gns.throwback-第7部分

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　　'Well；　damn　me！'　Jon　Quinn　cursed。　They've　never　done　that　before；　ever。　Usually　the　moment　they　see　me　they　e　running；　hoping　it's　milking　time　and　they　can　get　a　bucket　of　concentrates。　It's　as　though　they're　。　。　。　frightened　of　me；　like　they've　never　seen　me　in　their　lives　before！'
　　
　　'There's　another　one　over　there。'　Sylvia　pointed　towards　a　spreading　oak　tree　some　fifty　yards　away。　Another　goat　stood　beneath　it　where　it　had　been　taking　advantage　of　the　shade；　a　much　bigger　animal　with　long　curved　horns　and　a　straggling　beard；　head　erect；　watching　them；　a　rough　coat；　the　hair　straggling　down　almost　to　its　forelocks。
　　
　　That's　Gilbert；'　Jon　breathed。　'At　least；　I　think　it　is。　He　looks　kind　of。。。　different。　His　coat　shouldn't　be　that　long　and　his　horns　ought　to　be　shorter　too。　e　to　think　of　it；　the　nannies'　coats　looked　much　rougher　than　usual。'
　　
　　'Well；　he's　ing　this　way；'　Sylvia　muttered。　'He　certainly　isn't　afraid。'
　　
　　Jon　tensed；　stepped　back　a　pace。　Something　about　the　male　of　the　species　alarmed　him。　All　billy　goats　had　to　be　treated　with　a　certain　amount　of　respect；　in　much　the　same　way　that　you　never　trusted　a　bull；　no　matter　how　docile　it　was　reputed　to　be。　Usually　Gilbert　was　content　to　browse　the　hedges　and　graze　the　grass；　lived　in　an　old　rusted　corrugated　tin　shelter　down　in　the　dingle；　but　now　he　was　certainly　interested　in　the　two　humans。　Deliberate　steps；　stopping；　sizing　them　up。
　　
　　Jon's　pulses　quickened。　Gilbert　had　certainly　changed。　He　looked　bigger；　too。　Gone　was　his　usual　stare　of　mild　interest　at　humans　infiltrating　his　domain。　His　eyes　slitted；　thick　neck　thrust　forward　arrogantly。
　　
　　'Move　backwards；'　Jon　spoke　softly　out　of　the　corner　of　his　mouth；　did　not　wish　to　alarm　his　panion　unnecessarily。　'He　might　just　be　protecting　his　harem。　Sometimes　billies　are　a　bit　temperamental。'　Don't　take　your　eyes　off　him。
　　
　　Going　backwards　a　step　at　a　time；　Jon　mentally　calculating　the　distance　to　the　gate。　Ten　yards　at　the　most；　no　more。　Sylvia's　hand　clutched　his　arm　and　he　could　sense　her　fear。　For　Christ's　sake　don't　panic。　I　can　smell　my　own　sweat；　and　so　can　Gilbert。　He　knows　I'm　shit…scared。
　　
　　The　big　goat　advanced；　tossed　its　head；　its　eyes　never　once　leaving　the　two　people　who　retreated　before　him；　blazing　sheer　malevolence　at　them；　an　enemy　trespassing　in　his　domain；　a　threat　to　his　supremacy；　the　male　of　the　species　seeking　to　prove　his　prowess　in　battle。
　　
　　Jon　anticipated　the　rush；　saw　those　tremendous　leg　muscles　tensing；　a　springboard　to　thrust　the　beast　on　its　final　rush。　He　had　lost　count　of　the　number　of　yards　to　safety　but　the　time　for　calculations　was　over。　He　wheeled；　grabbed　Sylvia　in　the　same　movement；　half…leaped；　half…ran。　The　aluminium　steel　gate　was　open　no　more　than　two　or　three　feet；　Sylvia　screamed　and　he　knew　just　what　he　had　to　do。　Terror　lent　him　strength；　enough　to　hurl　her　forward；　sent　her　sprawling　in　the　thick　mud　on　the　other　side；　hearing　a　snort　from　the　enraged　goat　who　saw　his　intended　prey　suddenly　escaping；　a　drumming　of　hooves　as　the　death…charge　began。
　　
　　It　was　the　mud　which　saved　them；　the　soft　mire　deep　enough　to　slow　the　billy's　speed；　gave　Jon　those　few　extra　precious　seconds　in　which　to　jump　through　the　narrow　gap；　drag　the　heavy　gate　shut　after　him。
　　
　　A　metallic　clang　as　Gilbert's　horns　struck　the　bars；　buckled　the　middle　one；　became　momentarily　entangled。　A　roar　of　pain　and　fury；　extricating　himself；　banging　the　gate　again。　The　bars　were　buckled　but　they　would　not　snap；　made　to　contain　the　most　devilish　of　fierce　bulls。　Clanging；　echoing　in　the　still　air；　the　frustrated　fury　of　a　killer　beast。
　　
　　Then　Gilbert　sensed　the　futility　of　it　all；　backed　off　a　pace；　stood　watching　the　pair　who　had　tricked　him；　they　should　have　been　dead　by　now；　gored　by　those　sharp　horns；　mutilated；　disembowelled。　Instead；　they　lived。
　　
　　Sylvia　was　trembling；　leaning　her　full　weight　on　Jon；　crying　softly。　'Oh；　my　God；　he　meant　to　kill　us。'
　　
　　'Something's　happened　to　him。1　Jon　watched　the　billy　closely；　noted　the　roughness　of　the　hair　again；　the　size；　the　way　those　eyes　blazed　their　crazy　hatred。　A　man…killer；　a　creature　maddened　beyond　reason；　its　former　domestication　replaced　by　instincts　age…old　in　its　species；　no　longer　the　smallholder's　animal；　it　was　a　goat　gone　feral。　Immobile；　knowing　that　it　could　not　pursue　them　but　at　least　it　had　driven　them　from　its　territory。　They　would　not　return。　It　had　won。
　　
　　'Well　leave　him　to　cool　his　heels　for　a　while。'　Jon　Quinn　was　trembling。　Til　maybe　get　a　rope　on　him　when　I've　got　time。　In　the　meantime　let's　check　the　other　field。　I　bought　some　calves　in　a　fortnight　ago；　three…month…old　Charolais　heifers　and　I'm　a　bit　worried　about　them。　At　a　hundred　and　fifty　quid　each　you　can't　afford　to　lose　'em。'　Except　that　money　doesn't　exist　any　longer。　If　civilisation　ever　gets　going　again　it'll　be　back　to　the　old　barter　system。　//。
　　
　　Along　the　thick　hawthorn　hedge；　following　a　muddy　well…trodden　track；　aware　that　Gilbert　was　keeping　pace　with　them　on　the　other　side。　Occasionally　they　caught　a　flash　of　white　where　the　branches　were　sparse；　but　overall　the　hedge　was　stockproof　and　no　way　would　the　billy　be　able　to　get　at　them。　At　least　Jon　hoped　so；　preferred　not　to　think　about　it　too　much。　He　remembered　the　shotgun　in　the　porch；　almost　suggested　that　they　went　back　for　it　but　it　would　only　serve　to　alarm　Sylvia　still　further。　They　didn't　need　a　gun　now；　that　need　was　past　and　they　were　still　alive。
　　
　　'What's　that？'　She　clutched　at　his　arm　suddenly；　pulled　them　both　to　a　halt。
　　
　　'What's　what？'　He　felt　his　skin　start　to　prickle。
　　
　　Then　he　heard　it；　some　kind　of　bird　noise　ing　from　the　overhead　branches　of　a　clump　of　Scots　firs　which　some　former　owner　of　this　place　had　planted　as　a　windbreak；　dark　green　spiky　foliage；　the　trees　planted　close　and　never　thinned；　forming　an　impenetrable　barrier　above　the　line　where　they　had　once　been　brashed。
　　
　　Listening；　trying　to　identify　the　sounds；　unable　to　place　them　right　away。　Not　the　soft　cooing　of　a　wood…pigeon　digesting　its　early…morning　feed；　not　harsh　enough　for　the　cawing　or　chattering　of　a　corvine。　An　alarm　call　certainly。　Beware；　Man　the　enemy　approaches。　Stay　hidden。
　　
　　Jon　stepped　forward；　Sylvia　still　clinging　to　his　arm。　She　wanted　to　go　back；　maybe　wished　that　she　had　taken　his　advice　and　stayed　behind　in　the　first　place。　Maybe　next　time　she　would　listen；　she　had　learned　a　valuable　lesson　even　if　it　had　almost　cost　her　her　life。
　　
　　Something　above　him　moved；　a　backward　shuffle　along　a　thick　bough　which　took　the　bird　closer　to　the　trunk　of　the　tree；　framed　it　in　a　shaft　of　bright　sunlight　which　somehow　managed　to　penetrate　the　dense　foliage；　the　principal　actor　in　a　who　dunnit　play　spotlighted　for　the　surprise　of　a　hushed　audience；　the　ultimate　climax。
　　
　　Jon　Quinn　saw　a　thick　bunch　of　light…brown　feathers；　a　huddled　form　which　was　both　familiar　and　unfamiliar；　his　brain　slow　to　reach　a　conclusion　because　something　just　wasn't　quite　right。　Not　an　owl　seeking　refuge　from　daylight；　it　could　have　been　a　roosting　pheasant　except　that　pheasants　don't　perch　in　trees　except　during　the　nocturnal　hours。　Its　size　fooled　him　for　a　moment；　and　then　he　knew；　saw　three　or　four　more　birds　close　by　on　the　next　branch。　Warren　hens！
　　
　　'It's　the　missing　hens！'
　　
　　And　again　something　wasn't　quite　as　it　should　be。　Huge　birds　which　had　gained　at　least　a　couple　of　pounds　in　weight　since　he　had　last　collected　the　eggs　in　the　hen…house　a　few　days　ago。　Birds　which　normally　flew　no　more　than　two　or　three　feet　up　on　to　their　perches　now　sat　five　or　six　yards　up　in　the　trees。　Alert；　wary；　no　longer　clucking　a　wele　and　ing　to　him　in　expectation　of　a　handful　of　corn。　Birds　which　were　wild；　feral　like　that　damned　goat　on　the　other　side　of　the　hedge。　You　found　yourself　instinctively　cowering；　throwing　up　your　hands　to　form　a　shield　in　case　they　suddenly　flew　at　you　and　tried　to　peck　your　eyes　out。
　　
　　'They're　。　。　。　not　like　hens；'　Sylvia　Atkinson　muttered　and　clung　on　to　Jon's　arm。　'They　look　。　。　。　sort　of　wild'
　　
　　It　was　true。　The　birds　on　the　branches　above　regarded　them　with　hostile　red…eyed　glares。　Their　plumage　was　no　longer　the　sleek　light…brown　feathers　belonging　to　the　Warren　variety；　instead　thick　and　ruffled；　matted　with　dried　mud；　evidence　of　scaly…leg　on　their　legs。　Bewilderment；　edging　back　into　the　foliage；　clucking　softly　in　alarm。
　　
　　'They're　scared　to　hell；'　Jon　said。　'So　scared　they　don't　even　recognise　me。　Like　those　goats。'
　　
　　But　there　was　more　to　it　than　that。　The　poultry　had　undergone　some　kind　of　drastic　physical　change；　lost　their　accustomed　domestication　during　the　short　time　since　he　had　last　seen　them；　were　virtually　game　birds　of　the　wilds。
　　
　　'Well；　they're　not　going　to　e　down　while　we're　here；'　he　sighed；　'and　we　can't　waste　any　more　time　standing　here　looking　at　them。'　They're　repulsive；　frightening；　they　won't　ever　e　back　to　the　buildings　and　I　don't　want　them　to。　'Let's　go　and　take　a　look　at　the　calves　in　the　other　field。'
　　
　　He　didn't　want　to　go　and　look…Right　now　he　would　have　seized　upon　any　excuse　to　retrace　their　steps　back　to　the　house；　return　to　the　safety　of　that　claustrophobic　cellar。　It　would　have　been　only　too　easy。　But　he　would　not　be　able　to　forgive　himself　if　he　did　that；　not　just　because　he　had　yielded　to　sheer　cowardice　but　because　some　kind　of　morbid　curiosity　drove　him　on。　Everything　out　here　had　changed；　even　the　fresh　growth　of　grass　and　foliage　had　a　different　look　about　it；　a　coarser　tough　texture；　throwing　off　Man's　concerted　efforts　at　cultivation；　the　use　of　sophisticated　husbandry。　A　reversion　to　primitive　wildness。　He　shivered；　held　Sylvia's　hand　tightly　and　wished　again　that　he　had　brought　the　shotgun　along。　Next　time　he　would。
　　
　　Walking　slowly　now；　eyes　scanning　the　ground　ahead　of　him。　The　belt　of　firs　was　petering　out；　the　hawthorn　hedge　on　their　right　tall　and　straggling。　It　had　always　been　rough；　he　had　been　meaning　to　lay　it　ever　since　they　had　e　to　live　here　but　it　was　one　of　those　jobs　which　he　had　never　got　round　to