The Law of Dreams (27 page)

“I said you'd be eating meat every day in England,”
Muldoon told her.

“You did,” she agreed.

THE BLUE
horse filled out. New drafts of animals came
in, but never any with the bones as good as his. The galls were slowly healing. Feeding
on oats twice a day, his coat had taken on a shine. Fergus soaked the cuts on his legs
with brine, applied salve, then wrapped them in clean rags overnight. He persuaded the
farrier to replace two missing shoes. They were tipping sixteen, eighteen, twenty trucks
a day. The blue was a puller, strongest on the contract, but the other tip boys, fearing
his evil temper, left him to Fergus.

The better he fed and cared for the blue, the meaner the horse became.
Going out in the field in the mornings with a handful of hay, Fergus could sense the
animal's distrust as it backed away from him, snorting and pawing, slashing his
tail. Captured then led inside, fed and watered, he tried to bite at every opportunity.
Each time they ran a tip, he could feel the horse's anger uncoiling. Sometimes he
thought the blue was going to dash off the embankment and carry him along but at the
last moment the horse always let himself be pulled away.

ONE SATURDAY NIGHT
in Mr. Murdoch's camp, Muck
Muldoon was battling a tramp called Greaves for a prize of one sovereign, put up by the
contractor.

All the tip boys wanted Muldoon to defeat the navvy.

“Muck is our boy,” McCarty said. “Greaves, who's
heard of Greaves? A tramp, a shifter.”

Three hundred navvies formed a hollow square in the muddy street outside
the contractor's beer shop. There were no ropes; four tip boys with torches stood
marking the corners of the ring.

In his corner Muck studied his gold watch, then slipped it into his coat
pocket and took off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, handing the clothes to Molly. In the
opposite corner Greaves had already stripped off his shirt and was slapping himself
briskly against the cold.

At the sound of the timer's bell, the two boxers approached the
center of the ring warily, Greaves massive and yellow, Muldoon wiry and dark, lean and
agile as any horse boy.

They touched knuckles, stepping back as if they'd been stung.
Muldoon began dancing around the ring, darting in to throw little hectoring jabs at the
navvy's face, like a bird stabbing nectar from a flower. Greaves seemed
bewildered, shaking his head, spitting blood from a split lip. He began working Muldoon
steadily into a corner, ignoring the jabs, pressing ahead stolidly. Once
he had Muldoon trapped, Greaves stood and fought like a mountain.
Muck kept jabbing but his quick, light punches didn't seem to have any impact on
Greaves, who was working the ganger's head and ears with high, hard blows that
must have hurt his own hands.

But Muck stayed on his feet, and Greaves was visibly tiring, slowing. When
the tramp dropped his hands for a second, Muldoon quickly placed a jab below each eye.
Greaves threw up his hands to cover his face and Muck hooked him once on the belt then
took the opportunity to escape the corner.

The crowd was breathing steam that floated and spun in the gaslight. He
could see Molly yelling for Muldoon.

If men hit so hard for so long what is left? What is inside? Where is your
spirit? Where is your voice?

Greaves suddenly caught the ganger with a blow that knocked Muck on his
rump, but he sprang up while the crowd was still roaring. Both men had foam dripping
from their lips. The tramp had open cuts on both cheeks; the skin below his eyes was
puffy. Muldoon was unmarked except for a trickle of blood from his right ear.

Suddenly he stopped prancing. Taking position at the center of the ring,
he beckoned Greaves, taunting the tramp to stand and fight, toe-to-toe, mantoman. This
was what the navvies wanted to see and they began howling at Greaves to meet the
challenge.

Greaves approached warily.

Once they were toe-to-toe, both men began driving their punches. They
fought like two engines — slamming, stamping; not really human.

The sight of two men using themselves brutally, blood and spit flying from
their mouths, was wildly stimulating to the crowd, cawing like crows.

The nearness of death provokes. The smell of blood. Violence drives you
from yourself.

Suddenly Muldoon fell to his knees. Greaves stopped punching and stepped
back, nearly tripping over his feet. Blood streamed from a cut on Muldoon's scalp,
drenching his eyes, blinding him. On his knees Muck was still swinging wildly, punching
at air while Greaves paced back and forth and the crowd roared. Molly stepped into the
ring and came up behind Muck with a towel.

It seemed the fight was over. Greaves had retreated to his corner, where
his friends were rubbing his shoulders while he gulped from a jug of beer.

Fergus watched Molly clean blood from Muldoon's eyes while Greaves
stood with arms raised, acknowledging cheers.

Men were turning away, going inside the beer shop, when the crowd gave a
roar — Muldoon was on his feet again, roaming the ring, feinting punches and
barking at Greaves, who stood with hands on hips, chest rising and falling.

Something terrible in the scene, desperate, and something you
understood.

We are all trying to break out of something.

Shrugging, Greaves threw away his towel and started into the ring after
Muck. The ganger wouldn't let himself be cornered. Weaving and ducking, he dodged
each cumbersome punch, skipping around the ring with the tramp rumbling after him like a
loaded truck.

Then Muldoon made a stand at the center of the ring once more, and
beckoned Greaves.

The tramp closed in and uncoiled a punch, but Muldoon dodged it. As
Greaves stumbled, thrown off by his own momentum, Fergus saw Muldoon fling a cloud of
dust or ashes into the tramp's face.

Roaring in pain, Greaves raised both hands to his eyes and Muldoon landed
two jabs at his kidneys, then two more under his eyes when the tramp dropped his hands.
Then Muck got behind him, leapt onto his back, and began punching his ear and clawing at
his face while the tramp staggered around the ring trying to throw him off.

Fergus saw Molly jumping up and down in the corner, screaming for
Muck.

Didn't she think the violence applied to her?

He's a killer, don't you see? He could kill you. Easy he
could.

When Greaves stopped, Muldoon knelt on top of him, hammering his back,
neck, and hip until the bell rang and men surged forward and dragged the ganger off.

They washed Muck down with a bucket of beer sluiced over his head. Fergus
watched him accept his prize from Mr. Murdoch, who clapped him on the shoulder and said
he was the roaring boy, the lion of the line, and a credit to the Milesians.

They were throwing water over the prostrate tramp,
Greaves.

Men like a rampage.

FERGUS AND MCCARTY
walked up the path with Molly. She
was carrying a bucket of beer, and Muldoon stumbled after them, muttering and clutching
the sovereign in his fist.

“What was it you passed him?” Fergus asked.

“Whatever are you talking about, boy?” She grinned at
McCarty.

“When you were in the ring. What he threw.”

“All's fair,” said McCarty. He exchanged a glance with
Molly, both smirking.

“In France the Scotch navvies would carry iron spikes into the
ring,” McCarty said. “What's a little sanding? Old Muck won clean
enough, for a railway bout.”

THEY CARRIED
the laundry kettle inside, and Muck stepped
in. She began washing the blood off him while he stood docile.

“What's wrong with Muck?”

“Punchy. That fellow put some hurt on him.” After washing him
down she rubbed him dry and settled him on a stool in front of the fire. Using
Muck's steel razor, she carefully shaved a patch on his scalp and began cleaning
and dressing the gash.

“Ashes,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“Ashes I give him. To taste on his tongue. When he's lagging.
The bitter sparks him up — there you are, hold still, Muck. You're a broken
egg.”

“To toss in Greaves' eyes, you mean.”

“What do you suppose a bout is, after all, Fergus? Do you think
it's country feast, a dance to the moon?”

“A fight's to win.” McCarty spoke without looking up
from the newspaper he had spread open on the table.

“That's right,” she agreed.

“Perhaps you want ashes then. For you don't seem ever to
win,” Fergus said.

Molly ignored him, carefully winding a cotton bandage around and around
Muck's head.

McCarty looked up then went back to his paper.

A girl was a mystery. You wanted to protect her, also destroy her a
little. You wanted her to ruin you in exactly the same way.

THE WELSH SABBATH WAS ENFORCED
by magistrates and no
work could be performed along the line. Even the beer shop was shut. The navvies and the
tips spent the day sleeping, or drinking at blind pigs — shanties where the women
sold beer. Others went roaming the country looking for fresh eggs. A few men with guns
went out poaching.

It was his second or third Sunday in the camp. Molly gave them black sweet
tea at breakfast, and in the middle of the morning Fergus and McCarty were still at the
table, eating wheat bread and honey. Molly was piling up clothes for a wash. Muck and
Peadar had dragged the bench outside where they sat in the watery sunshine smoking their
pipes and drinking beer.

“Who feeds the horses on Sunday?” Fergus asked, thinking of
the blue standing out in the barren field.

“Feed the nags? No one, I suppose. Sunday's the day of
rest.”

“I'm going down, then.”

“They aren't your creatures,” Molly said.
“You're not responsible.”

“Feed bins are locked,” McCarty reminded him.
“They're always afraid of gypsies stealing. Muck keeps the key.”

“I'll get it from Muck, then.”

“He won't give it to you.”

“Can you get it?” Fergus asked Molly.

She shook her head. “He keeps keys on his belt — he'd
murder me.”

“Then I'll drive them out along the road.
It's free grass along the ditches. I'll give them a graze. Will you come
with me?” he asked McCarty.

“I'm going to sleep all day and mend my clothes. I seen enough
of nags.”

“Let it be, Fergus,” Molly said.

“I can't let it be.”

THE CAMP
felt desolate on a Sunday morning. It seemed
abandoned, and the stillness made him think of Cappaghabaun. Were Carmichael's
cattle surviving the winter up there without hay for their browse, with no one driving
them from pasture to pasture?

Browsing cabin wreckage. Rotten potatoes were cattle feed, perhaps.

What wild things had seeded over his plot?

When ground lay open, you never knew what would take.

He passed a few lumps of men lying where they'd collapsed the night
before, on the spree. Asleep not dead, but they may as well have been.

It doesn't take very long for a body to start looking as though it
belongs to the ground.

You will stay on your feet. Keep moving. Those are the rules.

THE HORSES
in the field looked dazed. He tried the feed
bins but they were bolted and locked. Searching the racks of harness, he found one soft
rope halter. There was some loose hay, and he grabbed a handful and went out to capture
the blue.

The horse was hungry and came to him easy. Slipping the halter on, Fergus
led him out through the gate. “I'm going on your back. You won't like
it but that's how it'll be.” Climbing the fence, he threw his leg over
before the animal had a chance to shy. He gripped with his knees and kept the halter
loose while the horse angrily tossed his head.

“There it is . . . easy now. Not so bad, is it?” Kicking heels
lightly, he started the blue walking down the road, and looked back at the gate
he'd left open. Horses hated being driven; why wouldn't they? But they would
follow one another, follow their curiosity and instinct for companionship.

He smiled as he watched the tip horses ambling through the gate.

* * *

HALF A MILE
along there was a stream flowing under the
road in an iron culvert. The water on either side tasted fresh, and there was good thick
grass along the ditches.

He stretched out on the blue's back while the horses cropped
peacefully. It was like being back on the booley — feeling the sun on his face and
watching the sky, spinning himself into childish, self-conscious trances. That was
before he'd understood the world existed, firm and real, careless of him or
anyone.

It was as if he'd spent all that time on the booleys asleep.

Tramps stopped to drink at the stream and light their pipes and ask the
news of Mr. Murdoch's contract.

“Are they hiring on the cutting?”

“How many killed so far?”

“Any fever in the shanties?”

He felt the slow, sweet calmness of the world that afternoon. Tramps lay
down in the grass, content in the sunshine, puffing their pipes, and it didn't
seem the same world where girls died choking on their own blood.

Watching over grazing horses allowed a feeling of peace.

All you are is hunger.

SNOW LIFTED
from the flanks of the Welsh mountains. Some
days the wind came off the sea tasting soft and wet, and he could smell grass
growing.

The next Sunday, he met Mr. Murdoch coming along the road, riding a pony
too small for him.

Pulling up, the contractor eyed the horses grazing. “Well, man, are
those my nags?”