Crossing the Border

Crossing the Border

The land felt so alive. Compared to the famine-ravaged south, the men gazed from their trotting horses at the fields and shrubbery that lined the path. The corn didn’t hang limp in blackened patches, it fluttered vibrantly in the afternoon breeze. The cattle that dotted the grasslands far to the left and right were full, weighty, and healthy. Beyond ripe for butchery. Even the air seemed unusually fresh this far north, the salty aura of Kinnagoe Bay sweeping around them, rustling the horse's manes and blowing the men’s hair into wild shapes.

‘It’s all fun and games for those men', a raspy voice from the rear of the group. ‘It’s life and death for us lot, ain’t it?’ 

No one replied. They knew the gravity of their predicament and opted to keep silent, enjoying the scenery while they could. John Donaghey led the group at the front, his horse trotting a few lengths ahead of the rest. He sat silent on its back, examining his right hand. The skin around his knuckles was red and swollen, his fingers curling inwards towards his palms. He tried to stretch them out, giving his hand and wrist a shake, but a sharp pain shot along his forearm, burning deep. It was broken, shattered beyond repair in the absence of a skilled doctor. He clenched his fist anyway, enduring the searing pain with an expressionless gaze. He squeezed his hand into a ball, the knuckles rolling loosely around inside like dice in a cup. It hurt. But he had passed the point of caring. He had come North to earn money, with which he’d planned to buy grains, bread, and freshwater. If things had gone accordingly, he’d even have had enough to pay that cunt of a druid to cast another blessing on their land. Not that he believed in that nonsense, but with the famine tightening its grip on their land, he was willing to try anything.

         ‘Has anyone got anything left? A pocketful, even?’ the raspy voice came again from his rear, and again it was answered with total silence.

         The horses trot by a farm which sat on the edge of a slow-moving river, and the workers in the field stood with their scythes by their sides, watching the southerners pass. 

‘Keep looking’, John whispered to himself. ‘Keep looking at us.’ He shuffled restlessly on his horse, feeling a tempered heat rise in his head now. He glanced towards the men in the field again, holding their shining tools, and pulled his steed to a halt. With great agony, he threw his leg over the horse's back and dropped to his feet on the ground. Trying to hide the twisting, thudding pain in his ribs, he marched back to the rest of the pack. The rest of the men pulled their horses to a stop.

‘Everything alright, John?’ Said Louis, a haggard middle-aged man who led the rest of the pack. 

‘Rifle.’

‘For what?’

The field workers were adjacent to them now, a stone's-throw away from the halted group. Still, they stared. Half a dozen of them, scythes in hand, just staring. John cast a surprised glance towards Louis, who should’ve known better than to question the leader. Instead of adding fuel to the fire, Louis shook his head, and reached for the Winchester which was slung over his shoulder. 

       As Louis leant down to hand the rifle to John, he pleaded. ‘Not the young one on the right. He’s barely ten years old, John’.

John took the rifle from his hands, refusing to break eye contact with his fellow villageman. ‘Tell me what to do. One more time’.

Louis held his hands up guiltily, and watched John turn towards the field workers. They dropped their equipment at their feet now, and had begun retreating towards a great stone farmhouse which sat on a hill behind them. John shouldered the rifle, gazing down the barrel at the dispersing figures. 

Move, kid, diagonal. Duck, roll. Anything, thoughts raced through Louis’ head as his eyes were fixed on the young lad to the right. 

    John breathed heavily, three times, four. On his exhale, he held his breath, swaying the gun from target to target until he found the slowest, and pulled the trigger.

      The rest of the southerners had refused to look, turning their heads westward. But the crack of the rifle sent their hearts racing nonetheless. 

      Louis watched, his eyes still fixed on the young boy, as the workers scrambled across the field, kicking up grass and dust behind them. A heavy-set man face-planted to the left of the young boy, hitting the soil with a thunderous boom and skidding to a rest. Thank you, Louis thought, and closed his eyes. Thank you. The young boy, his legs and arms flailing in panic, didn’t even look back. The figures shrunk and scattered in the sun's glare, before disappearing into the house.

      Smoke hissed from the barrel of the rifle, and John turned, handing it back to Louis. The men were silent, watching the wounded worker’s chest rise and fall on the ground as he pulled his last few grating breaths through his lips. Each of them knew that a careless comment would be the death of them. A few of them shuffled uneasily, and the horses shifted their hooves underneath. John walked back to his horse, which sat alone at the front of the pack. Hauling himself onto its back, John gripped the reins, and they were off again along the beaten track. 

The rifle barrel was still hot as it pressed and tapped against the back of Louis’ neck. The horses stepped into the river, and the current moved slowly and frigid across their legs. In a line, the men traversed the shallow water, rallying their horses on the opposite bank as their hooves slipped and groped for purchase in the mud.  

      Louis' eyes were fixed on the back of John’s head. A great, thick skull set solidly between two hulking shoulders. Two bullets, he thought. The first, he figured, would slouch the giant forward on his horse, probably leaving him semi-conscious. His ears would ring, his vision blurred. The second would be the killshot. It’d wisp through his cranium, his forehead hitting the nearest tree trunk before his body had time to slide off the steed. That’d be the end of a lot of problems. Louis could imagine the village now in the absence of John, not enjoying his leave, but rather spending it in a state of mounting anxiety over his return. Wouldn’t they be better off without him? His wife and daughter surely would. Their swollen lips and bruised eye sockets would merely be yellowing by now. What a privilege, to have three days free from abuse. What a fucking privilege. The gun, strapped to his back, continued to tap on his neck as the horse trotted along. The barrel was cooling now, the smell of gunpowder subsiding. Two shots. Maybe one. He cast a look back towards the rest of the men, who trotted single file, looking across the windswept landscape or hanging their heads in a half-slumber. When he was sure that no-one was looking ahead, he leaned his hand down into the saddlebag, rattling through a pair of bullets. Two left. He looked back towards the men now, all still oblivious to his thoughts—all but one. Oran, the youngest of the clan, stared through the bobbing heads from the back of the pack, and met eyes with Louis. Before Louis could redirect his gaze, Oran nodded his head. He knew. Louis pulled the two bullets from the bag and dropped them into his shirt pocket, turning back to face the road. John trotted ahead as before, slowly, sternly. Unknowingly. Louis breathed in deep, his stomach knotting. Two shots.