Chapter Text
Perhaps if they had wanted more immediate success Tuna should have headed west before swinging north instead of following the coastline. Surely other people so close to the sea were likely to have their own salt pools and evaporation pits. Simple supply and demand would have told them to go where their product was scarce and therefore more valuable. That’s certainly what many old world economists would have said, if they were still around pushing papers and tapping terminal keys in their shining towers of finance. But all that was left of those industry monoliths was the crumbling remnants that obscured the western sunsets while wastelanders set out their evening perimeters and stoked their fires up against the coming night time chill. Real life was rarely as simple as even the most complicated of stock graphs.
Tuna had followed the coast north anyways, picking their way down paths of crumbling black streetrock and cutting through more hazardous terrain. They pushed an old rusty wheelbarrow ahead of them. The handles were made of scavenged wood on its second or third repurposing. The wheel was original. The rubber of it was rock hard and cracked in places. It squeaked and rattled softly as it turned in a steady rhythm on the straightaways but seemed to lose its rhythm when Tuna had to navigate around the worst of the pavement cracks and rubble heaps. The dull orange of the contraption was mostly rust and partially a bad paint job. The paint barely hid the damage and certainly wasn’t doing much to stop it getting worse. The barrel was piled high with dusty little parcels wrapped in waxed cloth or paper. Plaids and polka dots and plain browns jostled alongside the faded greens of old world cash. Any scrap of material was fair game for use as packaging. The bundles shook and jarred in their cradle. The midmorning sun shone off their uneven skins with a dull lumpy glow.
Tuna was not the only person out in the winding coastal paths of the new Boston. Scavengers scurried in and out of crumbling buildings hoping to find some overlooked treasure trove of old world supplies. They moved solitary or in packs. Some posted lookouts that eyed each other and Tuna warily as they passed. Some survivors tended farms of isolated city garden plots, scattered islands of earth and green set up on the tops of hollowed out buildings or tucked behind partially demolished brick walls. Perhaps it produced enough food to be sustainable, perhaps not. But defensibility always had to be a plus. Other traders wandered through and crossed paths, carrying panniers and pushing carts and leading pack animals loaded with just about anything that someone might conceivably need. Often these people, scavengers, farmers, and traders couldn't really be separated by type. They mixed and blended and transformed one into another. Today's scavver was tomorrow’s trader, next week’s farm hand and back and forth as long as there was a living to be scraped out of the bricks and boards and radioactive dirt. A wastelander was nothing if not adaptable. A wastelander who was not adaptable was dead.
The sight of Tuna’s wagon was sometimes enough to spark one of these transformations. Scavvers and farmers slipped tools and weapons back into holsters and approached sidelong and talking, always very careful to broadcast how little threat they were. It had been too long since Tuna had last been up this way, but there were still vaguely familiar faces this far up the coast it seemed. And even though most of the folks didn't remember Tuna’s name they seemed to recognize the salt merchant’s face.
To be frank, Tuna had braced themself for the opposite. Grandma Salzman had very specific naming conventions for her grandchildren. It wasn’t as unusual as a name like “Tuna Salzman” would have been back before the bombs dropped, but it was still relatively memorable, or so they thought. On the other hand, each slow and contemplating look at their face had Tuna’s skin crawling with the urge to duck and hide. Certainly there had been changes. Certainly it was only a matter of time before this pointed scrutiny turned up something and then…
But there was nothing there, no understanding, no realization, and certainly no recoil in disgust. Tuna had expected the worst and with each parcel and package of salt handed out for caps or credit they found nothing seemed to be any different from the last time they’d made this run. Nothing was different except the tension in their shoulders and the ache in their bones.
-
Tuna had just passed the old brick building with the water damage that looked like a crying face when the kid showed up.
She was a scrap of a thing, small even by wasteland standards. Some scavver kid who had peeled off from whatever party she was part of to amuse herself by following Tuna as far as her little legs could take her. Tuna watched her dart in and out through the ruins in a game of post-apocalyptic peekaboo, though she couldn’t have been all that young. Tuna guessed nine, maybe ten years old. Dirty blond curls tied back and blue denim overalls wove through the rubble and clambered over roadblocks. She disappeared from Tuna’s sight only to double back and emerge from the ruins behind them or on the opposite side of the street.
Tuna walked on steadily, nodding now and then as the girl scampered back in sight. The wheelbarrow rumbled on and Tuna watched the kid play her silly games, half wondering how long they were supposed to be semi responsible for this child through the dubious honor of being the only adult within view. They wondered if the kids' parents or guardians or whoever were looking for her. They hoped nothing terrible was about to happen.
Eventually the kid seemed to get tired of her games. She stood in the road just to the side of Tuna’s clear path.
“What’s all of that?” she asked.
Tuna turned to look at her. The wheelbarrow slowed and groaned noisily to a stop. “It’s salt.”
“It’s a lot of salt,” she stated with a child’s unswerving gift for stating the obvious.
“It’s about 60 pounds of it.”
“Is it heavy?”
“It’s 60 pounds heavy.”
The kid paused to take this in. Her dark eyes picked apart the details of Tuna’s face, their clothes, their gear and their merchandise. She seemed to hesitate on another question, eyes narrowed on Tuna’s face. Tuna braced themself, wondering if this was going to be the question they’d been dreading all day. Their skin prickled with sweat or the sun or something else entirely and Tuna forced themself not to scratch.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” The kid finally asked and Tuna couldn’t stop a harsh bark of laughter that sent the kid startling back.
It really had been a long time since they’d been on this trading route. They’d forgotten all about that old chestnut of a question. What a novelty. But Tuna supposed they couldn’t blame the kid for asking rude questions. They shrugged and answered. “Nah, not really.”
The wheelbarrow groaned a protest of “please, just five more minutes” as Tuna pushed it back into motion. The wheel restarted its hesitant little tune. The kid looked puzzled but didn't ask any more questions on that subject as she kept slow pace just off Tuna’s right. The two of them made it about half the block before her curiosity got the better of her again.
“Why don’t you have any weapons?”
Tuna eyed the kid suspiciously now. The same shape shifting that turned farmers to traders could just as easily turn them to raiders if given the chance. Scavver kids like this became bait or distractions or whatever else they needed to be.
“What makes you think I don’t have weapons?”
The kid shot them a look. “I’m not stupid,” she said, “I can see you don’t have anything.”
“No,” Tuna said patiently, scanning the surrounding buildings for places to hide and sudden movements. They raised their voice a little. “All you can see is that I don’t have any obvious weapons.” They shot the kid an evenly skeptical look. “Your folks never show you how to hide a weapon?”
The kid shrugged. “Mom says I’m too small for a gun. And she doesn’t trust me with a knife neither. Whit says if I get in trouble I’m supposed to run really fast and get somewhere small to hide.”
“That’s smart.”
The kid shrugged again.
“Nobody wins a knife fight, kid.”
“Are you gonna trade any of that stuff or something?”
“Sure, probably,” Tuna said, “Traded some of it already.” There was something in the kid’s attitude that made Tuna relax. The longer this went on the less it seemed like a raider ambush and the more it felt like some scrappy scavver kid that wanted to pretend to be more grown up than she was. “You got anything you’re willing to swap? I’m taking offers.”
“What are you looking for?” the kid asked in a tone that was almost certainly copied directly from some adult in her life. The phrase held the reverent echo of hero worship, a loving imitation.
“Fiddle strings,” Tuna answered. They paused long enough to watch the kid’s face become a disbelieving grimace. “But it’s like I said, I’m open to offers.”
It seemed like the kid was about to argue the ridiculousness of Tuna’s barter request but as the silence stretched on she seemed to decide the effort just wasn’t worth it. She dug deep into the pockets of her overalls. One by one she pulled each earthly treasure from its hiding place and set it on the cracked pavement between the two of them with a seriousness that made Tuna suppress a smile. They moved around their wheelbarrow and crouched down a respectable distance away, determined to make this little trading session as formal and grown up as it could possibly be.
The kid set out small trinkets. There were pieces of sea glass and glittering rocks. There were small bits of brick and paving stone that had been worn smooth by the coastal waters. Next to these she placed a small tough pouch containing three fish hooks, two of bone and one of metal, and a waxcloth wrapped packet of dried fish and seaweed that was likely her lunch for the day. So this scavenger’s daughter was also a fisher’s daughter from time to time. Tuna grimaced in sympathy. They also remembered being a coastal kid, climbing over ancient rotting docks with their pockets full of ocean trash and fish jerky.
The kid’s treasures lay out on the pavement in a haphazard style at once messy and intentional. Obviously there was some personal organization to the tableau, though Tuna could not have guessed what it was. They took their time examining the kid’s wares. They picked up a few of the offers, examined them, offered a comment or a compliment on what their trade partner had brought to haggle with.
The kid sat rapt and attentive. Her dark eyes focused on Tuna’s face, their hands, each of their slightest movements. Tuna forced themself to move smoothly and calmly. They did not scratch the skin on their palms. They did not bring their fingers to their mouth to chew on their nails. Tuna was the absolute picture of composed professionalism.
When they finished their assessment of the kid’s stock Tuna replaced the final rounded stone and nodded their approval. They reached to their side bag and drew out a few small bundles of salt, tight bound and wax fabric wrapped, which they placed down across from the kid’s wares.
Tuna wondered how much the kid knew about the value of the three little bundles set before her. Salt by the sea was not particularly hard to come by, but it did take work, and it was very necessary. Did she know how much time she would be saving through this trade? Did her guardians have access to a salt pool of their own? Would she be bringing back valuable supplies or had they already traded with Tuna earlier that day? Tuna studied the girl carefully. She was small but not young. And there was something about the seriousness in her face that seemed uncharacteristic. If Tuna had to guess, they’d say the kid knew the importance of Tuna’s merchandise. She might understand if Tuna gave her a generous deal.
Tuna moved one of the bundles into the space between the two clusters of goods, then they reached again and chose two pieces of seaglass they liked the color of and a smoothed down piece of brick.
“How does that trade work for you?”
The kid’s eyes narrowed in thought. She picked up the bundle of salt, testing its weight in her small hand.
“You can go ahead and taste it,” Tuna offered, “Make sure that it's good.”
Instantly the kid’s face shot up with a suspicious glare and Tuna had to laugh. They unwrapped the pack, took a few of the coarse grains on the tip of their little finger and popped them onto their tongue. The kid relaxed again and followed their lead. Her face scrunched up when the crystals touched her tongue and she nodded.
“Seems good,” she said in an authoritative voice that had Tuna suppressing another grin.
“Alright then,” Tuna said, “Do we have a deal?”
The kid nodded and pushed the glass towards Tuna’s other piles of salt. She wrapped up her pile and scooped it into her pocket with the rest of her belongings. Tuna winced and hoped the kid had tied the package tight enough not to come undone in the chaos of an overalls pocket. But if she hadn’t then that was an important lesson for the kid to learn.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Tuna said.
They were about to put away the rest of their small salts when the kid laid a grubby hand on their wrist and said “Wait.” Tuna did as they were told and waited as the girl dug around in her pockets again and pulled out a small sling.
“You really shouldn’t be going unarmed around here,” she said seriously, “You could get really hurt. I’ll let you have this for another one of those small ones.” She nodded her head to the small salt packs still in Tuna’s hand.
Tuna looked down at the small scrap of leather and twine that served as the kid’s weapon. It was rough, but there were patches on it that had been worn smooth with use. It might have been a hand me down or perhaps just something that she used so often that it had changed quickly, putting on a new coat of wear and tear to boast of how much it was appreciated.
How was someone supposed to value something like this? By materials? By use? By sentimental value?
To the child this must have been a necessary tool. It was offense and defense. It was a potential meal ticket. It was entertainment. Perhaps it was an heirloom and reminder of close family or a friend. Or perhaps she had made it herself and it was a representation of her own handiwork, a point of pride.
To a merchant traveling alone and (as the kid obviously assumed) unarmed, it could be the only thing to keep a group of passers by from transforming into a group of raiders.
Tuna weighed their options. To take the sling could be an admission that they were otherwise defenseless. A dog isn’t weak until the other dogs see it acting weak. A wounded animal doesn’t let a hunter know it’s wounded. They were pretty sure the kid was on her own. They were pretty sure this was not some kind of long and elaborate ambush. They thought they had a general handle on the kid and the kid’s motivations. They thought they were probably alone and that it was unlikely that they were being listened to. There was always the possibility that they were wrong.
And yet, what kind of a person would throw a gift back in a child’s face?
Tuna scooped up the small leather scrap and tucked it in their jacket pocket. They tossed over one of the small salt packets. The kid caught it with a wild self satisfied grin and sprang up to run off back to whatever she had been doing before Tuna had caught her attention.
“Hey, wait up,” Tuna called. The kid froze and turned back. Tuna hesitated on the verge of a business decision. Good or bad. Investment or waste. “That’s really good of you, you know? We gotta look out for eachother out here.”
The kid nodded. Tuna wasn’t sure if she really understood the core of what Tuna was saying or if she just knew that you were supposed to nod along when adults used That tone of voice. Tuna sighed. Smart or silly. Investment or waste. Meaningful connection or meaningless dissipation.
Tuna tossed the other small bag of salt. It traced a tall underhanded arc and again the girl caught it on instinct. Her face lit up even further and she dashed off before Tuna could say anything else.
Tuna went back to the end of the wheelbarrow and braced themself against its heavy weight. The wheel complained and Tuna’s shoulders and palms complained along with it. There was still more to walk before they could take a break during the highest heat of the day. And they’d have to walk more after that as well. Plenty of daylight left. Plenty of distance to cover. Plenty of product left to push.