The Law of Dreams (12 page)

No one moved, at first. Fergus could hear the click of the fire.

Then Johnny Grace got to his feet. He was frail, his face was yellow, he wore rags for trousers, and his withered arse cheeks were exposed as he walked around the fire to Luke, kissed her, then stood next to her and glared at the others.

One by one, Bog Boys arose and stepped around the fire to kiss Luke, until only Shamie, Mary Cooley, and Fergus were left.

“Come, the rest of you, don't stay out in the cold.” Luke was looking straight at him across the fire.

“Carmichaels will fight.”

“They have stolen the land and the food out of our mouths. We have the perfect right to help ourselves.”

“Shamie's right, Luke. They're herd boys, not soldiers.”

“Farmers are not soldiers either. The food belongs to us. We are only taking what belongs to us. If they try to stop us, it's blood for blood, Fergus. Vengeance — isn't that what you want? Give us your heart. You won't be sorry. You'll know you're alive.”

Mary Cooley suddenly jumped down from her perch beside Shamie and raced around the fire to kiss Luke.

“Poxed little bitch!” Shamie screamed. “Traitor!”

Luke looked up at the soldier. “What about you, Shamie?”

“You're the ones wishing to hang! Not me!”

“But if you stay out alone, you'll die alone, Shamie.”

“Perhaps, but I won't be flogged!”

“I'm talking the truth to you now. I can see death coming Shamie, clear as my hand.”

Shamie broke into ugly sobs.

“You know it, Shamie dear. You don't want to be alone. Come down now. Join with us.”

“Only I don't want flogging, Luke, I can't stand another flogging.”

“There shall be no flogging. Come join us, Shamie dear.”

The deserter jumped down and landed heavily, clutching the musket in both hands. He stood facing Luke across the fire. “Promise I won't be captured, Luke.”

“Sure, I promise. Now give us your kiss.”

Weeping, Shamie came around the fire and kissed Luke, who took his face in her hands. “You'll be true, I know.” Then she looked across at Fergus. “What about you?”

Oath or no oath, he could still have walked away.

Perhaps they'd have tried stopping him. Perhaps not.

He didn't want to die alone, any more than did the soldier. That was why he stepped to the other side of the fire, and why he kissed Luke. That was why he became the last of the Bog Boys.

WHILE THE BOG BOYS DOZED
in their burrows, Fergus,
Shamie, and Luke sat by the fire, smoking coltsfoot in clay pipes.

Luke thought they should attack the farm that very night. “We have
the spirit now after a good meat feed. If we don't go now, we might
dissolve.”

But it was drizzling wet, and Shamie insisted they must wait for a dry
night, with no moon.

“A good black night. If it's wet, I won't answer for
her,” he said, patting the musket lock, which he had covered with a piece of
greasy cloth. “Wet ain't reliable firing. I ain't going into action in
rain. A farmer will have his powder warm and dry. When a fellow shoots at me, I shall
exchange, not run like a Frenchman.”

“There it is,” Luke agreed. “I defer to the military.
You are right, Shamie. We shall wait until a night when it's dry and the moon is
gone.”

“Have you ever seen a Frenchman?” Fergus asked the
soldier.

Shamie sneered.

“It's all talk, isn't it?” Fergus said. “All
the soldiering you ever did was tumbling cabins —”

“I'm thinking of a fish,” Luke interrupted. “Is
your spear ready?”

Fergus looked at her. For days, he had been honing and sharpening the
lister, twisting it slowly over a flame, carefully roasting the point, hardening it.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready, man?”

He nodded.

“Good. Tonight,” she said, “we light the
river.”

TREES OVERHUNG
the river, bare branches creaking in the
wind. Fergus and Luke squatted together in the currach. Bog Boys stood in the shallows
holding line attached to the little boat as Fergus paddled out into the current, hands
dipping in cold water with each pull. At the middle of the stream, the line sprung taut
from the water, dripping, holding them against the current.

Luke held a pair of bog-wood torches, more glow than flame. Light danced
on the black water. In such cold, the fish stayed deep.

He felt the river strumming the taut leather hide of the currach as the
current slipped by her hull. Luke was pale with concern. He took one of the torches from
her.

“Sweep the light, now, nice and slow,” he instructed.
“Keep it close to the water so they feel the light.” Luke leaned out of the
currach and waved her torch tentatively above the surface. “Yes, just like that,
that is the business. Nice and steady.”

Gripping the lister in his right hand, he leaned out and began sweeping
his light over the water. The river dashed under them, endless action, smelling of wood
and rain. The fragile currach hung steady in the stream. He stroked the torch back and
forth.

He sensed the salmon's presence before he saw the flash of silver.
The hairs on his neck prickled. He cocked his elbow, ready to lunge. Luke had seen it
too; she froze. He heard his own breathing. He leaned out harder, risking an upset. He
could no longer see the fish but it was still there, he felt the presence, and he kept
stroking his light just above the water.

The fish came up sudden. He saw its eye glitter in the light and drove the
spear and felt a terse shock of pleasure as it went in. The fish writhing, fighting.
Afraid the current would drag it off the spear, he gripped the shaft in both hands and
levered the salmon out of the river. Luke was screaming. Fergus held
the spear high so the Bog Boys on shore could see the salmon flapping like a
pennant, spraying them with silver water and blood.

They carried the fish back to the camp and he opened it with the bayonet
then scooped the guts out with his hand. He wrapped the fish in wet leaves and placed it
next to the coals to cook. The meat was orange and there was enough to feed them
all.

HE WAS LYING IN HIS
scalpeen thinking of his family when
he felt something tickling his feet.

“Can I sleep with you, Fergus?”

It was Luke. Before he could answer, she had crawled into the
scalpeen.

The shine of her eyes, in her bony little face.

“We ought to have a watch posted,” he said peevishly.
“Anyone could surprise us. You might have been the dragoons.”

“I'll leave, if you want me to.”

“They'll drag us out one night. You'll see.”

“Do you want to ride me?”

Perhaps he did, and what was that about? Pigs did. Sheep did.

“Fergus, I'm an old horse. You needn't be
afraid.”

The smallness of her body punched him so hard he felt his heart skip.

“I'm an old horse, been riding as far as I can
remember.”

Sitting up — there was just room enough — she started
unbuttoning her coat. She shrugged out of it, and spread it on the bracken. Beneath the
coat she wore layers of ragged linen shirts. None of the shirts had buttons, but she had
bound them on with soft straw cord wrapped around and around herself, battening the
layers of gauzy cloth to her body.

He watched her pick at a knot in the cord. “I'm small but you
won't break
me. Here, you must help me.” She handed him
the cord, and he started to unwind it from around her. It took time. She laughed
aloud.

Finally she was unwound. She began pulling off her shirts. The top layers
still had dye but the underlayers were faded and silvery and came to pieces when he
pulled at them.

“It's a kind of hunger, we must feed ourselves,” she
said, kissing his thumb. He felt her hand rest lightly on his hip. Her shoulders were
narrow, her breasts small and sharp. The skin was very soft and pale. Taking his hand
she touched his fingertips to her nipples and the softness of each breast.

“There it is, there it is.” Her eyes closed.

When she let go of his hand, he pulled it back.

She opened her eyes. “Aren't I pretty enough for
you?”

He didn't know how to answer.

“Don't you want to be inside the whirl?”

He said nothing.

“Fergus, there's nothing to be feared. I'm an old horse.
I'll show you.”

Luke untied the string at her waist. Wriggling her hips, she started
pulling down her trousers, and in another moment she was naked. She seized his hand
again and brought it along her throat and to her mouth, nipping his fingers and kissing
his palm then bringing the hand down the ripple of her ribs. Her belly was flat and
hard. He touched the knobs of her hips. He stared at her eyes as his fingers brushed her
bush of sexual hair. She flinched and bit her lip then smiled.

“Go on, there's nothing better, Fergus.”

She opened her legs a little and he touched the gash, and then with his
fingertips wet from inside her he stroked the soft white skin of her thighs. The juicy,
meaty smell. He inhaled it from his fingers. She smelled alive. She began pulling at his
clothes.

“I'm going to seize you and swallow you alive,” she
said. “I'm going to give you all your courage.”

When he was naked he felt raw, light. Her skin was hot to touch. She took
his scarlet penis in her hands and kissed him. When he pushed into her she grunted and
wrapped her legs around his hips and licked his neck and said he was a captain. He felt
a sense of great distance from everything else but this sharp, hard edge of joy.

A FEW MORNINGS LATER
he was awakened by the sound of
shouting. It was very early. Luke had already left the scalp though he could still feel
the impression of her light body curled into his hip.

They were feeding on each other, every night.

How peculiar, the dexterity of passion.

Those things burning inside — he had never contacted such heat
before. Vicious, hungry, wild.

He smiled. He felt alive, living in his skin once more.

A girl gave you yourself.

Hearing more shouting outside, he hurriedly pulled on clothes and crawled
out of the scalp and started walking along the trench, toward the smudge of the morning
fire.

The soldier was on his knees by the fire, blubbing. Luke stood over him,
bayonet in her right hand. A kettle of water was seething.

“What is it, Shamie?” Luke cried. “Was it the horrors?
Were you dreaming?”

Steel blade in her hand; mess of black hair mobbing her shoulders.

Bog Boys who'd come running at the noise stood coughing and
scratching.

“Tell us what it is my love, what has got you so flayed?” Luke
grasped the soldier's hair and snapped his head back. “You bleeding bastard
Shamie, you devil, what are you afraid of telling? What have you done?”

Suddenly Luke thrust the bayonet in the ground and pushed her way out
through the circle of Bog Boys, walking quickly along the trench
toward Shamie's scalp. Fergus called her but she ignored him and broke into a run.
He started after her.

At the entrance to Shamie's scalp she hesitated, looking back at
Fergus. Then, dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled inside. As Fergus came up,
all he could see of her were the black soles of her feet.

She was already backing out of the scalp. Extracting herself, she stood up
brushing her sleeves.

“What is it then?” he asked.

“Oh my. . . there is a storm, Fergus.” She rubbed the legs of
her trousers. Backs of her hands dark from dirt and weather, as if they had been smoked,
cured. “Go see.”

He didn't want to, but he must. He couldn't shy in front of
her.

Getting down on his hands and knees, he began crawling inside. When his
head and shoulders were through the opening, he smelled earth and old smoke. He
couldn't see at first, it was so dim. He touched skin — a leg. Peering
closer, he saw it was Shamie's little maid, Mary Cooley, lying on her stomach on a
pad of bracken and leaves, her skirts rucked up.

The dead lie so close to the ground. They seem so heavy.

He smelled the blood. It was smeared on her buttocks, her stalky
thighs.

He could hear his breath hissing through the sticks, the wands, the turf
that composed the scalp. Yesterday he had watched Mary Cooley fastidiously picking lice
from Shamie's clothes, and wondered that anyone thought the soldier worth such
trouble.

But she was Shamie's girl.

How old? Nine years? Ten?

He rolled her over. Lips and teeth coated with blood. Eyes open. Blood
glued at her chin and throat.

The furry odor of leaf mold was making him sick.

He couldn't feel sorry for her, not really. He didn't feel
angry, or anything strong whatsoever, not like before, not like the cabin burning.

He could hear Luke shouting.

He started backing out of the scalp, snagging his trousers on a wand,
tearing the cloth.

Veins of light in the sky.

Luke was heading back to the fire, and he started after her.

All his feeling was oriented to her, he realized. Their nights had burned
them together. In every situation he would think of her first.

The circle of Bog Boys opened. The soldier was kneeling by the fire and
plaintively rubbing his hands and wrists on the ground.

“Shamie, Shamie, what have you done?” Luke cried.

The Bog Boys shifted on their feet, tense as cattle.

Shamie looked up. “I did kiss her, Luke —”

“He has killed Mary Cooley,” Luke announced to the Bog Boys.
Pulling the bayonet out of the ground, she kicked Shamie, who crumpled up and lay on his
side, motionless, looking up at her.