Free The Law of Dreams by Peter Behrens Page A

halt.
    â€œI’m a poor man, sir,” the teamster was saying,
     “I’ve a dozen mouths to feed.”
    â€œShut your trap, we’ll kill you all soon as blather.”
     The soldier swung his aim back to the teamster. “Shall I shoot him now,
     Luke?”
    Luke, the leader, was dressed in layers of rags fused by weather. His
     breeches were torn off below the knee, and a clay pipe was jabbed in his hatband.
    Stepping up onto a spoke, Luke studied Fergus. “Stand up.”
    He stood slowly, clenching the coppers in his fist.
    Luke was small. Dark hair and a thin, white face.
    Kill me. I wouldn’t mind.
    â€œWhat do you have there, in your hand?”
    Fergus said nothing.
    â€œWhat is it? Show me.”
    He opened his fist, displaying the two coins.
    â€œHere, give them over.” Luke reached out.
    Instead, hating obedience, Fergus closed his fist and flung the coins hard
     and high out over the frozen fields, where they fell without a sound.
    The hungrier you were the stronger you hated it.
    â€œWhat is it?” The soldier sounded panicked. “We’ll
     kill the fellow — what is it, Luke?”
    Luke had turned to stare out over the fields. “Why’d you do
     that?” he said softly.
    â€œDidn’t wish to give them over.”
    â€œTell this one he must give over his coat, Luke!” the young
     soldier cried, roughly poking at the teamster, who had sunk into his greatcoat.
     “Give it over, you beast, or I’ll skin it off you.”
    â€œCome along, mister,” Luke said, “you’d better
     give Shamie what he wants.”
    â€œAnd boots — I’ll have them boots as well, you great fat
     pig. I’ll have them boots or skin you.”
    The small boys had been boosting one another aboard the team. Suddenly a
     horse bucked and snorted, jolting the dray.
    â€œEasy there, men, easy.” Luke turned his attention back to the
     teamster. “Come now, mister, you must skin yourself, or Shamie’ll do it for
     you.”
    With a groan the teamster stood up and began unbuttoning his greatcoat. As
     he handed it down, the straw that was padded inside for extra warmth fluttered down on
     the road.
    â€œNow with them boots,” the young soldier insisted.
    The teamster sat down on his seat and began pulling off his boots while
     the soldier pulled on the greatcoat over his red jacket and cross-straps.
    â€œI’ll freeze to death,” the teamster said, dropping the
     boots on the road. “Sure you can’t take everything, boys?”
    â€œWe’ll have those,” said Luke, pointing at the
     teamster’s red stockings, “and your shirt, if you please.”
    â€œAnd breeches!” said the young soldier. “And look smart
     about it!”
    â€œBoys, boys, you don’t want the death of a poor man on your
     conscience. I’m father to nine.”
    â€œGive him your shirt and breeches, or he will shoot you in the
     brains,” Luke said. “Shamie, pass that here.”
    The young soldier had found a clay jar in the teamster’s coat. He
     handed it over to Luke, who plucked out the stopper with his teeth, took a swallow, and
     coughed.
    â€œHow’s that?” Shamie said eagerly. “Give it here,
     if you please, Luke, a taste of old stormy would do me nice.”
    Instead Luke offered Fergus the jar. “There you go, take a
     bite.”
    A horse screamed.
    â€œEasy there, men, easy!” Luke cried. “Take your turns,
     fair is fair.”
    The children had nicked a vein on one of the horses —
houghing
— drawing blood, which they were licking.
    The
poitin
tasted like smoke. Fergus coughed, spat, and thumped
     his chest, then handed the jar back down to Luke, who passed it to Shamie.
    â€œAre you going to shoot us?” Fergus asked Luke.
    â€œHave anything else worth robbing?”
    â€œI haven’t.”
    â€œWhere have you come