The Gather

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley, but there definitely were now.

Day-to-day safety depended on constantly being aware of your surroundings. This evening, Arnie Simpson had just gotten comfy, cuddled down in his sleep sack with his teddy--his shameful secret--when there was a ping, as a pebble skipped off the corner of his box.

The threat had him instantly up, over to the corner, where he kept his tablet. He ran a quick survey of the nearest cameras, but it was too dark to see much. “Who is it?” he called quietly into the black.

“Pooh.” It was a whisper out of the darkness.

Dorinda Bear, universally nicknamed Pooh, was the closest thing twelve year old Arnie had to a friend, and his back brain instantly redefined the threat level. The quick relief made him realize how scared he’d been; and that made him mad. “What-do-you want?” he demanded. “Ya scared the living crap out of me.”

“Comin’ to the Gather?”

Of course he was coming to the Gather. It was all he’d been thinking about, planning for, during the past week. But you didn’t just tell folks you were goin’ out--not even a likely friend like Pooh—life had taught him that much. Who knew whether she’d use that intel to raid his crib during his absence? It had happened to him before, though not with Pooh.

“Prob’ly not,” he lied. “Don’t have nothing to bring.”

You didn’t go to the Gather, without something to contribute.

“Oh.” Her voice was soft with disappointment. “I was kind of hopin’ we could go together.”

That would be nice; having a friend to go with. The trip across town was arduous and potentially dangerous. Of course everythingwas dangerous, from the time you woke up in the morning, until you slipped into your crib at the end of the day. But the danger was potentially less, with a comrade who could watch your six. Pooh was almost as good with her slingshot as him; they regularly practiced together.

“Maybe we could do that,” he allowed. “What’re you bringin’?”

“Found a dozen buns, still in the package, in the dumpster by Mickie Dee’s,” she said. “They look all right—not green. I could say they’re from both of us….”

A whole package? This was riches! And she was willing to share? He could feel his heart swelling with joy; forced himself to tamp it down. “They’re likely hard.”

“Yeah,” she said. “O’ course they’re hard. But I figure folks could dip them in the stew, soften them a bit.”

“Okay,” he said. “What time did you think of goin’?”

“About four,” she said, “to get there by six.”

He did his own calculations of the trip across town, and came up with the same sum. “Sounds about right,” he said. “Meet you by the bridge tomorrow.”

Arnie had planned their route to St. Martin’s with the primary goal of minimizing risk. The Bergen gang, bad news at the best of times, held Low Town in an iron grip. Low Town was the nearest community to St. Martin’s, where the Gather was being held; so naturally, Arnie and Pooh would be forced to completely circumvent it. He’d thought, briefly, about going through Low Town, but travelling by roof top; but he was pretty sure Bergen had sentries even there.

He drew out the proposed route for Pooh, with a twig on a square of bare dirt.

“I figured we’d try to skip Low Town entirely,” he said. “….makes for a little longer route….”

She snorted. “A little extra walking won’t kill us,” she said, “While Bergens’ might.”

“…what I thought,”he said. “So we go through High Town; except the Old Guys have got Five Corners sewed up across the middle.”

“Is there any place we can get across Five Corners without gettin’ hassled by the Old Guys?”

“I reckon not,” he said. “I figured we’d just pay the toll, and go on through.”

“I don’t like the Old Guys,” she said. “They’re kind of creepy.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged.

“You never know what they’re goin’ to ask, for toll,” she said. “I’ve heard…” She looked away from his eyes.

He’d heard stories, too. Sometimes the Old Guys asked for sexual stuff as their toll. What were the odds they’d ask for something creepy, from kids anxious to get to the Gather? Likely quite good.

“…Maybe they’ll be satisfied with a couple of the buns.”

“And maybe the Tooth Fairy will give us money…” she said.

He’d heard about the Tooth Fairy; it was an ancient mythological creature from back in the fabled ‘good times’ who exchanged treasure for children’s teeth—clearly nothing but a story.

“Do you have anything else to give them?”

“Anything except a B.J.?”

Arnie wasn’t sure what a B.J. was—but he suspected it was something sexual. “Right,” he said. “Except that.”

“Nope,” she said. “Just the buns.”

Arnie did, in fact, have something else—but he wouldn’t waste it on a toll. He fingered the heart shaped locket and chain in the pocket of his tattered disreputable jeans. He’d found it in his father’s workshop, just before his dad bit the big one, and the government had swept in and taken everything.

At the time, the locket and chain were ugly, black with tarnish. But Arnie’s dad had been a junk dealer; and had taught Arnie some things. Tarnish, meant silver; and silver was valuable. Arnie had managed to escape with only a few precious items; his tablet, his Teddy, the locket and chain, and a bottle of silver polish from under the sink, before the Men in Black showed up and kicked him out of the family home. He’d worked on the locket and chain, polishing it over a period of about a week, working it with the silver polish, until it was clean, beautiful, and valuable. He figured if he found a good fence-- and was able to make himself part with it--it would fetch enough for good eats for almost a month.

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world,” he said, “if we had to miss the Gather, this year.”

“No.” Her voice was sad, resigned; but he could tell Pooh really wanted to go…

They divided up the buns into four separate packs, three buns each pack, and put them into separate pockets. If one of them got mugged, they should still be able to come up with something for the toll and the Gather.

It was 4:30 by the time they reached Five Corners. The sun was sliding down the sky, the shadows getting long. Rene Silverthorn, the leader of the Old Guys, stepped out from the shadows and confronted them.

Silverthorn was the oldest man Arnie remembered seeing; he suspected he was 36 at least. His nose and chin were raddled with holes from the cancer; he’d made it this far, but the rot would get him in the end. Arnie’s dad had only made it to 31.

Silverthorn walked around them, leering at Pooh’s budding breasts. “What do we have here?”

Arnie didn’t like the Old Guy’s stare. He stepped protectively in front of Pooh, and she immediately clutched him around the waist with cold frantic fingers.

“Just tell us the toll,” he said, “and we’ll be on our way.”

“Not a problem,” Silverthorn said, genially. “Just a little private time with the little lady; a half hour or so ought to do it.”

“No!” Arnie said. He could feel Pooh’s quick panting breaths on his neck. “That’s off the table.”

“Well, what else do you have for me?”

Arnie produced one of his packets of buns. The three buns looked rather small and unimpressive, but Arnie announced them with a flourish. “I’ve got buns,” he said. “Almost new. Fresh. ”

Silverthorn erupted into raucous laughter. “Guys,” he said. “Look at this!” Two other Old Guys slouched out of the shadows and joined Silverthorn, wearing matched scowls. Their crossed arms were bare, the better to display their sleeves of tattoos.

“Three guys, three buns!” Arnie said. “It’s perfect!” Oh, boy, he thought. This is not going well…

“It’s an insult!” Silverthorn roared. He looked over to his companions, and then gradually, a sneaky smile crossed his face. “But, I guess we could take it out of your body, and that of the girl…”

The others smiled back--cruel smiles-- and Arnie suddenly realized: They’re going to force Pooh—maybe both of us…

That thought landed in his stomach with the leaden force of a piece of rotten meat.

“Just a minute!” He held up a hand. “I have something else for the toll.” He reached into his pocket, slipped the locket off the chain, and then pulled out the chain, and held it up between his fingers, allowing the rays of the sun to glisten off the links. “It’s pure silver.”

Silverthorn looked over at his henchmen. “The kid’s been holding out on us,” he said. “Maybe we should shake him down a little—see what else he’s been hiding…”

“No!” Pooh stepped out from behind him, and stomped her feet. “That chain is worth enough for twenty tolls! Be fair!”

Silverthorn stared at her, contemplating things for a long moment, then reached out and snatched the chain out of Arnie’s hand. “Fine.” He nodded; made a broad gesture of invitation. “Enjoy the Gather, children.”

They walked the rest of the way to St. Martin’s in silence. Arnie could feel his nerves and sinews twanging with reaction. The blood sang through his veins. That was a close one. As they turned to step into the ruins of the chapel, Pooh touched his arm. He looked over at her.

“Arnie,” she said. “You saved me; I’ll never forget it.” Her voice went lower. “… gave up your silver chain—for me.”

“You spoke up for me, too,” he said. “Things were looking bad—but you turned it around.”

“Friends?” she asked.

He’d learned the dialect and rules of the street, in the three years since his father died. Relying on yourself alone was safest. Who knew when a supposed ally might get a better offer elsewhere? Or face a threat that would require them to sacrifice—something—and it wouldn’t be them…

But now a swift stream of something, rich, deep and precious, stirred and rushed through him.

He nodded to Pooh, and they walked into the Gather, side-by-side.