Pawnshop & Prejudice

“Was I born only to be unloved? As soon as they see my skin—”

The boy’s thoughts were interrupted by the rope tightening around him, cutting into his arm.

“Still think you’re better than us?” Mickael growled as he struck the young boy in the face.

S’agenouiller (pronounced /sahzh/noo/yay/) spat blood at the feet of his attackers, glaring with contempt, the corners of his eyes dewing. The five of gray-skinned men had tied him to a tree and were taking turns beating him. S’agenouiller had been minding his own business collecting junk on the side of the road as they were passing by. His lack of deference had angered them.

There was an unspoken hierarchy to their world and S’agenouiller’s was at the bottom of it. There were the Khar: human beings who were not mutated by the radiation that had ruined more than half the world in the nuclear war. There were the Agonaé, the gray-skinned mutated peoples of the Western Reaches. The Khar called the Agonaé “Roamers” because many of the Agonaé were marauders.

At the bottom of both societies, were the Painted Ones: Agonaé-Khar biracials, whom the Khar disparaged as “Half-Roamers”. S’agenouiller’s father was Agonaé, and notoriously ill-tempered and violent. His mother was Khar. This rare union was seen as unholy, forbidden. Being a Painted One (characterized by his partially gray-mottled complexion resembling vitiligo), naturally attracted prejudice from both races.

S’agenouiller had been assaulted many times in the past but today was different. He suspected he may not make it home this time. Mickael drew a knife from his belt. His gray skin seemed almost blue in the approaching twilight. His cerise eyes almost glowed with fury as he pressed the blade’s tip against the boy’s throat. S’agenouiller held his breath but didn’t break his defiant gaze.

Suddenly, there was the loud pop of gunfire. A dark-skinned Khar wielding a Glock 22 pistol stood behind the five Agonaé men. He had fired a warning shot and now pointed his weapon at the boy’s attackers.

“Really?! Five grown men on one kid?” he asked, sounding tired.

“This doesn’t concern you, Khar! It’d be wise if you moved along. As you said, there’s five of us and…I doubt that gun’s fully loaded. Bullets’re scarce these days. You won’t get us all,” retorted Mickael as the other four Agonaé began moving to surround the meddler.

“Sounds like a risky bet to me,” the stranger responded, keeping the pistol trained on Mickael’s head. “You could just let the kid go and we all can get to our destinations safely tonight.”

One of the Agonaé closest to the stranger, the largest of the bunch, lunged at him, hoping to catch him off guard. Another crack of gun fire sounded, and the large gray man stumbled back, a fresh bullet wound in his shoulder. A pregnant Khar woman with dark curly hair stepped forward from behind the stranger, the barrel of her rifle smoking. She chambered the next round and held her aim.

“Still a betting man, Roamer?” she asked. Mickael and his goons all growled in anger. They gathered their wounded comrade and retreated into the twilight.

S’agenouiller stood in silent astonishment as the stranger and his woman untied him.

“Are you hurt?” asked the man.

S’agenouiller remained silent trying to compose himself, the gray mottling on the skin of his collarbone was briefly exposed as he adjusted his clothes.

“Why did you save me?”

The man silently exchanged a glance with the woman and then looked back at the boy.

“It was five against one. Five adults against a—,” the man began.

“A Half-Roamer?!” S’agenouiller retorted defensively, louder than he intended.

“A child,” said the woman calmly. “Five grown-ass men against a child.” She touched her belly reflexively as she hung the rifle over her shoulder.

“But you are Khar. No Khar would ever rescue…someone like me.”

“Whose kid you are or aren’t doesn’t matter to us. We couldn’t just keep driving when we saw what was happening,” the man responded.

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“My name is J and this is my wife, CC,” said the man.

S’agenouiller didn’t respond but still bore a guarded look as he moved past the couple toward his wagon to see if anything had been stolen. To his annoyance, he noticed one of the wagon’s wheels broke.

CC had already climbed into the red pickup truck after placing the rifle on the gun rack behind the seats. J was approaching the driver’s side and suddenly paused and looked toward S’agenouiller.

“Are you headed to the city?” J asked the boy. “We could give you a lift. We’re headed in that direction ourselves.”

S’agenouiller hesitated. He didn’t want to attract any more unwanted attention today, especially being seen with Khars. However, he did want to repay them somehow and night was falling fast. With the wagon wheel broken, getting to town safely in the dark seemed unlikely.

“I’ll help,” J insisted, having already crossed the road back to the boy and was steadying the wagon on the side of the broken wheel. S’agenouiller reluctantly pulled the wagon up to the truck’s tailgate. He and J lifted the wagon and its contents into the truck bed and closed the gate.

CC scooted over to make room for the boy and the trio began their drive down the road. There was silence for a while as they traveled the worn highway.

“Um…thanks…for saving me,” the boy finally said, breaking the silence.

“You’re welcome,” CC answered warmly. “We never got your name.”

“…S’agenouiller,” he replied. “…My mom told me it means to kneel…like…for prayer.”

“Amen. Seems like you received an answer today,” she said matter-of-factly.

The boy was silent, unsure how to respond.

“It’s nice to meet you, S’agenouiller,” J added warmly. “You’ve got to be the youngest junk hauler I’ve ever met. How old are you?”

“12.”

“Man...”

“My family owns a junk and pawn shop on the outskirts of the city. My father’s not home much. He leaves it to me to find products and run the store most days. If you need supplies, I can offer you a discount. I owe you that much. The store is just up ahead.”

They took the next right turn onto a bumpy unlit road. Night fell as they pulled into the dusty parking lot of an old building. They could see an odd mix of LED posts and firelights illuminating the city’s skyline in the distance. J helped the boy bring his haul into the building.

The trio entered the store. The lights flickered on. Half a dozen short aisles and three long display cases housed a variety of rare odds and ends on the sales floor. S’agenouiller sat down on the stool behind the service counter and J began to peruse the wares. After a few moments of silence, CC leaned against the service counter and quietly surveyed the lad under the fluorescent lights.

“What?” the boy asked, noticing CC’s gaze.

“Do you really run this place by yourself?” she inquired.

“Yeah.”

“You mentioned your dad's away a lot. Where’s your mom?”

A micro expression of sadness traversed the boy’s face. He shifted uncomfortably on the stool.

“She died when I was 9.”

“That sucks. You must miss her terribly.”

S’agenouiller broke eye contact, his mood visibly downshifting. CC sighed pensively, breaking the awkward silence.

“For what it’s worth, she’d be very proud of how tough and resourceful you are. You have an impressive inventory. You collected all of this yourself?”

The boy nodded.

“Got any bullets?”

“I’ve got rounds that should fit your rifle. It’s a Ruger 10/22, right? And I have one box of .40 caliber rounds for the pistol as well.”

“Really?!” she replied, impressed by his savvy. “How much?”

“What do you have to trade?”

“How does…one bushel of rice and a half a bushel of dried beans sound?” CC low-balled.

S’agenouiller frowned, seemingly insulted.

“I know you saved my life, but surely it’s worth at least TWO bushels of rice and ONE AND a HALF bushel of beans,” the boy countered.

CC grinned.

“You wound me, sir! How about one bushel of rice, one bushel of beans and two quarts of honey. We harvested it from our own hives on the eastern seacoast. You can’t get anything like that way out here.”

S’agenouiller brightened a bit but held his ground.

“I don’t know… Even with a discount…,” he shrugged. “Bullets are pretty hard to come by these days.”

CC chuckled at his shrewdness.

“You drive a hard bargain. How about everything I just offered plus two kilos of sea salt?”

The boy struggled to maintain a poker face, his grin seeping through. To his shock, she extended her hand to him. A Khar woman was offering to touch him and not to harm him! Maintaining his composure he also extended his hand in reply.

“Sold.”

They shook hands. J walked up holding a crate with batteries, petroleum jelly, rope, and first aid supplies. She gave her husband a furtive glance.

“Careful. S’age is no mark. He is a skillful haggler,” she chided her husband playfully.

“I didn’t intend to bargain in the first place,” J replied. “A man deserves his wages and we need the supplies.”

J reached into his pocket, drew out a walnut-sized lump of platinum, and set it on the counter. S’agenouiller’s eyes widened.

“Is that real?” he asked, disbelievingly.

“You can test it yourself. I melted it down from abandoned car parts. We saved it for an emergency,” J responded earnestly.

“That’s way too much for that crate of…”

“Well, I’m not taking it back,” J insisted.

“But…,” the young man protested.

“What’s that stick on the wall behind you?” J interrupted.

S’agenouiller turned and pulled a black cane about 96cm long down from the wall. It was worn and had scratches running the length of it.

“This?” the boy asked.

“Yeah. Let me see it.”

“It’s just a piece of junk I found a while back. It’s been sitting collecting dust for years now,” S’agenouiller explained as he handed the cane to J.

J set down the crate of supplies and gripped the cane in both hands. He gave it a slight twist near the handle and the cane drew apart revealing a hidden sword and sheath. The sword was visibly dull and a little rusty, but nothing a sharpening and polishing wouldn’t fix. The boy sat surprised, he had never noticed that the cane contained a hidden blade.

“How about I take this plus the crate and we call it even?” J offered, extending his hand.

Once again, the boy felt a jolt of astonishment at this friendly gesture. He gripped J’s hand in reply.

“Sold.”

S’agenouiller walked them out to the truck with their supplies, and they loaded his dolly with the goods they agreed to exchange. As the tailgate slammed shut and their bargain concluded, S’agenouiller felt a pang of…happiness…and…loneliness.

As he turned to wheel his payment inside, the couple stopped him.

“S’agenouiller, you are a special young man,” J said warmly. “Life may be difficult and painful, but you have everything you need to live a full life and even help others.”

CC looked down at her belly, caressing it gently and then looked tenderly at S’agenouiller.

“Our son will be born soon. We're a family of storytellers, so we will make sure we tell him about the brave young man whose name means to ‘kneel in prayer.’” she said.

Without warning, CC embraced S’agenouiller. He froze. His heart raced but he surprised himself by returning her hug.

“I will tell you the same thing I tell my son every night as I rub my belly before going to sleep. This is important. Don’t forget this, okay? Even when you feel alone. You are deeply, deeply loved. More than you ever know or can imagine. Your life has a purpose.”

The corners of S’agenouiller’s eyes dewed.

And with that, the unusual Khar couple waved goodbye, got in their truck, and drove away into the night. The young boy stood there for a moment, taking in the sounds of the night. Though the sky was ruined, the world was broken, and monsters and spirits roamed the emptied wonderland, the seed of hope sprouted just a little in S’agenouiller.