Free A Horse Called El Dorado by Kevin Kiely Page A

passageway leading to the front door, a downstairs bedroom, a scullery and a junk room with a computer.
    The cats, Max and Mojo, were in the kitchen under siege by the dogs, which leaped up at the panes of glass on the back door trying to get in – I would soon understand that this battle never ended. If the cats were outside , the dogs were kept in. If the dogs got out, Max and Mojo had to run up the trees or onto the flat kitchen roof.
    Grandad was nowhere to be seen when I went outside , so I had a look at a building that cast a dark shadow across one of the kitchen windows. This was a long, old shed with a red, galvanised roof. The metal door was unlocked, so I opened it and went in.
    Inside it looked like a small science laboratory. It had two sinks, a freezer, shelves of jars, utensils, thermometers , round boxes and labels, all spotlessly clean. It was the cheese house, a place that Grandma would not encourage me to go into, because cheese-making was her special work. She even wore a white coat, plastic gloves, a hat and white wellingtons while working in thecheese house. I went out again, carefully closing the door behind me.
    As I was walking behind the outhouses, Grandad called me. He was in the growing tunnel, a plastic tunnel that looked like a very long boat lying upside down on the ground. The door consisted of a sheet of polythene framed with wood. Inside the growing tunnel it was warmer. There was a narrow path along the middle to the other end and the roof curved down at both sides.
    ‘Welcome to Fordstown Organic Foods,’ Grandad smiled as I came in, shutting the door. ‘FOG, they call us locally, among other names. Yes, your Grandma and I grow vegetables and herbs and sell them on to stalls in the Dublin market. Some shops in Trim, Kells and Navan take our produce too, but no supermarkets. Look: mushrooms , onions, beetroot, scallions, celery, herbs … I tell you, we always have good soup. We also grow weeds, unfortunately.’ He smiled.
    ‘Wow,’ I said. It looked like a lot of work.
    ‘We are just a small grower. We also make goats’ cheeses, yoghurt and bread, as well as growing apples and pears, and plenty of potatoes. Well, we cannot eat them all ourselves and I love to live near growing food – the aroma of it; the colour of it. It is called “organic” because we use no fertilisers. I collect dung and other mulch from all over.’
    I spent the rest of the day with Grandad, as he showed me around – the field of potatoes, the neat little orchardof apple and pear trees. That evening I had done a half day’s work when Grandma arrived home. She baked a wholemeal pizza, topped with peppers, onions, tomatoes , some of her goats’ cheese, anchovies and chillies – they knew I would like chillies.
    After our meal they got me to talk all about my life in Colombia, in the commune. At first I was shy and tongue-tied, as they sat silent looking at me. I felt as if they wanted me to stand up and sing a song for them. But soon I began to tell them about our last days at the commune . The attacks by AGRA. My ride on El Dorado to hide the treasure. The burning of the village. The shootings . My journey to Cali with Mama. It seemed to entertain them, and they listened carefully and asked questions, hushing each other every now and then so that I could continue. I began to enjoy telling my story. Grandma kept bringing out more and more food – apples, ginger cake, fruitcake, nuts and home-made toffee. It struck me that I would never go hungry in Ireland.
    ‘What a wonderful little man you are to have made it through all of that,’ said Grandma. She looked very impressed.
    Then Grandad stood up. He almost had tears in his eyes as he went off to the junk room. He returned with a sea captain’s hat, with a peak and an anchor. When he put it on he asked me to stand up.
    ‘I salute you, Pepe Carroll,’ he said seriously. ‘Youhave been in the wars. You have returned. When a soldier returns, he gets a