“How much do you want for it?” she asked.
“What do you have to barter?” I said, knowing full well the answer. She was a halfling, pretty enough with one green and one yellow eye, a few years younger than me maybe. She was dressed in a blue hoodie, not made here, but crafted into something local with stitched birds and flowers covering the back. She had snagged me coming out of the Ferret, and as usual it was the top hat covered in soot that marked me. Now, here we were, squatted down in the alley behind the Ferret, the thump of music pushing out of the walls, negotiating a trade over something hard and hurtful.
“I don’t have much,” she mumbled. I could tell the hand in her pocket was closed tightly around something, the last bit of value she had to give.
“Show it,” I said.
She pulled her fist out and tossed the contents on the ground. By the light of the Ferret’s kitchen window, I saw how little it was, but I said nothing so as not to shame her. Broken bits of jewelry, a coin so rubbed down I couldn’t tell what it was, a few beads of swirled glass, and a hump-backed shell, speckled like an egg, with a row of teeth down the middle. My hand hovered over the shell and the girl flinched. I sure could trade that up, as cowries were as precious here as they had once been in the World.
It was tempting, but I moved my hand away and heard the sigh. I couldn’t take it from her, even if it meant I’d go hungry tonight. She’d already lost too much. Instead, I chose a silver ring that was missing its stone, and when I looked up, she gave me a weak smile.
“Where is she?” I asked. The smile vanished.
“The old textile warehouse, off Soho. Second floor, back room.”
“How long has she been there?” I stood, stuffing the ring in my pocket, wanting now to leave.
“I did what I could,” she said, scrambling to gather her stuff and rise. She put a hand on my arm. “Really I did. But she was already gone when I got there. So I don’t know how long…”
“Ok, I got it from here,” I said and moved away from her. “What’s her name?
“Fela,” she whispered to the ground.
“Do you want a mori?”
“I got nothing to trade for that,” she answered.
“On the house,” I said. “I’ll find you when its done and bring it to you so you don’t forget her.”
I walked away quick-like so I wouldn’t have to listen the sobs I knew were coming. I was used to that. Death never seemed as real to them as when our trade was concluded. A ring without a stone for a body without a life.
"Charon" © 2017 Midori Snyder. All original fiction on the post may not be reproduced without the express and written permission of the author. Art Credit: Sibylle Peretti: "Suicide Notes." For more information on this extraordinary artist, please visit her website here.
