A Long Way

It was going to be a long day.

“Bygone, muted muppet!!”

The growling merch threw Bert Yamaguchi’s trade offerings back in his face, the rubber balls springing off the counter of the hut’s window, the comics drifting to the dusty ground.

“Take your worthless scav and be bygone! Nothing but toys and picture books.” The surly trader creakingly settled back into his seat behind the counter, grumbling. “Wordless weirdo.”

Bert Yamaguchi silently picked up his rejected wares from the dirt. He wasn’t particularly hurt by the merch’s outburst. He had certainly been called much worse things in the ruins and wastelands of Nowhere. Most of the scavengers he met had a tendency to belittle the wanderer—whether for his odd demeanour, his seeming idleness, or his propensity for collecting vibrant toys. They always found a reason.

Yet all forms of slighting were water off a duck’s back. Bert Yamaguchi was not a smart man, or even a wise man, but weighed against almost any person across the wasteland, he was content. He had his collection, a good pair of boots, and a world to walk in. Little could touch that peace.

But the item Bert found himself gazing at behind the merch’s counter caused him deep distress: a fully functioning and well-maintained umbrella.

Usually, one had little reason for an umbrella in Nowhere.

Except for the Red Rain.

And with it predicted to start tomorrow, Bert needed whatever he could get his hands on to protect himself from those stinging, staining, stupefying drops.

The Red Rain only lasted a week, and though it was not the most dangerous happening of Nowhere, it would still leave unshielded individuals with their skin red and raw, their clothing thoroughly gnawed, and their mind in an aching stupor. It was the time of year that had wanderers desperately searching the ruins for fresh rain gear or paying major trade to wait out the crimson clouds safely in the nearest tin town.

To say the least, Bert did not want to get Red Rained again this year.

The merch caught Bert’s eyes staring longingly at the umbrella. He guffawed, tucking it behind the counter.

“Sure, sure, you’re scared of the little red clouds just like all the other scavs. Well—extra, extra, mutey!—you shoulda been prepared. You wanna duck the drops, you trade right.”

The merch exuded contempt towards Bert. “You reckon I’ll just trade for whatever scav you throw at me, yeah? Bah! You reckon how long I’ve broken back here??” He began to get a distant look in his eyes. “Disrespectful. Everybody always shading me. You’re the same kind of bad as them.”

The merch jerked his thumb dismissively to the side.

“Either trade right or you can go shack up with those dumdums down the hill.”

Down the short hill from the merch hut was Whistleworth, a small tin town that rested on a rocky coast, the fathoms of the sea cresting up to spray its residents at high tide. Bert had already meandered through Whistleworth before coming to the merch though, and it seemed that there was no form of vacancy in any hut.

Beyond this tin town, Bert didn’t know the paths well. He had no idea if he would come across another settlement within the day, or whether soldiers may be patrolling the wastes to gun down wanderers before the Red Rain. Securing some proper rain gear was the only viable option left, and time was short.

“Whatever, wherever, whyever, I don’t care. Now bygone.”

The merch turned away from the sorry scav, stewing in much more sourness than before. Bert knew he wasn’t getting that umbrella without a new trade.

He looked out across the rusted roofs of Whistleworth. There was a sliver of sanguine just on the horizon.

//////////

It had been three hours now, and this rocky beach had shown zero promise for scavenging. Dented and emptied food cans. Waterlogged garments. Plastics of every size and sort. Nothing worth an umbrella in trade.

Bert’s feet cried out for respite. He hadn’t gotten to rest since his arrival in Whistleworth earlier that day, and it was wearing on him. The soreness of his toes and the hopelessness of this task brought his gaze down in a sigh.

Adorned with a beautiful myriad of paint splatters, these boots were a special comfort to the scavenger. Laid to rest by some creative ancient long ago, Bert had given this friendly footwear new life as his walking companions across Nowhere. And the thought that their splendid colours might be stripped away by the Red Rain sent a sickening chill of worry through him.

In his periphery, he could see the sky had grown steadily redder.

Bert spun back around to look for his rucksack. Maybe there was another tin town within hiking distance. Maybe he could sign on with a trade caravan for the week. Maybe there was another scav who would take pity on him and share an umbrella. He would even share one with the likes of Ken Tankerous if he happened upon him, though the thought of being jeered at and called “Yammygushy” for a week was profoundly unpleasant.

It was still better than the Red Rain.

There it was—his bag. He bent down to haul it up from the pebbles and encroaching tide, but as he came to face its wrinkled straps, its slouching posture, and its plush characters that hung from either side, he also came to face something odd.

A crow sat atop Bert Yamaguchi’s bag, staring at him silently, a string of gold wrapped about its beak.

Bert remained perfectly still. He knew animals. He liked animals. He had no desire to scare it. But he was deeply curious as to what this midnight avian visitor had on its beak. And, it seemed to him, the crow may desire help.

Carefully, with the steadiest of hands, the scavenger reached up towards his winged brethren, carefully unwinding whatever had bound its beak. In a flash, the thin item slid free from the bird, and in a blink, it had taken flight.

Bert smiled softly and waved after the crow. He was glad to be of help. He was glad to watch someone soar.

He looked to his hand, where he found a heart in his palm.

A brass heart, weighty and cool, beamed up at him with compassion. Delicate chain, which had bound the bird’s beak, dangled from the top of the heart. This was something of beauty. Something of note. Something of value.

Bert couldn’t tell what this heart was for, but he knew this was worth a fair trade. He gripped the muscle of metal in his fist gratefully, but as he did, he heard a click. Opening his hand back up, he found the heart had opened up to him.

Unfurling from betwixt the two hollowed heart halves was a note.

“FINDERS NO KEEPERS. REUNITE WITH ALI ELTON, WHISTLEWORTH.”

A finders no keepers note. Bert stared down at the heart a while. He sighed.

//////////

“Oh wow, no fibbing!!”

It was easy enough to find Ali Elton. Whistleworth was a tin town of few residents, so the first person Bert Yamaguchi showed the note to was able to point him towards the woman. She was pulling out weeds that were spiralling up through the floorboards of her hut while her young daughter chased a moth around the room.

“Lil’ heart,” she smiled as she dangled it before her eyes. “Now that’s something to recollect. Fell twixt the boards one day and I ain’t seen it since.”

Ali turned towards her daughter. “Recollect this, Deena?”

Deena looked up from the corner she had chased the moth into. She stared at her mother, then to Bert, then at the heart of brass, before shyly shaking her head and returning to the flittering bug.

“Naw, figures,” Ali laughed. “She was right real wee when I lost it. Hung it from the ceiling while she was still cribbed. Heard once the ancients did that for their wee ones, for sound sleeps. Lot of soldiers were firing off in the area back then and…” Ali rubbed the front of the heart fondly. “Thought a little watchful love would help her…but I think I was the one needing help, yeah?”

She smiled warmly, and Bert Yamaguchi felt proud, the crimson clouds drifting from his mind for a moment.

But then she handed back the trinket.

“I can’t right take this. When I found this heart, there was…well, a note.”

Bert frowned.

//////////

“Magnanimous!!” Chef Bunsen Laurel cried, grasping the heart. “You found it!!” Bert watched the joyful cook rush over to a boiling cauldron, where he then dipped in the heart and swirled it with the chain. “My secret ingredient!!”

Bert didn’t know much about cooking. This seemed fine to him.

“My friend,” Bunsen said, retrieving and wiping clean the heart. “I was found wanting long, long without this. Let me tell you—all food sparks with a little love. And this littlest love, I almost didn’t recollect it!” He produced a spoon and tasted the broth, closing his eyes in elation and moaning with satisfaction. Then a sombre shadow crossed his face, and he looked to the silent scavenger.

“My friend. I bloom with thanks to you for showing me this euphoria once more. But I must be true…”

Bert frowned.

//////////

And so, resident after resident, Bert Yamaguchi made his way through almost every home in Whistleworth.

“My boot latching love!”

“Oh, this bound his sketches right lovely.”

“Mrs. Rat’s first leash, rest her soul!!”

“This one chimed the wind with such grace!”

“Not the champ for sand drawings. But still my favoured.”

And so on. And so forth.

This little brass heart had changed hands so many times over the years, each person coveting it a bit too much to ever return the speck of love to its purported owner, none realizing just how long this chain stretched.

And as Bert’s paint speckled boots hollered for rest and his head swam with stories and sleepiness—so much so that he was unaware of the red sky that hung above him— this chain stretched to one more place.

It was a visit he was not looking forward to.

The merch was just about to close the shutters of his window as Bert approached, and hollered at him on sight.

“Closed, muppet!! Sing in the rain!!”

Just before he could slam down the shutters, Bert desperately leaped at the counter, the heart and chain slapping onto the counter, the last of his strength gone.

And the merchant prepared to cuss out the silent saunterer for all he was worth.

And then he stopped.

“This…how did you…” The eyes of the merch turned glassy. “How did you find…Sylvia.”

He went to grab the trinket from Bert, then halted, looking him in the eye. Bert nodded, and the gruff man gently picked it up, staring at it in silence before clasping it to his heart.

“I was right young,” the merch uttered in a choked voice. “I reckoned I would never want to recollect that love. Not after Sylvia…she…I threw the locket to the sea. Next day I wallow wept,” he laughed sadly. “What a muppet…”

Bert and the merch looked at one another, smiling quietly. And clasping the locket tight, the man reached under the counter and gave Bert the umbrella.

“Thank you. Thank you eternal for this.”

Bert nodded. A lifetime seemed to pass between them. The merch sighed.

“You…never right reckon love till it’s gone, yeah?… Bah. What does anyone right reckon about love anyways?” His laugh was tender as he closed up the shop window.

Bert Yamaguchi opened the umbrella above his head as drops of Red Rain began to cascade down upon the tin town of Whistleworth. He smiled up at the crimson clouds and whispered hoarsely.

“It goes a long way.”