Free Out in the Open by Jesús Carrasco

pail. From where he lay, the goatherd described exactly what he would find, pointed him in the direction he should take and, before he left, lent him his straw hat.
    Although the water tank was right next to the well and was clearly visible from the castle, by the time the boy reached it, sweat was pouring down his face. There was the water tank, just as the old man had said and, a few yards away, the well itself with a brick arch from which hung a four-pointed hook. Someone had thrown sticks down the shaft, making it impossible to lower the bucket into the water. With the help of the hook, however, he managed to remove some of the sticks and make a gap large enough for the bucket to pass through.
    It took him a couple of hours to fill the two flasks. He put in the corks, but when he tried to pick up the first one to carry it over to the donkey, it was far too heavy. He had to empty out half the water from each flask, and even then it was a titanic struggle to lift them into the panniers.
    He returned to the castle in the late afternoon, exhausted by his efforts. The old man was lying where he had left him hours before. The boy unloaded the water, removed the panniers and hobbled the donkey. Then, when he’d finished giving water to the goats, he sat down next to the old man and stayed there, watching the light change in texture as the sun set behind the wall. He heard pigeons cooing as they returned to the tower to roost.
    By the light of the half-moon they dined on rancid almonds and raisins and when they had finished, the boy tidied up, then cleared the stones away from a spot a couple of yards from where the old man was lying. In doing so, he discovered the delicate, smiling skull of a hare. He held it in his hands and ran his fingertips over its complex contours. He imagined its head fixed on a small oval of dark wood, as if it were a miniature hunting trophy. The brass plaque underneath would bear the name of the hunter and the date on which he had felled the beast. He put the skull to one side, rolled up the saddlecloth and placed it under his head. He was so tired that even the smell of donkey exuded by this makeshift pillow seemed almost pleasant. He said goodnight to the old man and, as usual, received no reply. Lying down, he scanned the heavens in search of the constellations he knew, then turned his attention to the moon. Its milky glow hurt his retinas. He closed his eyes and, from behind his lids, he could still see that arc of dazzling light. He remembered the skull he had found while he was preparing his bed. Memories of the bailiff’s gallery of hunting trophies paraded past beneath his moist eyelids. He recalled the first time he’d entered that place. His father had gone with him. The acrid smell of wood and the creaking floorboards, the like of which he had never seen before. The two of them waiting in the gloomy reception room, with his father clutching his hat to his chest, obsessively turning it round and round. The dark coffered ceiling and the vast room adorned with the heads of mouflon, deer and bulls.
    â€˜Is this your boy?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜What a lovely child.’
    The memory of the bailiff’s voice pierced his eyes, and it was as if blood were springing up from beneath his swollen eyelids. Staring skywards, he bit his lips and felt a kind of oily liquid filling his tear ducts and blocking his nose. He sniffed hard, trying to clear his airways, and the noise he made alarmed him because he was afraid the goatherd might hear.
    â€˜Don’t be afraid. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you.’
    The old man’s voice seemed to emerge from the earth itself, cutting a path through the rocky strata in order to destroy the toxic cloud threatening to engulf him. The boy was struck dumb, his neck stiffened. Then, from somewhere, he heard the whirr of cicadas and began to swallow down his tears, until he felt pure air once more penetrating his nostrils. He