Blood Red Road

she’s a veritable warrior, armed and—
    Keep yer hands up or I’ll shoot agin! I yell.
    They raise their hands. If thievin’s yer game, the woman says, we ain’t got nuthin worth takin.
    I ain’t no thief, I says. Who are you? What’re you doin out here?
    Rooster Pinch at your service, he says. Man of business and captain of the good ship Desert Swan. And may I present my lovely wife Miz Pinch, whom you’ve already—
    Shut up, I says. I nod at the woman. You do the talkin.
    We’re pedlars, she says. On our way to Hopetown. We got blown off course.
    Show me what yer peddlin, I says.
    Well, what’re you waitin fer? she says to him. Show her the trunk.
    I … I’ll have to put my hands down, he says.
    Go on, I says. But no funny stuff.
    He disappears inside the hut an comes out bum first, draggin a battered metal trunk behind him. He throws back the lid an starts liftin out bits of junk, holdin ’em up fer me to see—a couple of dirty glass bottles, pieces of bashed up Wrecker tech, a shovel, one squashed boot.
    All right, I says, git back there with yer wife. Then, Emmi, I yell, git over here! She rides over on Nudd. Climb on an take a look inside that hut, I says. Check if they got any weapons.
    She slides off Nudd’s back, scrambles on board, scampers past ’em an ducks inside the scabby little hut. I keep my bow aimed at the pair of ’em.
    He clears his throat. Lovely day, he says.
    His wife clips him round the ear.
    Emmi comes out agin.
    All right? I says.
    She nods. All clear, she says an jumps down to stand beside me.
    You got water on board? I says.
    Miz Pinch jerks her head an he goes scurryin into the hut agin. Comes out with a big plastic jug.
    Take it, Em, I says. Fill the waterskins.
    He hands it down to her an she hurries to do what I told her.
    Now that I know they ain’t got weapons, that they ain’t nuthin but a pair of shabby old pedlars, I ain’t quite sure what the form is. Don’t seem to be much point in shootin ’em. They stand there with their hands up, lookin at me.
    Jest then, Nero decides to see what’s all the fuss about. He drifts down an lands on Pinch’s cookin pot helmet. Leans over an pecks him on the nose.
    Ah! says Pinch, battin him away. Crow! Go on! Go away!
    I lower my bow. All right, I guess yer okay. You can put yer hands down.
    There you go, my treasure! Pinch says to his wife. I knew she was a good ’un!
    Miz Pinch snorts an goes inside the hut.
    That’s what I call magnanimous! cries Pinch. That’s what I call sporting! He slides down offa the Swan, grabs my hand an pumps it up an down. Well met, my gladiatorial friend! You have a merciful soul! A compassionate soul! A rare thing in these dark days, I assure you. Now … I know that such a model of justice wouldn’t wish to hinder a man’s efforts to remediate the cause of his most unfortunate … er … his most un—er … Dear me. I seem to have lost my train of thought.
    You better fix that wheel, I says.
    That’s it! he says. Precisely!
    Well, git on with it.
    Pinch scurries off to fetch back the tire that bounced away. I go over to help Emmi finish fillin our waterskins. Then we drink till our thirst gits quenched an make sure Nudd an Nero git plenty too. The sounds an smells of cookin is startin to drift outta the little hut on the Desert Swan.
    Emmi sniffs the air. That sure smells good, she whispers.
    My belly’s squeezed tight. My mouth waters. It’s bin a long while since we et the last of that jackrabbit.
    Pinch rolls up, pushin the tire in front of him. He’s outta breath an the sweat pours offa him.
    You wanna hand with that? I says.

    I help him prop up the boat. Then he gits his toolkit an we set to puttin the tire back on. Emmi sits crossleg a little ways off, drawin in the dirt with a stick.
    You need tighter fixins on this, I says. Lemme see what you got in that kit.
    He raises his hands to the sky. Not only merciful but a mechanic, he says.
    While I pick through a glass jar of metal bits, he says, I’m afraid we intellectuals aren’t very practical, my dear. I’m a constant trial to Miz Pinch, her cross to bear, but she never upbraids me for my failings, at least, not as much as I deserve.
    You sure do talk peculiar, I says.
    Ah! I knew you were a right ’un! he says. He wipes his hands on a kercheef, then reaches into a deep pocket in his coat an pulls somethin out. He holds it like it’s a babby bird or a feather or the most precious thing in the world. It