Chapter Twenty-One
I’M EAGER TO prove that I’m committed not just to our fake marriage, but also to getting Sid elected, so after eating the world’s most disappointing onion soup, Sid passes me a collection of documents to read.
The stack includes a modern map, a pamphlet titled Proclamation of The League of Gulf Nations, and the island’s legal code.
Both April and I spend the evening engrossed in homework.
Salt Spring Island is a miniscule dot in the larger Pacific Ocean; one stop in an archipelago of minor islands splayed out between Vancouver Island and the North American continent.
Three nations inhabit this island chain—or so sayeth the pamphlet.
To the north of us is Penelakut, an even tinier island that controls the northern island chain.
It’s been a close ally of Salt Spring since the earliest days of the Quake, but operates independently due to its history as indigenous reserve lands.
Post-Quake, many people from the Cowichan Tribes and other neighbouring First Nations sought refuge there rather than Salt Spring.
Now, over thirty years on, they’ve re-established Hul’qumi’num as the official language.
To the south is the United States. More correctly, the San Juan Islands, which survived as the last major outpost of the USA.
Before the Quake, they had a larger population than the Canadian islands, but that ended up being their downfall.
During the massive war that followed, anywhere with an airport got the shit bombed out of it.
But islands were still easier to defend against TNS and so gradually, American settlers re-established control over the San Juans.
Sid says they’re about a decade behind in their recovery journey relative to Salt Spring.
Smack dab in the middle, there’s us. Or, to use a title that only people like Tom Sullivan would ever bother with, Salt Spring Island and her Gulf Island Territories.
Around Salt Spring itself there’s a ring of smaller islands, including Galiano, where most of the lumber mills are, and the Penders, which were designated as the agricultural hub of the new nation twenty years ago.
We can thank North Pender for April’s pig pancreases.
Most of the nation’s major services—like the hospital and high school—are on Salt Spring itself.
As Sid takes me on a walking tour of the capital city, Ganges Harbour, an impossible thing seems to be true: this tiny, insignificant island that meant so little to the pre-Quake superpowers is too damn complicated.
A light drizzle accompanies our stroll through town, but it’s not enough to keep people from going about their business.
Vendors line the sidewalks, hawking everything from newspapers to hot popcorn.
Tarps and open tents keep the wet from spoiling the wares for sale.
Sid explains that the government hasn’t prioritized rebuilding malls or storefronts, so people make do with what they can cobble together.
Outside one tent is a sign advertising haircuts for two dollars.
A whole business devoted to cutting hair!
As if a quick saw with a knife isn’t good enough.
Still, I don’t mind having the sights and sounds of the city to distract us.
We’re here with the goal of getting to know each other, but it’s easiest to comment on things we see rather than manufacture a bonding experience.
Indirectly, I do learn stuff about Sid. He shows me what he considers to be the best bike repair shop, his favourite place to get fish and chips, and the luxury pawn shop where—as he puts it—James blew six years of his savings on that damn guitar.
“But wasn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “That damn guitar is my favourite thing about James.”
“Yeah, now it is,” says Sid. “But we were supposed to be saving the money for an acreage. All three of us. Silas was livid. Honestly, it’s the closest we all came to falling out.”
“But you didn’t. How did you fix it?”
“Hmmm?”
“Come on, Sid. I can read between the lines. Obviously, you fixed it.”
He doesn’t object, but his face does screw up with discomfort. “I told Silas we owed it to him. If anyone gets to dick around with us, it’s James. Though sometimes I wish the smug bastard didn’t know it.”
“You owed it to him?”
“Yeah.”
I nearly ask what he means by that, but then the obvious answer comes to me.
I don’t know what role Sid played at TNS, but he must feel somewhat responsible for what happened to James.
It’s funny. I don’t think of James as having a dark, tortured past the way Sid does, because he’s such a clown, but he must. I guess some people are better at hiding it than others.
“Where’s he from?” I try to gently change the topic, so that we aren’t dancing so close to TNS territory. “I can’t figure out the accent.”
“His parents were from England. They were on vacation in the Gulf Islands when the Quake happened and got stranded here. He was born on a private yacht. You don’t have to feel that sorry for him.”
“Okay, noted. Did they ever try sailing back home?”
“Not really. There’s a continent in the way.
” Sid sighs “James says that when he was really young, he met his grandparents on a web chat. Which is just… crazy to think about, since global internet was down by then. But his family was rich. They must have had some private network that didn’t get destroyed as fast.”
I try to picture talking with someone in Europe, but it’s beyond my imagination.
I’ve often wondered what happened to the rest of the world once mass communication fell apart.
Common sense suggests there must be other people out there.
We can’t be the only lucky ones. However, most stories I’ve heard about life beyond these islands has been difficult to believe.
The Grand Astrologue used to claim he got updates on his mission from a man stranded on the International Space Station.
James’s tale is far more within the realm of reason.
Regardless, wherever those other survivors are, none of them have the resources to cross the planet and find us. What will happen when they do? Will they be friendly, or will they want to restart the wars that ended the world? Or will we find them first?
“We shouldn’t be going on about James, anyway,” says Sid. “I’m supposed to be learning about you.”
“Well… what do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What do you like doing for fun? Do people scavenging in the wilderness have fun?”
“Of course we do.” I roll my eyes at him. “And you already know what I like. I read a lot. What about you? Any favourite books?”
Sid exhales slowly through his nose. “I dunno.”
“Oh, you want me to guess? Is that it?”
My tone is light and teasing, yet he ducks his head, unable to meet my eye.
I’m reminded of the argument we had at the library after we got married, not just because we’re circling the topic of books, but because once again, I’m stumped.
If he doesn’t like reading, what’s the big deal?
I’m not going to divorce my fake husband over differing hobbies.
Then, like an echo, Tom’s words yesterday come back to me.
What interesting things you still have to discover about each other.
I assumed he was being snide because Sid didn’t know how much I loved Anne of Green Gables, but what if his remarks were meant to cut both ways? What if my disbelief that Sid hadn’t read it came across as equally na?ve, because…
“No.” I stumble to a stop. “No, you can read. I know you can read. I watched you read a letter right in front of me.”
“Sure, I can read.” Sid’s eyes track a flock of seagulls in the distance. “Slow and steady wins the race, as they say.”
“You read legal documents for fun.”
“Fun is a strong word.”
“But why wouldn’t you be able to…”
He once asked me if I knew how to read, and I got mad at him for thinking I was stupid. Now, I’m sick with guilt. He was asking because for him, it wasn’t a default assumption.
“TNS taught some kids, but they didn’t give a shit if I could read. I was five feet tall by the time I was nine. They knew what I was good for.” He shakes his head. “I took night school once we got here. But I was starting from zero and working full-time. Silas still can’t read.”
“I’m so sorry.” Impulsively, I reach for his hand. His fingers are stiff in mine, clearly surprised by the gesture, but he doesn’t let go.
“It’s the main thing I worry about, going into the election. I’ve got a high-school education, and I had to bust my ass just to get that. There’re people like Tom running who went to university before the Quake—”
“You can’t compare yourself to him. You didn’t get the same opportunities he did. Besides, the world’s different now. You’re probably one of the few people running who has lived outside of this bubble. They need people with your experience.”
“There are plenty of people who went through the same shit I did. They’re just not bull-headed enough to try this.”
“Sid.” I jerk his wrist, prompting him to look me in the eye. “I hate Tom more than anyone, but you know he wouldn’t have endorsed you if he didn’t think you were capable. He’s not stupid.”
“I guess, but—”
“No! No buts. I swear, if you make me say something nice about Tom again, I’m gonna smack you.”
That has a stronger effect than my pep talk. He grins. “Thanks.” He gives my hands a squeeze, then drops them. “You want to grab something to eat?”
“Did we bring anything?”
“No, but the rain is picking up and I was thinking, you’ve probably never been to a restaurant before, right?”
“I guess I haven’t.”
“Great. Then let’s go.”