Boy on the Edge (11 page)

Emily handed them a bowl of goulash each and they started to eat.

There was a mild breeze from the south; white, puffy clouds glided across the blue sky, their shadows moving lazily up the low mountains in the north. The breeze was salty and warm and carried the spicy scent of heather and thyme from the lava all around them.

Henry wanted the moment to last forever; it was a happy moment indeed. They ate in silence, and the little boys ran off to the smithy to play or work on their huts. Emily collected the bowls into the empty pot and gave the older boys a smile.

“Take it easy now, boys,” she said. “Just remember to fetch the cows on time, Henry.” Then she walked to the house. John lay down in the warm sand on the knoll and stretched out his arms and legs.

“I feel like taking a nap,” he said.

Henry sat still with a smile playing on his lips, looking across the lava field, watching the clouds glide overhead, unable to say anything. He was just happy. Happy.

“A shithole, that’s what it is,” John murmured. “Before too long I’m out of here,” he went on. “Far away. Far, far away. And when that day comes, I will need your help, you know; distracting the reverend somehow, so he doesn’t notice anything until it’s too late. You think you can do that?”

Henry wasn’t sure what John meant; his voice had become cold and dark, a confidential whisper, and there was no joy in it any longer. But he had to nod in agreement. What John meant by “help,” Henry had no idea.

“It won’t happen just yet,” John said in a low voice, still lying flat on his back, his gleaming green eyes shut, his noble face darkened in the shadow of a passing cloud. “Not until my friend arrives.”

Henry felt something cold in his belly, like he’d swallowed an ice cube. He cleared his throat.

“Friend?” he said.

“Yeah, Mark, my best friend,” John replied with a sly smile on his face. “Now there’s a
real
devil for your reverend,” he said, chuckling. “He can fool anyone, anywhere. He was supposed to be on the bus with me, but you know what? He ran off, just like that; the policeman looked the other way for a second, and he just disappeared, like he’d vaporized. He’s a cunning one.” John grinned. “I know where he went, and why. But that’s a secret. When he’s done what he has to do, he’ll let himself be caught, and then they’ll bring him here. You’ll see.”

Henry stood up slowly. John raised his head a little and squinted his eyes.

“I can trust you then, right?” he said.

Henry nodded. Then he turned away, limped down the knoll, and headed toward the yard. The ice he’d felt in his stomach had melted, only to reveal a huge black stone, formed like a fist, rolling about inside him with every limping step he took.

Two days later the yellow Volvo drove back into the yard. Reverend Oswald stepped out of the car along with a thin boy. He hunched his head forward but glanced quickly around the yard, as if he was expecting attack from every direction.

He wore black army boots, the shoelaces untied as if he had put them on in a hurry. He didn’t have a suitcase or a bag of clothes or anything of that sort. The only thing he’d brought with him was a small harmonica in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Everything changed with the arrival of Mark. He was set to work with John in the rock mine, but Mark never wanted to do the same thing for too long. When he got bored of breaking rocks and carrying rocks and piling rocks, he just gave up and started playing his harmonica and dancing around like an idiot. They laughed a lot, John and Mark, and they were always together, hiding behind the smithy, smoking, for Mark had somehow managed to smuggle a lot of cigarettes in with him.

One day Henry was pushing the wheelbarrow toward the dung heap behind the barn, when he noticed the two of them there. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were laughing wickedly, lighting up their cigarettes, spitting, coughing, and grinning. They seemed to be plotting like devious mercenaries who had sneaked into the enemy’s camp and were preparing to blow it all up. They didn’t even notice him, or at least they didn’t seem to. Henry imagined they were planning something sinister, perhaps setting the barn on fire? With the reputation they had between them, anything was possible.

Henry herded the cows eastward, thinking bitterly of the friend he’d almost had, but had lost. In the field, the ears of the longhaired grass, which moved in the soft breeze, were growing darker. Emily had mentioned that soon the Brute would come with his old tractor to mow the field. She even said that Henry might be allowed to mow the grass, as he was the oldest boy on the farm.

Thinking about that made him feel much better.

The workdays had been scheduled so everybody knew his place in the big scheme of things. The digging group continued shoveling the sand out of the foundation hole on the knoll, west of the farmyard, and a little farther west John and Mark hewed their crowbars into the lava slab, breaking off rocks for the foundation of the church itself.

Once the digging group finally reached the bedrock below, there was a celebration with bread and jam and fruit juice. Then the digging group became the foundation builders, and began to carry the rocks from the quarry and stack them into the hole.

Two carpenters arrived from the village to oversee the work and prepare for the building of the church.

But Henry had his own duties to think of.

He woke early to fetch the cows for first milking. The mornings were still, the sky was clear, and the scent of the vegetation in the lava field filled the air. By now Henry knew every rock, every stream, and every mossy knoll along the way. It gave him comfort and a feeling of security. The cows greeted him with a friendly purr, standing by the gate in the field, relieved and glad to see him. He couldn’t help the strange happy tingling reappearing in his stomach; they were his friends, the cows, his true friends. They didn’t demand anything from him, but gave him everything they had to give: their gentle presence, their devotion to him, obedience. It filled him with pride that they were his herd, and his alone. They would never abandon him or betray him, never nurse an ill thought about him or find him at fault in any way. They loved him exactly as he was.

Back at the cowshed, each cow walked straight into her stall, glancing over to Noah, who mooed a masculine greeting toward them, curling his upper lip in a wide smile. The easygoing ritual of milking was the best time of the day. He tied up their tails and sat on the small stool beside each cow, washed their udders with a clean rag soaked in hot water, then put some udder grease on the teats and squeezed them, two teats at a time, in a steady rhythm, resting his forehead on the cows’ bellies, listening to the pleasing sound of the milk hitting the sides of the iron bucket.

Milking felt almost like sleeping, for when he emptied the last bucket into the milk container he was completely relaxed, as if he had just woken up from a long, peaceful sleep. He filled the home container and carried it toward the house. Halfway across the yard he heard a low rumble on the road. He stopped and watched as the Brute arrived in his tractor. It was dark green with silver letters on the side. Henry’s heart sped up and he hurried to take the milk inside. He returned as fast as he could to find the Brute attaching the mower to the tractor.

Henry stood beside the Brute, watching his every move as he went about his business with a wrench and a can of grease. Henry was determined to learn quickly what he needed to know, for he couldn’t wait to master the art of controlling this machine, to feel the power of the engine obeying his every command.

He wanted to ask the Brute what he was doing and why, but the words were stuck in his throat. So he held his breath for a while, waiting patiently for the Brute to tell him to step up into the driver’s seat, where he would show him how to go about driving it. He couldn’t wait to try, couldn’t wait to drive that thing, smelling the diesel fumes, listening to the roaring engine under his firm control.

But it didn’t happen like that.

Reverend Oswald walked toward the tractor followed by John and Mark. The Brute gave them a short lesson and, after a little while, they rode the tractor out of the yard, following the Brute in his red pickup, the mower elevated into the air with its hundreds of sharp spikes. They took the road eastward, into the sunshine, dust dancing around the wheels to the tune of Mark’s harmonica and the rumble of the diesel engine.

They had mowed half the big field by the time Henry herded the cows homeward for the evening milking. The ground was stark yellow and the fallen grass lay in dark green bundles, circle after circle on the field.

There was a strong breeze from the ocean and small white clouds galloped across the blue sky. Their shadows moved fast over the moss in the lava, gently stroking the spines of the cows before they hurried up the red pumice slopes. The wind, fresh and salty, carried with it the laughter from the field. The cows moved slowly, like a fully loaded freight train, and Henry followed, sweating from the walk, for his leg was in pain. The cows waded across the swamp in the field and the wind caught the splashing water; their hides glittered with the spray, which sprinkled him in the face. It cooled him off. He wiped his face, dried his eyes, and sniffed. His nose ran constantly in the summer warmth, but it had been a long time since he’d had this burning in his eyes. Maybe it was the salt in the wind.

The two boys were fooling around in the field, throwing fresh grass at each other, fighting, cursing, and laughing. Henry realized, with a sinking feeling that he’d been hiding from all day, that he wasn’t going to get the chance to try the tractor this summer.

Maybe Reverend Oswald let John and Mark do everything because they were more miserable than he was, because they had more demons to deal with within themselves. Henry had not broken the law, gotten drunk, or stolen anything. He looked away and limped faster behind the cows, seriously regretting that he hadn’t committed any decent crime.

The next morning the reverend told Henry he would have to take over in the rock mine, now that the two boys were busy mowing and harvesting. After finishing the morning milking, he had to limp toward the rock mine and slave there the whole day.

Henry felt utterly abandoned and alone, clenching his jaws as he thrust the crowbar into the rough slab, breaking off chunks of rock, one after the other.

He thought he heard the little boys whisper and giggle at him. They glanced at him with a sarcastic glint in their eyes when they came to collect the rocks and muttered as they scampered away.

All his little pleasures were ruined. Milking, herding the cows, and cleaning the dung canal became a strained effort. He had dared to hope for a friend, but instead he was an outcast.

After wrestling with Noah until he saw red, his fury finally subsided. When he rested his head against the bull’s crown, Noah purred in a deep gentle tone as if he was telling him that one day everything would be all right.

But Henry doubted it.

A whole week with the crowbar in his hands and Henry was about to explode. He had produced a huge pile of rocks, so the boys had more than enough, at least for a while. Henry abandoned the rock mine and stole away to the sea cliffs, clambering down into the cave. He sat there all day long, singing with the surf, watching the birds glide on their broad wings past the mouth of the cave. He could have stayed there the whole night. When he finally got up, it wasn’t because he was hungry or anything, but he saw by the sun that it was time to fetch the cows. He returned the next day, once he’d led the cows back to the field, and again the day after.

In his heart, he hoped that perhaps Emily would notice his absence and ask him what was wrong, why he broke the rules. But she didn’t notice; perhaps she didn’t care for him anymore. And the reverend was far too busy in his office to notice that the cowherd wasn’t fulfilling his duties in the rock mine.

He had begun to wonder if the reverend was right, after all; that there really was a God and a devil constantly fighting for possession of each human soul. And perhaps some people were marked for the devil from the beginning, as the reverend had said. The devil’s children, as he’d called them, are those who were conceived in lust, not love, and had to struggle and fight the demons that possessed them so their souls could be saved from the torments of hell.