uncle Nob!”

In the village of Moren’s Run, any man is Uncle, and might be father.

No one answers him. They are busy lashing up the shutters on their huts against the coming rain, hauling laundry from lines, gathering rust-threatened sickles and hoes under shelter. Dogs yelp. Boys hustle thunder-spooked sheep toward their pens. Amidst the bustle, one more rushing, shouting boy goes unnoticed.

Jace spies Teffny, the priestess, bending into the wind, holding her gowns against herself. She has been out ensuring the fertility of the spring fields with the Chosen Man and has been chased from her duties by the sudden squall. “Ma Teffny!” cries Jace. “Ma Teffny! Have you seen Old Nob?”

Teffny grabs her poke bonnet before the wind can deprive her of it, and her skirts whip up around her knees. “Over there,” she says, trying to point without releasing the various holds on her clothing. “By the cornfield.”

Jace hurries past the huts and down onto the low ground from which a knot of men is trotting uphill with hoes shouldered like spears. He searches the faces, but Uncle Nob is not among them; so he runs through the newly planted corn, past the corpse of the Chosen Man, until he spies Old Nob standing at the edge of the field and watching the approaching storm clouds.

Nob is thin and tall, very much like the sapling beeches, and like them he sways, though whether from the wind, as they do, or from drink, Jace does not guess. Nob’s long, white hair flutters in streamers off the side of his head.

“Uncle Nob!” the boy calls over the bluster of the wind. Lightning zigzags through the approaching clouds like a mouse through the fields.

“Holy Franklin,” the old man says. “Holy Franklin…”

“Uncle Nob!” Jace calls again.

This time, the old man hears him. He turns and his eternal sadness is broken for an instant by a smile. Uncle Nob’s face is much like the lowering clouds overhead. Seldom does the sun pierce it. More often, it rains. “Jace!” he says. “Where have you come from?” Then, toward the flickering sky: “Holy Franklin!”

Maxwell unleashes his daemons and the clouds crackle like dry autumn leaves underfoot. Lightnings flash, one after the other. The sky booms.

Jace tugs at his sleeve. “Come quick, Uncle Nob. Come quick! Bro Will is in awful trouble.”

“Oh, what now?” Uncle Nob bends over, close enough that Jace can smell the liquor on his breath. “What has that delinquent…? Ay-yi! Such thunder!” He makes fending motions, but even as he does, Franklin summons a bolt to stab the cliffs across the river.

Jace pulls again at his sleeve. “You must come-see!”

“Oh-ho! Must I? Just past sunrise, and already…? I swear: If’n a boy could get in trouble while sleeping, Will would find a way to do it.” Uncle Nob laughs a little. “Well, come along, lad. Where is he?”

Nob is already striding out of the cornfield, his long legs stepping high and storklike, pausing only for a bow of respect toward the Chosen Man, on whom he throws a token clod.

No one marks their passage through the village. The rain and lightning have herded everyone inside their huts, as the boys had earlier herded the sheep into their pen. The village now huddles snug against spring fires, dry so long as the rain does not find the chinks among the wattles.

The wind dies while Nob and Jace are still only partway to the woods. A few big drops strike the path and raise craters in the dirt, then more drops patter the nearby leaves, and then it is sluicing down upon them. “Ho-ho!” Nob laughs as his long hair is plastered against him. “A good soaking for us, Jace! And it’ll be good for the corn.” He holds his arms out to the side and dances a few twirls until he staggers. Jace steadies him.

“Mama says you drink too much,” he tells the old man.

Nob smiles conspiratorially and bends close to the lad’s ear. “You know why she complains? ‘Cause that leaves less for them. Ha-ha!”

The air turns bright as daylight, throwing everything for an instant into black and white. The thunder follows close on its heels, loud as all the drums of Midsummer Night. Jace yelps and Old Nob takes him by the shoulder. “Steady, boy,” he says. “Franklin ain’t a-hunting you personally.”

The rain has turned the dirt track to a thick, syrupy mud that threatens to pull their moccasins from their feet. Old man and boy step onto the berm, where they must fight the tall grass, but where the footing is better. Here and there, past rains have scoured the dirt from the underlying asphalt.

The rain subsides into a steady drizzle and the lightning passes over them toward the east. They seek shelter under the trees, but the gusty wind shivers the branches, and the leaves dump their portions of water on them, so that it seems to rain even under the canopy. “Where is Bro Will? What’s he gotten into now?”

“This way.” Jace scampers through the underbrush that crowds the wide pathway while Nob struggles to keep up. Passing the Great Pylon, he pauses long enough to rap it for luck, listens to the hollow echo, then swings across a fallen pole on one of the cables that still dangle from it.

“Slower,” Nob grumbles. “I ain’t no deer.”

The path horseshoes across the shoulder of the Hill. The rise is steep and here the clay has nearly sloughed off, leaving the old road exposed. Only where the hawthorn and mulberry and sawgrass have grown through the asphalt has the soil remained stubbornly in place. Nob grows uneasy.

“You know you ain’t supposed to come up here,” he cautions the boy.

Jace pauses and looks around. “I was a-following Bro Will.”

“He ain’t supposed to come up here, either.”

Jace leads him off the old road and into the woods, through soaring birches and maples and circles wide ‘round a thickly woven stand of stickerbushes. Animals huddle miserably in burrow or nest, their usual cacophony silent. Limestone boulders, decked in moss, jut from the soil. A crick bubbles between an old foundation and a rotting stump. Jace jumps atop the stump and leaps the crick.

“How much farther?” Nob complains.

“Hush now, Uncle. See yonder? There he is.” Jace has brought him at last to a hazel thicket overlooking a small, hidden dell. Nob remembers the dell, from long ago, and wishes for a jug of the potato liquor, because his head is beginning to throb like the recently passed storm. He sees that Will and two of his friends have set up shelfs. He begins to shiver, and it is not entirely from the soaking he has gotten from the rain.

The shelfs have been fastened to a row of saplings, resting in the crotches of branches, held fast by vines. On them lie crabapples, wild strawberries and blackberries, acorns, scallions, and the like. On them, too, sit a few rusted old cans, and wickedly incorruptible plastic bottles. Beside each item a square of birch bark has been affixed, bearing sigils scrawled in charcoal. The rain has washed much of this away, and so Will and Kenn labor to restore them while Shairn weaves branches into an overhead roof. Off to one side, a cracked and corroded device sits upon a stump.

A cash register, Nob remembers the name his gramper had used years ago. Although what a register is, and what makes it cash, has remained ever since a delicious mystery. You put “money” in it, gramper had said, and that lets you take some of the food. But of course that had only deepened the mystery. What was money? And why would people not share the food, anyway? Gramper had once seen such things with his own eyes, but he had seen it with a child’s understanding.

It will be our little secret, Nobby, the old man had said.

Nob’s big hand clamps down on Jace’s mouth, and he drags the boy away from the thicket. Not until they have emerged from the woods and reached the old roadbed does he release the boy.

“Why’d you do that?” Jace asks; but he asks in a whisper, for he understands the message of the hand.

“Quiet, boy. I have to think.”

“That was a store, wasn’t it?”

Nob’s long, dour face bends toward him. “Where’d you hear about stores?”

Faint rumbles drift from the east, where the storm now waters the Jersey lands. The western skies are still dark, promising more rain to come. Jace toes the ground and his forefinger augers his cheek. “I dunno.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. This is important.” Nob lifts a hand, as if to strike, and Jace cowers. But the hand descends slowly, the promised blow withheld. “It’s important,” the old man says again. “‘Specially now you shown me.”

“I heard Bro Will talk about it.”

“He’s talked about it?” Nob’s dismay curls his features.

“Just with Kenn and Shairn. They didn’t know I was in the loft. Uncle Nob, how did they make those shelfs?”

“They didn’t make them. They must have pried them from the ruins.”

“But… that’s a sin! It’s inner proprit!” Then, the boy drops his gaze and toes the dirt once more. “I’m sorry, Uncle Nob. I shouldn’t of said that. Not to you.”

“No need, boy. It is a sin.”

“But your mama…”

“…was inappropriate. I know, Jace. I know. But that was a long time ago. I was no older than you are now. She told stories from her father, my gramper.”

Jace’s eyes grow round. “She knew her father? But… how would she? Everyone takes turns so we can save our jennickdy versday.”

“Genetic diversity.” Nob helps him with the pronunciation. “Maybe she was mistaken. But everyone remarked a resemblance in their features.”

“Like folks say Bro Will favors you?”

Nob falls silent. “Yes,” he says finally. “Like that.”

“Did you know your gramper before they…? You know.”

“Before they stoned him? Yes. He was an angry, bitter, old man. He frightened me. I never cottoned to him. You see…” Nob hesitates a long time before continuing. Above, a cooper hawk circles hopefully just below the cloud deck; but all sensible mice are in their burrows and he soon gives it up. “You see, my gramper was a boy your age when the Crush came, and he…”

“He lived in the Old Days?” Jace’s mouth forms an O of astonishment. “Did he tell you stories? What was it like?”

“Walk with me.” Uncle Nob sets his long legs moving and Jace scampers to keep up.

“What’s Bro Will doing?”

“It’s an ancient prophecy. ‘If you build it, they will come.’ He figures if he builds a supermarket, someone will come stock it.”

Jace skips beside him, swinging his arms. “A sooper… A what?”

Nob does not look at him. “I don’t really know. Words my gramper used. A market is when farmers bring all their produce to the same place to trade…”

“Like when we meet with the fishermen from Glennen?”

The old man’s head bobs. “Yes. And a store is a place where you keep things like food to use later.”

“Like the grain pits.”

“Yes, like the grain pits, and the corn cribs.” He quickens his pace and Jace scampers to catch up. “Story is, the people of the elder days will return with trucks. And these trucks will carry wonderful cargo. Breads and cheeses and cuts of meat; sweets keener nor any honey; big, red, juicy apples; potatoes and beans and… Oh, well, everything. And they’d last a long, long time before the mold and rot took them. No one in them days had to sweat in the field with his hoe or sickle. And kids like you didn’t have to sit out in the fields all day and scare off birds. No one had to grind her own corn or bake her own bread.”

“It sounds… wonderful.”

Nob smiles a little, but only a little. “So it probably ain’t true. Remember I told you that. They’re only stories. There was more: fruits that we don’t have no more because they came from so far away it was sinful to eat them. Bananas. Oranges. Grapefruit.”

“What are they?”

The old man shrugs. “Gramper said he ate ‘em when he was a boy, before they all ran out and no more came. I figure grapefruits was like the grapes that grow over in Brown’s Valley. But the rest…” He waves his arm. “Ach… It don’t matter no more.” He falls silent, thinking of Will and the store he has set up in a hidden dell.

“Will, Will, Will,” he says. “What am I gonna do?”

A little ways farther on, past the Long White Wall, the trail bends and ahead on the left is a jumble of the red, rectangular rocks that gramper had called brick. It is overgrown and a sugar maple has taken possession of the site, undermining everything with her roots. Nob steps closer and peers into the rubble, but Jace, when he finally catches up, stops at the edge, where the brush tears up the asphalt.

It is as he had feared. The shelfs are gone. And the cash register.

“What you looking for?” asks Jace with a quaver in his voice.

“Nothing.” Nob remembers how gramper and he used to play store, a long time ago. But it was all coming apart even then, the old man had said. Dad told me the shelfs were fuller once.

The past is always more golden, Nob thinks. We remember our youth, not the world.

Nob clambers up on the unsteady pile and grips hold of a steel post that had once held the wall in place. From here, the ruins in the Great Valley can be seen, peeking through the forest.

Directly below, two broad pathways run in parallel from horizon to horizon, each wide enough for a dozen people to walk abreast. Grass and brush shroud them and the forest crowds close enough that, in places, roots have broken and lifted the stone beneath the sod. The High Way, gramper had called it. And, indeed, parts of it ran on bridges high above gullies and rivers.

Beyond, the skeletons of buildings lurk among maples and beeches and pines: huts of brick and stone and wood, some of them two or three levels high, sagging roofs of shingle or slate. All broken up now; all tumbling down, seized by vines and uprooted by trees, rusted by rain, flexed by wind. In the middle distance stands a great stone building, and beyond it, the edge of the cliffs that drop down to the Eastbound River. Lesser pathways cut the woodland into unnatural rectangles and triangles enclosing weedfields where the white of Queen Anne’s Lace quivers amidst the timothy and the wild lawn-grasses. To the northeast, a thin pall of smoke rises above the cliffs where the Eastbound tumbles into the Southbound River.

He hears a clack and, turning, sees that Jace has found a thighbone protruding from the dirt and, having pulled it free, is using it to bat stones about. “Goal!” the boy cries.

Nob climbs down gingerly from the rubble. “Jace, put that down,” he says when he reaches him. “We best be getting back while the rain holds off.”

Jace yields the bone with ill grace. The boys of Moren’s Run will be playing stick-and-ball against the fisher boys of Glennen come midspring day, and every bit of practice helps.

Gramper used to pry skulls from the soil and pretend that he had known them in the Old Days. Alas, poor York, he would say. I knew him. And then the old man would laugh. Nob thought now that his grandfather had been more than a little touched in the head.

It’s remembering will do it, Nobby. If you don’t remember, you’ll never miss it.

Jace has climbed atop a rusted and broken gaspum. “Is that the Old Day village?” he gasps. “It’s so huge! It goes on forever!”

“At least two days’ brisk walking, gramper told me, from east to west.”

“That’s inner proprit. No wonder their huts all fell down and Mama Earth ate their bones.”

“Likely so. But gramper said…” Nob snaps his mouth shut. It would not do to repeat such stories to a chatterbox like Jace. His grandfather had been stoned for telling them. And, later, his mother. Sometimes he imagines what it must have felt like when the rocks struck.

“What did your gramper say, Uncle?”

Nob crouches and shakes Jace by the shoulders. “Listen to me, boy. They were all lies. Gramper was a crazy old coot. What he said about the Fall of the Cities, it weren’t true. He was just a boy your age when it happened. How would he have known?”

“Maybe his mama told him? Then he told your mama, and your mama told…”

“Stop right there. Yes, mama told me, but I don’t believe ‘em, and neither should you. Flying through the air? Talking through the air? Boxes that think? An’ no one dying of the red measles or the hacking cough? Fables outta books! I think half his stories, they never happened to him. He read them outta books until he thought they did, and how can you trust what’s written in a book? How you know a story’s true if’n you can’t look a man in the eye when he tells it?”

Jace frowns with almost comical concern. “Your mama had books.”

The old man nods absently. “Yes. That’s why they stoned her. They belonged to gramper’s parents and they brought ‘em along when they came out to the countryside. The village burned them, of course, in the fighting right after the Fall; but gramper—or maybe his mama—hid some. And later… And later… They caught my mama with ‘em.”

The rain begins again. No thunder this time, only a steady shower. Nob releases Jace, stands and looks around the little clearing, back toward Moren’s Run, eastward toward Seederville. No one is abroad in such weather. Only little Jace and himself—and Will and his two friends. That fool boy! What is he to do about him? That Jace will keep silent is beyond credit. It will be the stoning ground for all three.

No, maybe not for Kenn and Shairn, he thinks. Not for a first offense, and not if they turn witness against Will. But Will has been chastised with the rods twice already, and this offense will violate the ancient tradition of Three Strikes.

“Let’s get outta the rain,” he says, and leads Jace to the shelter formed by two corners and fragment of roof of the old brick building. They huddle there while the water pours around them, while it drums the roof and drips through the cracks and splits.

There is less of the building now than there had been when gramper had showed it to him… When? The year the wolves came? The year the river froze? How many summers have passed since he was Jace’s age? No one remains alive now that he knew back then. Nob studies the great stone building off to the north and, through the curtain of rain, realizes that one of its two towers has fallen since he last saw it. A building so solid looking should last forever. Perhaps it is only a trick of the rain.

Nob sighs. How much of this will remain should Jace live to be an old man? Will he remember what it was like today? He glances at the boy, who gives him a grin of shared secrets, but shows no interest in the ruins on the valley floor below them. Something gramper once said comes back to him. It ain’t when we forget how we done something, Nobby, the old man had said, wagging a blunt forefinger in his face, it’s when we forget we ever done it.

Nob hurls the thighbone from him and it spins away into the brush. Not for many years has he come back to this place; and he has never dared to venture into the Big Village down in the broad river valley. The spirits of the elder folk haunted the ruins.

I ain’t a-feared of no old huts, he remembers Will saying many years later—when the roles had shifted and Nob had played gramper to Will’s Little Nobby. When he had told Will the stories his mama had entrusted to him.

“I made a terrible mistake,” he whispers.

“What’s that?” asks Jace. “What mistake?”

Nob shakes his head. When he closes his eyes, he sees his mama tied to the stake in the stoning yard; hears the thud of the rocks as they strike her; hears his mama’s curses turn to screams, then to sobs, then to silence. She has come to him since then in the night, in his dreams. Keep the faith, Nobby, her spook whispers. Never forget.

But he does forget. He drinks so that he can. He wishes he had his jug with him now. It would warm him nicely and take the chill off his bones.

Gramper maintained a grim defiance, crying out only once to say, “I seen it myself. Which of you can say that?” Now, when Nob spies his reflection in the pool where Moren’s Run settles before her final rush to the river, it is gramper he sees staring back. And the villagers keep an eye on him, lest he fall into his mama’s ways. There has not been a stoning in many years, but the stake is still in place.

And so he has kept the faith, but what has it gained him but that Will now faces stoning in his turn? It was a mistake ever to pass the stories on, whatever his mama’s spook might say, whatever gramper might think. But Will had been so eager… And few enough were the children of Moren’s Run who showed eagerness for anything at all.

“The storm’s a-breaking up, Uncle…” Little Jace has stepped out from their little shelter and is searching the western skies. Patches of blue have appeared among the wrack of clouds. Golden rays streak through them, caressing the hills and the ruins and—for just a moment—it seems to Nob that the ruins live, that the walls and houses are whole and the roofs unbroken. But it is only an illusion of sun and shadow.

He pushes himself to his feet. “Come on, Jace. Time to be a-getting back.”

“What will happen to Will?” Jace asks. “Will they cane him again?”

Nob closes his eyes. “No, Jace. Not this time. Not the third time.”

Jace says very quietly, “We gotta tell, don’t we?”

Nob sees that the boy has begun to realize how serious things are. Impulsively, he throws his arm around the boy’s shoulders and hugs him to himself. “That’s the Law,” he says. “‘He who knows of heresy but speaks not up is as guilty as the heretic.’ But it don’t bind children your age.”

Little Jace could no more keep quiet than a magpie. The village would hear. And they would know if Nob had kept quiet. As guilty as the heretic. As bad as his mother, they would say. And the old man before that. Bad blood in the whole family. And it would be “a time to gather stones together.”

He studies the old time village—the city—conscious now that he is seeing it for the last time. He will never dare come here again.

Was it really that they ran out of cargo, the way the village often ran out of stored food during Great Hunger Month in the early spring? Or was it like gramper said: that they wouldn’t let themselves go out and look for cargo, that they wouldn’t let themselves dig or drill or build those big workshops anymore? And after a while no one could keep things running or even knew how to do it. That’s what Mom always said… gramper would tell him.

No one would ever know if the stories had been true. What did it matter anymore?

“They’re all gone now?” Jace asks. “The books?”

Nob says nothing for a while. He studies the faint pall of smoke rising above the edge of the cliffs. Someone has built a fire, he decides, down on the flats where the rivers join. In the still air, he hears distant whinnies and a faint irregular hammering. “Yes,” he says. “The books are gone.” Then, more brusquely, he shakes out his clothing as if to air it, and says, “On your way, Jace. Mind the mud. See if you can find any foxglove on the way back.”

Nob walks slowly and Jace, with a little boy’s energy, races ahead. The old man does not quicken his pace, nor does he call on the boy to wait. Instead, he walks alone; or as nearly alone as a man can who is haunted by spooks.

Ma Teffny comes to him as the gloaming changes the greens to black and the forest seems to hunch closer around Moren’s Run. It is the hour when children shriek to bedtime stories. And the hour when Nob seeks the solace of his jug and the potato liquor. It is called ‘moonshine’ for this very reason.

He has put himself outside of half the jug when she pushes aside the curtain to his hut and steps inside. There is a wooden bucket that Nob uses to bring water from the creek, and Ma Teffny upends it and sits herself upon it. Her face is haggard and Nob can see lines in it that he does not remember from earlier visits.

“Berto and Charz found the dell,” she says. “You was right. Will and them set up a store. No doubt about it. Oh, Earth! What am I going to tell their mothers?”

Nob takes a drink from the jug. He thinks he hears his mother’s voice and does not turn round lest he see her. “That’s where we men are lucky,” he says. “We never know which kids are ours.”

Teffny studies him a moment. “Sometimes, you can guess. Hand me the jug, Nob.”

Nob hesitates, then extends it to her. The priestess puts it to her lips and her throat works. “Oh, that’s sweet!” she says, lowering it. “That’s a knife in the brain.”

“I drink to forget,” Nob tells her.

She considers that. “Yes. You got more to forget than most. Nob, you can’t think I want to stone Will. My own sister’s son? But how can I make an exception? First there was that dam…”

“He thought he was doing us all a favor, that it would irrigate the fields.”

“A dam! On a stream! You may as well put chains on your mother’s hands. What kind of favor is that? I thought the caning would teach him something.”

Yes, thinks Nob. It taught him to hide. But he keeps this in his heart. Oh, Will! What have I done to you? He takes the jug back from the priestess and takes a long hard drink, willing the oblivion that he seeks nearly every night; willing dreamless sleep, now that there is one more spook to haunt it. “Telling you about that store,” he says, “was the hardest thing I ever done.”

Teffny puts a hand on his knee. “You did the right thing, Uncle.”

He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. There wasn’t no right thing to do.”

She takes the jug away and sets it on the dirt floor beside her. “Must you drink every night?”

“Oh, yes.” And he lays his long face into his hands and weeps. “I’ll never see him no more!”

“Nob! No, Nob, listen to me. He’s better off.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Well, yes, Nob. What’d you expect? You bent him with those demon-stories you used to tell. All that magic… It makes folk unhappy.”

Nob gathers himself. “Magic? Haven’t you seen the Great Pylon just outside the village, with the wires still dangling from it? What of the towering O’erpass that carries the old highway over the river? Men once built those.”

“It gotta be magic,” she answers. “It gotta be. Because we’ll always live in their shadows. Better they be magicians than men. Better that their magic went wrong and destroyed them. Or else we’ll always yearn for something we can never ever have.”

Nob rubs a sleeve across his nose. “That why Will gotta be stoned? For our peace of mind?”

Teffny stands. “Worse than that. When Berto and Charz finally found the dell, they were gone, all three of them. Charz tracked them as far as Seederville, but they didn’t go there. They went down into the Old City.” She shivers and hugs herself. “‘S death to go there. All those spooks… The Seedervillers told Charz they been hearing sounds from below the cliffs. Trees cut down! And they heard some sort of awful chuffing, and they glimpsed a demon swimming up the Southbound River belching fire and black smoke from its rear. Stoning would be kinder than to fall into the hands of demons.”

“They ran… “ says Nob.

“Yes, and that is your fault, you drunken old fool. The directions you give us were off. Charz and Berto went the wrong way and they got all tangled up in the stickerbushes. All that thrashing around musta warned Will and them, and they panicked.”

The old man nods slowly. “Ah.”

Ma Teffny studies him for a moment. “Just how drunk are you, Nob?”

“Very.”

The priestess grunts. “I won’t press it. Lend me a torch. It’s getting dark and the wolves will be a-coming down.”

Nob lights a torch from the hearth and hands it to Teffny. He stands in the doorway in the cool of the spring evening and watches until she has reached her own hut. Then under the meager light of the fingernail moon he slips around back to his potato patch, where he drops to hands and knees.

Finding the flagstone by touch, he grunts it aside and claws away the dirt until he has opened the clay-lined storage pit it covers. His hand gropes within… and it is empty. The books are gone, both of them.

Old Nob rocks back on his heels. “Ah, Will,” he whispers yet again. He never will see the boy again. There is no assurance that whatever folk have come upriver and settled at the Forks will treat Will and Kenn and Shairn with any kindness. But there is a chance, and that is more than Moren’s Run would have given him. The old man brushes a tear with his sleeve and he turns his face to the pockmarked sky. No one sees his tears except the fingernail moon, half hidden by scraps of clouds.

Night has fallen and the darkness is almost complete.

But not quite.

Content

Cargo
by Michael F. Flynn