Free Home Boys by Bernard Beckett Page B

place. ‘Like, I saw you in a dream. It was before I even met you. And you looked just like you do. You were real. You came to my dream first.’
    Beside him Dougal began to shake with laughter.
    ‘What? What is it? What’s so funny?’
    ‘You’re soft in the head you are,’ Dougal told him. ‘You’re soft in the head.’
    * * *
    The next day they woke early and walked hard. For someone who didn’t know where he was going Dougal had a sure sense of direction. At first they took turns wearing the sheepskin, but the day wasn’t as cold as the night, and as the terrain steepened it became a burden. So too the rest of the meat. They ate some for breakfast, and again when they stopped at lunch, but what had tasted divine the night before, warm and with hunger to settle on, now was heavy and hard to chew. They took turns with the rest of the beast, and after much experimenting Colin found it was best carried over the shoulder, like he had seen Gino do once, only it was a girl from the village he was carrying, and she was laughing and screaming, and he was telling her to keep quiet. The sheep didn’t laugh, or scream, or wriggle about. It just smelt of fire and fat, and got heavier with every step. Whenever it was his turn to carry it Colin would slip behind Dougal’s determined pace, his calves protesting the extra load, his breathing not deep enough for the task.
    ‘Why are we in such a hurry?’ he called ahead, one such time, as Dougal scouted around, looking for the best way up the latest of the steep banks they had encountered.
    Dougal looked back and stood his ground as Colin puffed his way towards him.
    ‘Not very fit are ya?’ he grinned.
    ‘It’s heavy.’
    ‘Don’t see me slipping behind, when you’re leading.’
    ‘Cos I don’t lead as fast.’
    ‘That’s what I said. You’re not very fit.’
    Colin set the charred carcass on the ground, past worrying about the dirt and leaves sticking to it, easily enough brushed off later.
    ‘I don’t see why we’re hurrying, if we don’t know where we’re going.’
    ‘I never said that.’
    ‘So where are we going then?’ Colin asked.
    ‘To the sea,’ Dougal answered, as if he had known all along, although Colin was sure he’d only just then thought of it.
    ‘This isn’t the way to the sea.’ The sea was to the south. Colin had seen it, beyond the second lake, from the top slopes where the cows sometimes grazed.
    ‘You don’t know much either do you?’ It had become Dougal’s favourite way of speaking. In fact, it was almost all he said. Can’ t do much, don’t know much, don’t see much, can ’ t go so fast. But Colin didn’t mind, because Dougal smiled when he said it, and the Sowbys hardly ever smiled. ‘Sea’s everywhere.’
    ‘So why do we want to go to the sea?’
    ‘The sheep’ll run out soon. There’s fish in the sea, and shellfish. You can eat seaweed too, if you’re hungry enough.’
    ‘Do you know how to fish then?’
    ‘Course I do.’
    ‘Like you knew how to slit a sheep’s throat.’
    ‘Still killed it didn’t we?’
    Not exactly, Colin thought, but he didn’t correct him. It was Dougal ’ s other habit, to change a story every time he told it, so the truth never set, but was left to develop. And Colin’s habit was not to say so much in return, and to follow.
    ‘Come on. I’ll take a turn.’
    The afternoon passed more quickly. Without commenting Dougal took more and more time with the sheep on his back, and hardly seemed to slow at all. They soon reached a ridge and turned to follow its southeastern line. The path they cuteither rose or fell, this wasn’t a flat land, but at least it wasn’t the relentless climb of the morning. The bush was less thick at the skyline. The cloud overhead had broken up and the segments of blue were reaching out to touch one another. The sun, when it shone through, was surprisingly warm and even this high up there was little wind. Every now and then they would reach a