(DRAFT STAGES)

rag-and-bone man

/ˌrag ən ˈbōn ˌman/

noun

noun: rag-and-bone man; plural noun: rag-and-bone men

a cross between a jackal and a magpie; the rag-and-bone man goes ga-ga for shiny and goo-goo for bones

‘Well, I hope we do better in the next town, or I’ll have to eat you!’

From his seat on the wagon, he hears the horse blow a vast amount of dust from its lips and nostrils.

‘Ah I’m just kidding- you’re too gristly for me. Anyway, it’s not my fault people are recycling more these days. Let’s see what this last house has to offer then we’ll set up for the night. How does that sound?’

The horse shows no sign that it’s heard and continues to kick its way through the dirt. Dropping his hands to his side he slackens the reigns and affords himself some shade under the tin lip of the carriage roof. He leans back a neck stiffened with age and dehydration, feeling the hairs of his beard crack free as he does so. A marble of sweat cascades its way through the thinner parts, pin-balling from follicle to follicle until it disappears upon the red of his chest. He looks up at the black underside of the carriage roof, his eyes catching a tiny white hole exposing the glare above. Running in and out of focus upon the pearl of light before him he daydreams of the brilliant blue bottom of a pool and a breeze so cool it’d chill your drink.

He’s forced back to reality by the screeching of car tires rounding a corner. The convertible screams past without care while the driver twists his neck to look down the bumpy road, apparently in search of a pursuer. He vanishes as quickly as he came, leaving only a cacophony of smoke, dust and the smell of motor oil in his wake.

A series of ribcage wrenching coughs ensue. His horse, now on its hind legs begins to veer off track and he struggles to gain control of the carriage. He may be old (and tired), but he’s adept at his way of life and before long has wrangled both steed and wagon back on track, with only himself left to straighten out.

‘As close as they come Horse! Thought we were dead meat!’

As a sentimental man, names are very important to him, but he hasn’t been able to place one on this mare. So, being the resourceful guy that he is, he’s decided to call her ‘Horse’ until the moment strikes him.

‘Alright, come now Horse, hiyaaah’.

He whips the reigns. She doesn’t move. Her attention is focused on a spot a few feet to their left, and, as the dust clears he slowly begins to see what captures her. At first, he sees the limp body of an animal, supposedly having been struck by the car, but as his old eyes catch up he sees that it is, in fact, a small khakis coloured duffel.

‘Must’ve flung out the back of that car’ he says to his companion.

He grips the bag and pulls it towards him. It’s heavy, the promise of it’s weight causing his heart to skip a much needed beat. Zzz…zz…zzzzzzzp. There’s a pause, then he pulls open the bag as if he were ripping off a band-aid. Instantly his shoulders slump like sandbags. It was full to the brim of pamphlets, religious pamphlets at that, of a dogma unfamiliar to the well-travelled scavenger. He wasn’t sure what lay after death but he was sure the answer wasn’t staring back at him through glossed ink on posh paper. He picks one and flicks through- ‘It’s never too late to baptize your dead’ and ‘the longer you fast the more spells you can cast’. Yep, he’d seen enough. Into the wagon goes the bag to accompany the meager collection of scraps and sellables that lay inside. With another whip of the reigns they’re off.

A smile creases cratered cheeks as he admires his ride. She’s a new horse. Small and thin. So much so that he sometimes walks beside her when their load is good, but young enough to strengthen if he can feed her well. Despite her inexperience, she’s proven herself a quick learner and now stops at any house they happen upon. She stops at this one. The very last house in the dusty desert town of Claypool.

Reaching through the opening behind he grabs a grease-slicked canvas sack from within. With effort, he climbs down from the wagon ledge and makes his way towards the front door. He opens the fly screen first, which contains more holes than his shoes, and raps on the door with his knuckles.

‘Rag bone!’

No answer. He raps again, rattling the thing within its frame.

‘Rag bone’

Staring through the door panel he makes out very little through the aged glass. With a sigh, he turns away.

The door rattles again.

Upon turning, he’s faced with a man in blue jeans, an ill-fitting white t-shirt and a run-away hairline.

‘Rag and Bone man are you? Thought you people had given that game up years ago’. As the Rag and Bone man begins his reply a dog barks from within.

‘Thas’ enough! Git! Git!’ The man turns and launches a kick towards the inside of the house.

‘Haven’t you thought about another line of work? What do you get out of bothering people this way? Can’t be much looking at ya’

‘Well, I like to think of it as a service sir. Anything you don’t want, any old bits of clothing, ceramics, scrap metal. Even old dog bones I’ll gladly take’

The man grins and twists himself from the belly up to face inside.

‘Hey, the garbage man’s here. Grab all that crap thas’ by your side of the couch and bring it ere’

‘It’s not crap!’ comes a reply.

‘I said bring it here!’

‘Oh not garbage. Only cloth, ceramics and metals please’ but his words are lost in the afternoon heat as the door closes. He hears the barking of the dog. And then a whine. And then nothing more until the door re-opens a short while later. He’s now faced by a heavy-set woman with a tight bun of greying hair. Blood vessels streak her cheeks like lightning, only stopping at puffs of slacken skin that cower beneath tired eyes. She’s carrying a laundry hamper filled to the brim with all manner of things. He holds open his sack as she pours out the contents of the hamper. As it fills he sees pieces of plastic, unwashed tins, yogurt pot lids and bits of shredded paper fall inside.

‘Look, I know you people have to make a living and all’ she begins, ‘but next time you’re around pass us by. Him and the dog don’t like disturbances’

He smiles up at her.

‘Thank you for your donations ma’am’

She sets down the empty hamper and grabs a plastic carrier bag off the entrance stand beside her.

’Here. Some rice for your horse’

‘Thank you very much’

As he reaches out to grab the bag she pulls back her hand and leans into him.

‘It’s for your horse.’

‘I understand perfectly’

He allows her another smile by way of thanks. She places the bag heavily into his hands and goes back inside. He’s not sure if horses eat rice.

He tosses both bags in the wagon, pulls himself back onto his seat and with a whip of the reigns sets off to the spot. It’s a place he’s spent the night many times before- the good things about it being that it’s a little off the beaten track and secluded somewhat by honeysuckle bushes. Come dusk he will be very hard to spot from the road, not that he’s expecting much traffic. The next town will still be at least an hours ride in the morning and it’s a small town at that.

With the wagon parked and the horse occupied with honeysuckles, he sets about making a bone broth to add flavour to the rice. A cloth is laid upon a large stone, then the bones are added.

’That’s it! I’ll call you Honeysuckle, after your favourite food’

With a smile, he folds the cloth and bones together and with the butt of his hatchet begins smashing them into manageable pieces.

Honeysuckle begins to stray.

‘Hey, come here girl. Don’t go off on me’

He continues with the hatchet and bones.

‘Hey!’

He whistles but Honeysuckles interest is elsewhere.

‘What now? Don’t you like rice?’

Rounding the bushes he sees her staring off at the plateau below.

’Seen another horse have you? Well, don’t go messing with those wild ones. You don’t know where they’ve been’

Upon reaching her she nickers and he gives her a pat.

‘Hey, come n…’ but his words are lost in the drop of his open mouth. Not half a kilometre below them is a settlement, nay, a town! with lights and houses with gardens and even a barn or two. There is no way he wouldn’t know about this place. When was the last time he passed? Six months, maybe ten ago? They don’t spring up that quick do they?

‘This is... a very new town indeed’

Honeysuckle rasps her lips, seemingly in agreement.

‘Wanna go check it out? We’ve still got a bit of sun left’

He leads her back to the wagon, attaches the harness, grabs his hatchet and picks out the best path down the hill.

As they approach he sees there’s no path leading to or from the village. In fact, there is no trace of traffic at all. A very new village indeed. It’s as if its dropped down from the blue- or forced it’s way up from the dirt. Whichever, he thinks it a nice little place. Whoever resides here must seldom have reason to leave. Maybe they have everything they need. Maybe they have much more than they need. Maybe this is the goldmine he’s been looking for.

The first buildings they pass are small neat houses. Their lawns immaculate, showing little to no signs of damage in the harsh desert climate. As he draws nearer the centre of the village the houses turn into shops and small businesses. He slows down to a trot and peers through their large front windows. A hair salon without a chair. A handyman store with no tools. A bakery without bread. Where are the town's supplies if not in the stores? And for that matter, where are all the people? He’s made it halfway through town and hasn’t seen a soul. The initial good feeling of the place had begun to turn.

The next building is a hotel with a big blue ‘Information’ sign hanging above the entrance. They pull to the curb and he gets off.

He approaches the perfectly painted white front doors of the building and tries the handle. Open. He soon discovers the inside is no exception to the grandeur of the buildings face. Greeted by a vast marble-floored lobby with high ceilings pillared by four impressively carved supports, he makes his way towards a reception desk complete with receptionist at the far end. Finally. Someone to talk to.

‘Hello there’ he calls, a good ten feet before arriving. She’s a conservatively dressed woman in her early twenties. Nothing, apart from the straightness of her features was particular about her. She was a perfect cut-out of standard simplicity.

‘Good evening sir’. No one’s called him ‘sir’ in a long time. ‘And what brings you in today?’

‘Well, I’ve traveled a lot around here…’ he gestures vaguely with his hand ’…and I’ve never seen…’

‘How did you get here?’ blurts the receptionist, ‘I mean, how did you arrive here today?’

Her voice is soft and young but her demeanour tells him he’d be a fool to think her so. A confidence shows in the locking of her hands and the way she holds her spine. He makes note not to let a smooth smile or doe-eyed glance allow him to treat her anything other than an intellectual equal.

‘I arrived on my wagon. Or should I say we arrived. My horse Honeysuckle and I.’

‘Oh a horse! Wonderful. We’re sick of people driving their stinking motor cars here. Not good. Not good at all..’ With each shake of her head a ‘tut’ falls out as if she were full of them.

‘You say ‘we’ but I haven’t seen a soul since I arrived. Where are all the other residents? Not to mention a bellhop or two.’

'It’s just me here for now. We don’t get a lot of customers in this area.

‘In this area?’

She glances past him to a window at the front of the lobby. ‘The sun’s almost down. Why don’t I get you a room? We have one ready for you.’

‘I just came here out of curiosity. And to get some information’ He points to another big blue letter ‘i ’ above their heads. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Not long. The information person isn’t here right now. Maybe they will be tomorrow. How about a room?’ She turns behind her to a small board of keys on the wall.

He looks out the window behind him to check on his wagon and sees that it is, in fact, getting dark.

’Surely you can tell me something? Besides, I don’t have money for a room’

‘Rooms don’t need money sir. Here’. She grabs his wrist and presses a freshly cut key firmly into his palm.

‘We’ll get your horse put up in one of our stables. It’ll be well fed and comfortable I assure you’.

There’s the ‘we’ again!

It’s been a long time since he’s slept on anything softer than a straw-stuffed bedroll and no one ever gets used to the mosquito bites.

‘Ok... I accept. Thank you. My name’s...’

‘Rooms don’t need names either. I really must go. You’ll find it on the first floor. Just go up those stairs there and turn left. Should you need anything during the night you’ll have to wait. We lock the doors after 8 pm. They re-open tomorrow morning at 7 am sharp’. With that, she leaves abruptly through an office door.

Deciding to check on Honeysuckle and the wagon the Rag and Bone man heads out to take a look. Clunk. He tries the handle again. Clunk, clunk. They’ve locked the doors already? He’s only been inside a few minutes. He presses his face against the frosted glass of the window and thinks he can make out a figure or two by his wagon in the failing light.

‘They’re efficient if nothing else’ he thinks, deciding to pay no mind to his bounty of rags and recyclables. There’s no one around to steal them anyway.