Coventry

The weather was unusually warm that morning; the barrel was no longer frozen solid. Usually only the water in the deep inner storage was in liquid form when the sun first rose. Usually the barrel, abandoned at the entrance, was a immovable block of ice. Something was different. Not a lot. Just a little.

The desire for “different” was so strong, so powerful, that even minuscule changes were given huge portent, to be analysed and discussed for hours. Although there weren’t many left in the group who remembered regular seasons, there were plenty in the group with opinions, some of them immovable and some of them ridiculous and while opinions were plentiful, options were few.

In the end it was decided that the girl should be the one who went outside, reason being that she was expendable. She was young, one of the fittest and, it must be said, far too restless. Far too regularly she threatened the harmony of the group with her ambitions and desires, so Coventry it was. It was a win-win for all.

Initially it didn’t seem like much had changed since she was last out, unknown to the others that hadn’t been too long ago. She’d last gone out seeking the rays of the wan sun and to forage for anything new, anything at all. This time, as she pushed aside the heavy furs, and navigated the tunnels to the surface, leaving behind the warmth of the geothermal caves, she planned her journey with a slightly different agenda. Last time she’d headed straight for the ruins to the East, but did not find much of consequence. It wasn’t worth the subterfuge required to get outside in the first place.

As soon as she emerged, eyes swathed in gauze to ease the glare, Coventry knew the difference was more than minuscule. It was important.

It was thrilling.

For the first time for as long as Coventry could remember, there were colours glinting in the sun. Colours such as she had never seen before, in real life or beyond the pages of books. Red, green, orange patches emerging from the ubiquitous white of the snow and ice and sky. The snow had melted just enough to reveal abandoned cars long buried on the freeway. Moving cautiously, for the ice was also different, she was drawn to the colours, her eyes drinking in the difference in the familiar landscape and the sudden change in her world.

The need to know pulled her faster and faster towards the simultaneously decaying and preserved vehicles. Closer to, they were huge, far bigger than she expected. The curved roofs were elegant and smooth, punctuated here and there by black racks and wires. She knew what they were and what they did: she was not ignorant of the lost civilisation, as the oldies had taught them well and enough items remained for a semblance of society to continue, albeit in a greatly reduced form. They had not been reduced to savages. Yet.

Coventry slid the last few metres to the brightest of the cars, a sparkling red one that was more or less fully exposed, or at least the roof was. She raised her feet to arrest her slide and banged into the side of the car, dislodging more snow from the top. Her foot slipped through the crusty ice, into a cavity next to the car. Coventry yanked her it free, her ankle protected by the multiple layers of socks and clothing, and instead flipped and slid on her stomach into the hole. She put out her hands, managing to keep the majority of her body on the surface, all but one arm. That arm slipped into the hole and came to rest on the top of a leather bag. A heavy leather bag with surprisingly and inconceivably convenient handles. Coventry being Coventry, she grabbed for the bag and, bracing herself against the side of the car, pulled. It did not come easily: years of being buried in a modern ice age effectively welded everything together. Precious energy was wasted tugging and yanking and wiggling, a loose tooth in the maw of the ravenous frigid environment.

With less of a pop and more of a crash, the bag finally pulled free, sending Coventry sliding further down the slope with the momentum. Of course the zipper was rusted closed, no opportunity to examine the spoils outside then. Time to return.

The bag was far heavier than appeared likely, and the scramble up the hill and through the tunnels took an age. When she finally burst through the last doorway and into the common area, Coventry flung the bag before her, panting with the effort and the sudden dry heat of the cavern. The zipper was declared beyond saving and was carefully unpicked from the bag stitch by stitch. In the colony nothing is wasted and a good bag is a good bag, while every stitch unpicked and every minute that went by increased the tension exponentially. Finally, the corroded zip was pulled away from the cracked leather and the contents were decanted onto the floor. At first the people had no idea what they were looking. Handfuls of mushy grey pulp were spread out and examined, until a cry of realisation went up.

“It’s money”.

Money? Money?! The outrage was palpable. Money is no good to anyone. Commerce doesn’t exist anymore, what are we going to do with money? Why would anyone have so much cash? Was he a stand-over man? A bookie? How much would there be? Numbers were called out - ten, fifty, one hundred, one thousand, many thousands. How many exactly no one knew for certain.

“Twenty thousand dollars!”

No, not twenty thousand dollars. A pile of useless mush, the ink faded and absorbed by the fibres.

In the end the bag was tipped up and scraped out and the remnants of the decayed and sodden “money” lay in a large heap on the floor. Finally Coventry had a chance to look the empty bag over properly. She fully explored the interior, the satin lining slimy and speckled with fragments of paper money, fingers probing the sides for pockets - none - and then the base of the bag. To her delight the bottom of the bag lifted away, revealing a plastic bag. No, two plastic bags, one inside the other. Inside those, a small black book, perfectly preserved through the decades of climate catastrophe. The cover was soft and wonderful to touch, velvety and smooth. The book had barely been used, only the first few pages contained a list of names with large, no, extraordinary dollar amounts next to them. The rest were milky blankness.

Almost the rest. At the back of the book a child had written a story for their daddy, about unicorns and kittens and other things important to children a long time ago, not important to anyone now. However juvenile the story was, it was a balm to Coventry’s eyes - a new story! New words to read! She, and everyone else, were so tired of the books they had, read and re-read for years and years and years. They had long ago used up all the blank paper they had, unthinkingly using it to light fires or wrap food or allowed to be eaten by rats.

This book was possibility and imagination and stories. The book was small, there was not room for too many stories, and they would have to be very short to get the most out of the deliciously empty pages. The book was too small. If real stories were to be written, more paper was needed.

Coventry stared at the large pile of sodden money on the floor of the cavern, still being poked over by community members hungry for stimulation and new things and that was already drying on the warm stone. The money was paper too. The money was useless, but as paper it was invaluable. Experimentally, Coventry picked up a handful of the pulp and massaged it, separating and breaking down the larger lumps. Then, in a quiet corner, she spread the pulp out as evenly and neatly as she could on the heated floor. It soon started to dry, curling up at the corners as the moisture evaporated. Before long, she was able to carefully peel the sheet from the dusty floor. Pulp no longer, it was paper. Not the pure smoothness of the book, to be sure, but usable, writeable paper.

Far more valuable than money could ever be, that small piece of recycled paper was a imaginative future for a people who, for the longest time, simply had existence.