Free The Law of Dreams by Peter Behrens Page B

from?”
    â€œThe workhouse.”
    â€œShamie! Shamie!” Luke called. “This fellow is out of
     the workhouse.”
    Luke looked at Fergus thoughtfully. “We were told they serve out
     rations — meat soup, three rounds a day. Is it true?”
    â€œNo. The soup had no meat. They have fever there.”
    â€œDo they?” Luke sounded disappointed. “Ah well, I was
     not believing there was any such place, anyhow. Meat soup — it was hard to
     credit.”
    â€œAlls I want,” Shamie said, “is meat.”
    The teamster had pulled off his stockings and his linen shirt and was
     dropping them on the road. Flesh swelled from his breast in two pouches as he stoodup and began unbuttoning his breeches. His belly was round and
     white. Stepping out of the breeches with a sob, he dropped them on the road. Shamie
     picked them up delicately on the tip of his muzzle.
    â€œLeave him his drawers?” Shamie asked.
    â€œAre you ribbonmen?” Fergus had heard of bands of ribbonmen,
     tenants displaced, roaming the country and taking vengeance on farmers and
     landlords.
    â€œHe must give them over,” Luke told Shamie, sounding weary.
     “Ribbonmen? Perhaps.”
    â€œI’ll perish!” the teamster cried.
    Shamie stepped up and pressed his muzzle against the teamster’s
     breast. “Shall I shoot you now, you pig? I could flay the bacon off you, you great
     damned bastard. Get up, get up, and give us over what we want! Get up!”
    The teamster peeled off his drawers and hung them on the muzzle, then sat
     down on his driver’s seat, hugging himself, shaking with cold.
    â€œThe hat,” said Luke quietly, “don’t neglect the
     hat, Shamie, it will serve you nicely.”
    Jumping up on a spoke, Shamie lifted the teamster’s beaver hat from
     his head.
    â€œIs he a soldier?” Fergus asked Luke.
    â€œHe was a soldier boy at one time, but no more — he’s a
     good clean deserter.” Luke was studying Fergus. “Where were you, before the
     workhouse?”
    â€œEjected.”
    â€œYour people, where are they?”
    â€œDead.”
    â€œAll of them?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Luke asked.
    Fergus was silent. It was all he had. Why give it up?
    â€œCome, give it over.” Luke smiled. “We won’t spend
     it. You’ll have it back.”
    He was about to say his name was Murty Larry when something stopped him
     — a sense of violation. “Fergus.”
    â€œThieving and outlawing ain’t so bad, Fergus. We killed a
     sheep once, and would do better if there were more of us. When was the last time you had
     mutton for your supper?”
    â€œLuke!” Shamie was smirking and clowning, wearing the
     teamster’s hat. He spun his soldier cap at Luke, who caught it.
    â€œIf you was ejected they won’t have you back,” Luke told
     Fergus. “They’ll drive you to a ship and send you over the water.
     You’ll never see your country again. No, come with us. We’ll give you the
     oath, won’t we, Shamie?”
    â€œHe’s a damned grasshopper stealing rides. It’s not for
     him to question.”
    â€œWe are the Bog Boys, Fergus. You’ve heard of us,
     perhaps?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo matter.” Luke sounded resigned. “Better that way, I
     suppose. We ain’t done nothing mighty yet. Will you throw in with us or
     not?”
    The teamster was wailing. Fergus tried to shut his ears.
    â€œHere,” Luke said, “there’s nothing for it now.
     You won’t find no soup at Limerick. We’re living quite a gallant life.
     We’ll take you to our home and offer you a meal — what is there to say to
     that?”
    â€œWhy him?” Shamie protested. “He’s a spy
     perhaps.”
    â€œCome, Fergus. We’ll be your sure ones.”
    No use resisting. Spurned,