Still, the world refused to end and the econonomy had
actually improved. He began to think that even he might improve..
starting with another abode, because there was no longer much
room in his old cabin in which to shift his cot, never mind
pace-space for his cogitations. And that, funnily enough, is
when he met Bertha.
And she didn't like the grain dust.
By Spring, Farka had wheeled and dealed until he had bartered
enough credits to obtain the temporary use of a forlorn wooden
building on Main Street, and into this quaint (but well-situated)
structure he moved his seeds and dry-goods, then put up a sign:
"World's End Grub Shop".
His shop had no light or power so it was always pretty dark
in there until he sold his first sack of flour (whole wheat
of course) and bought a coal-oil lamp. And by autumn, he had
a cash-register. Not the latest model, to be sure, but it
worked.
During that winter, business was very slow, but Farka went with
the flow. He showed up in his parka only on Mondays. Sometimes
on holidays, too, if there were crowds in town. The rest of the
time he was repairing his cabin under the cliffs, contructing
new walls -- because he'd removed most of them to warehouse his
stash, and building new furniture and a larger bed. Two could
not sleep in his old canvas cot.
Yet, as cosy and commodious as his cabin became, it was not a
nest that pleased Bertha. So Farka ended up living at her place,
a centrally-heated bungalow in Mountcrest, a fairly new suburb
that is not on the valley floodplain but up past the airport,
on high, flat land that begins to undulate and rise behind her
house on Golden Horn Crescent, until it merges with mountains.
When they fought, he could always return to solitude below
and finish what he'd begun. Maybe it would eventually become
their castle, or he could sell it for a thousand times more
than he'd bought it, which wouldn't be all that difficult
considering that it had cost him only a dollar.
"Those were the days, eh?" Farka was remarking to Big Borden
who had a squat nearby. "When you could still buy a shack around
here for nothing!"
Borden grunted. The black patch over his bad eye jiggled. His
good blue eye did not shift from its fixation on a jackpine
that grew by the white grave-houses that shone on the other
side of the river.
"Farka," he said, "I think it's time. Let's light the fire
and get out the crucible. If you've still got some salt, I've
got the sulfur, and I'll see if Jacques Varian can tap into
some mercury. He's just back from Dawson and hobnobbing with
miners".
"Salt? Gosh, Rodje, I dunno. I think the last of the salt went
last week".
It was just like Farka to say "the salt" rather than "my salt",
even though it had been his because he'd paid for it. He looked
like Trotsky, even to the small, round eye-glasses he wore, and
his statements were, by habit, always rooted in politics. Yet
if he had been Leon in his previous incarnation, (which seems
pretty reasonable since Socrates is raising sled-dogs now, up
around Lake Leberge), that Mexican ice-pick in his skull must
have brought some enlightenment because Farka was a dyed in the
musk-ox wool anarchist. You'd never catch him saying "our salt".
Although sometimes it was hard to tell whether or not this was
partly Bertha's influence. She was a Buddhist.
Words, even prepositions, were important in these parts,
especially in winter when daytime lasted for only a few hours
around noon. Unless, that is, you were Indian. Then the key
issue would be what you weren't looking at.
Big Borden wasn't an Indian, though sometimes he acted like
he was. Still watching that jackpine, he said:
"You've got salt, Farka. There's a whole bag of it behind
your book-shelf".
Then Varian appeared stage-left, walking from an nearby
alley into the deep white ruts of 8th Avenue, his reddened
nose the only portion of his anatomy visible, peeking out
of his splendidly fur-lined hood.
Eighth Avenue might give you the wrong idea, if only because
it's a name. And really, I sometimes wonder why the town
named it, because it's barely a street. More like a forgotten
trail, squeezed up against the cliffs, that hasn't seen much
use since the Gold Rush of 1898 when Woodleigh's population
was larger that it has been ever since. At least it wasn't
much used until the late Sixties, when revolutionary strays
like Farka and Borden showed up and found the two or three
abandoned cabins left standing there almost habitable. A
situation which, in a flurry of desperate October renovations,
they improved.
"Greetings gentlemen. I bring good tidings from the north.."
(This is Varian speaking now, so we better listen. He's
always got good lines).
"Hey Jack. Good to see ya. Where ya been all these moons?!"
(As if Farka didn't now know, eh?)
"..the black basalt bust is real. I met Apex last week, and
he invited me out to his cabin. And it IS there, just as he
said. The Teslin quarry has yielded a find, of Lemurian
proportions it would seem".
...
