When the boy finally opened his eyes, the goatherd had come into the room and was leaning against the table. The boy didn’t know how long he had kept his eyes closed. He could feel liquid coming out of his ears. A small plume of smoke was still issuing forth from the barrel of the shotgun and a sulphurous cloud was rising up into the gaps between the roof beams. Next to him lay an incoherent, lifeless heap of bones and muscles. The warmth of that body close to his. The goatherd’s voice reaching him as if in a paraffin-drenched dream. A scream opening its way through the inflamed ducts of his ears. Growing in volume. Then just a few seconds later, the voice of the old man shouting:
‘Look at me, boy! Look at me!’
The boy directed his gaze at the place where the old man’s voice was coming from and there met his grave eyes, trying desperately to distract him from the sight of the bailiff’s shattered head. The goatherd held out his forefinger and pointed at his own eyes. ‘Look — at — me,’ he said with exaggerated gestures. ‘Look — at — me,’ he repeated, meanwhile beckoning to him.
The boy crawled over to the goatherd and there, grasping the edge of the table, he managed to stand up with his back to the bailiff. The old man put his hands to the boy’s face and the blood from the boy’s ears stained his palms. He made the boy turn his head and pressed it against his own broken body. The boy’s jaw dropped and trembled as if he were shivering. His eyes empty. The dog poked its nose round the door, but did not come in.
‘Let’s go.’
Still stunned by what had just happened, the boy took hold of the goatherd’s arm and was about to place it round his own shoulders intending to help him walk, but, just then, he saw the bowl of walnuts on the table. He released the goatherd’s arm and stood before the bowl. The old man observed him in silence. The boy remained for a while staring at the bowl, his clenched fists resting on the tabletop. Then his head drooped as if his neck had suddenly lost all substance, and he began to sob, a nervous, pent-up sobbing that left him almost unable to breathe. The goatherd let him cry for a while, then placed one hand behind the boy’s head and guided him to the door.
In the doorway, the boy dried his eyes on his dirty sleeve, again positioned himself beneath the old man’s arm and, together, they went out into the warm, still night. They crossed the small square and headed for the well, the old man dragging his feet, and the boy like a rather feeble crutch supporting the weight of a man who could barely stand. When they reached the well, the boy helped the goatherd sit down with his back against the wall. The crescent moon had still not risen, and it was hard to see further than fifteen or twenty yards ahead. The only source of light was the bailiff’s improvised lamp, whose yellowish glow was still percolating out through the open door of the inn. The boy sat down next to the goatherd, and there they stayed, without saying a word, until they fell asleep, leaning one against the other.
The boy woke with a start. He had been resting on the old man’s bony shoulder, muttering incoherently, when his body gave a sudden jolt and he slumped into the goatherd’s lap. He sat up, feeling utterly confused, as if under the influence of ether. He looked at the old man next to him, leaning against the stone wall of the well.
‘I was having a bad dream.’
The old man said nothing.
‘The bailiff’s deputy was trying to burn me.’
‘He won’t harm you again.’
‘What did you do to him?’
‘Much the same as I did to his boss.’
The boy put his hands to his ears because he could still hear a kind of whistling coming through his ears via his brain. He glanced around him and could see only stars twinkling above and a half-moon surrounded by a milky aura. There were no signs of life at the inn or anywhere else. A warm breeze blew in from the west, bringing with it the smell of juniper or pine needles.
‘Where’s Colorao?’
‘Don’t worry about him now. We have to leave here as soon as possible.’
‘Are we going north?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what will we do when we get there?’
‘We’ve got a long way to go before we have to think about that.’
‘I’ll go and get the donkey, and then we can leave.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
The boy thought for a moment.
‘The goats, boy, they’re all we have.’
The boy and the dog walked down the middle of the street, heading south. A cat emerged from one of the abandoned houses and walked noiselessly across their path. Just before it reached its destination, the cat stopped and regarded him coolly. Then it continued on its way, more slowly this time, and slipped under a door hanging from its hinges.
Just as the goatherd had told him, the donkey was waiting at the entrance to the village, tethered to some railings, and the bailiff’s motorbike was parked a little further on. He stroked the donkey’s head, feeling its hard angular skull. Then he untethered it, and they left the village and set off to the oak wood.
As they climbed the hill, he could not work out how long he and the goatherd had slept nor how long it would be until dawn, but he knew that he must hurry. He slapped the donkey on the rump a few times, and their pace quickened. Shortly before they reached the wood, the dog ran on ahead and, by the time the boy had got to the corral, he found the three goats running round and round inside with the dog scampering about outside. He removed the undergrowth that had served as a gate and, in a moment, the goats were out, kicking the air. He loaded up the donkey with the old man’s belongings and the nearly empty flasks.
They went back down to the village almost at a trot and when they arrived, the boy stopped to study the bailiff’s motorbike. He approached it warily. He viewed it with different eyes now. The wide handlebars, the sturdy wheel fork and the curved number plate above the front mudguard like a figurehead. The sidecar with its rounded chassis, the seat in which he had so often been hidden away. He ran his hand over the nose and the windscreen as if he were stroking a horse. Then, leaning in, he saw, on the seat, the blanket with its oilcloth edging and jumped back as if the blanket had suddenly burst into flames. He grabbed the donkey’s halter and left as quickly as he could.
When he reached the well, the old man was still sitting where he’d left him. He went over to announce his return and to receive new orders.
‘Give the goats some water to drink.’
The boy took one of the flasks from the panniers, poured some water into the bowl and held it to the goatherd’s mouth. The man drank the slimy liquid and shot the boy a meaningful glance.
‘OK, I’ll do the goats next.’
The boy lowered the earthenware pitcher into the well and hauled up some water for the animals and, when they had drunk their fill, he crouched down beside the shepherd.
‘Now gather together all the food you can, fill the flasks with water and put them on the donkey.’
‘I don’t want to go back inside the inn.’
‘Would you rather go hungry?’
‘I just can’t do it. That man…’
‘He won’t do anything to you now, he can’t.’
‘I’m afraid.’
‘Just don’t look at his head.’
At the front of the inn, the boy found the bailiff’s whip lying on the bench. He picked it up and waved it around as if it were a fly swat. He noticed that the leather on the handle and the stitching were so worn that you could almost see the cane beneath. It ended in a kind of triangular tongue, whose shape the boy had seen before on the old man’s body.