gns.throwback-第7章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


d；　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。　Gaping　holes　had　been　plugged　with　cut…off　tin　sheets　or　pieces　of　left…over　wire…netting；　improvisation　sufficing；　but　there　came　a　time　when　you　realised　that　you　were　fighting　a　losing　battle。　This　place　had　got　in　a　shit…awful　state。　Now　it　seemed　that　it　had　won。
　　
　　Another　gate；　a　loop　of　binder　twine　holding　it　to　the　rough…hewn　post。　Jon　Quinn　rested　a　hand　that　trembled　slightly　on　the　top　bar；　had　to　make　a　conscious　effort　to　look　into　the　field　beyond。
　　
　　Charolais　calves；　four　of　them　grazing　just　inside　the　tract　of　rough　pasture。　He　knew　they　would　not　be　normal；　steeled　himself　to　run　a　glance　over　them。　Coffee…coloured　beasts　but　their　smooth　coats　no　longer　had　that　silky　eye…pleasing　look　about　them。　Rough　and　mangy；　plastered　with　mud　where　they　had　chosen　to　spend　the　night　out　rather　than　return　to　the　shelter　in　the　far　corner。　Nervous；　ears　flicking；　sensing　an　enemy；　as　wary　as　highland　deer　even　before　they　saw　the　two　humans　by　the　gate。
　　
　　Heads　tossed；　hind　legs　kicked　in　the　air；　and　then　they　were　stampeding；　a　headlong　flight　in　the　opposite　direction；　bellowing　their　terror　as　they　ran。
　　
　　'I　thought　as　much；'　Jon　muttered；　clutching　the　gate　with　both　hands。　'It　was　too　much　to　hope　for　。。。　hey　。　。　。'　his　eyes　narrowed　and　he　felt　his　pulses　beginning　to　pound　again。
　　
　　'What　is　it；　Jon？　For　God's　sake　what's　wrong　now？'
　　
　　'Four　of　them；'　he　whispered；　'but　there　should　be　five。
　　
　　Calves　invariably　stay　together。　We'd　better　go　and　look　for　the　fifth。'
　　
　　'No！'　She　was　pulling　at　him　now；　using　every　ounce　of　her　puny　strength　to　drag　him　back。　'It　isn't　safe　to　go　in　there。　I　don't　want　to。　They　might　attack　us；　like　that　goat　did'。
　　
　　'He　was　a　billy；　the　male　of　the　species。'　Jon　did　his　best　to　smile　reassuringly；　knew　that　he　made　a　hash　of　it　because　he　felt　his　lower　lip　trembling。　'The　nannies　didn't　bother　us　so　there's　no　reason　why　these　heifers　should。　We　don't　have　any　bull　calves　and　these　are　only　youngsters　anyway；　no　more　than　three　months　old。　You　can　see　how　scared　they　are。　I'm　going；　but　you　can　stop　here；　if　you　want。'
　　
　　'I'm　ing　with　you。'　She　began　to　climb　after　him；　her　torn　overalls　snagging　on　the　rusted　bars　of　the　gate。　No　way　was　she　going　to　be　left　here　alone。　That　mad　billy　goat　was　only　in　the　adjoining　field　and　suppose　he　found　a　weak　part　in　the　straggling　hedge。　And　those　hens　in　the　trees　behind；　they　were　wild　and　fierce　like　birds　of　prey。　Sylvia　Atkinson　was　determined　not　to　let　Jon　Quinn　out　of　her　sight。
　　
　　The　fields　sloped　down　to　a　dip　that　was　hidden　from　their　view。　Uneven　tussocks　that　had　had　the　butt　grazed　out　of　them　by　generations　of　livestock　over　the　years；　sour　ground　that　would　never　be　lush　again　without　reseeding；　but　that　wasn't　Jon's　way；　a　natural　pastureland　was　his　ideal　but　right　now　there　was　nothing　natural　about　anything。
　　
　　The　four　calves　had　run　down　into　the　dip；　splashed　their　way　through　a　patch　of　boggy　ground　and　were　cantering　up　the　other　side。　They　stopped；　turned　back　to　look。　Calmer；　moving　away　at　a　walk。　Uneasy　but　their　panic　had　subsided　now　that　they　had　put　some　distance　between　themselves　and　the　intruders　in　their　field。
　　
　　Jon　slowed　his　pace；　he　did　not　want　to　alarm　the　calves　any　more　than　was　necessary。　Beyond　his　own　boundary　hedge　the　land　sloped　sharply　upwards；　Bill　Gwyther's　fields；　always　dotted　with　peacefully　grazing　sheep　except　during　the　winter　months　when　the　flock　was　moved　lower　down　close　to　the　farm　buildings。　The　sheep　were　still　there　but　today　they　were　huddled　together　in　a　corner；　a　bunch　of　plaintively　bleating　frightened　animals　that　sought　safety　in　numbers。
　　
　　What　the　hell's　got　into　them；　Jon　thought；　they　can't　even　see　us　from　up　there。　Something's　frightened　them。　Up　above　Gwyther's　land　the　skyline　terminated　in　a　line　of　dark　even　firs；　the　beginning　of　some　five　hundred　acres　of　Forestry　mission　woods　that　followed　along　the　ridge　and　down　over　the　other　sides。　Artificial　woodlands；　symmetry　that　was　not　consistent　with　this　wild　landscape；　thousands　of　rows　of　trees　with　only　the　odd　self…set　seedlings　out　of　place。　A　dark　forbidding　world　where　it　never　got　properly　light；　no　undergrowth　able　to　grow　below　the　branches。　You　could　get　lost　up　there　if　you　forgot　your　bearings。　A　world　of　silence　virtually　devoid　of　wildlife。
　　
　　That　fifth　calf　could　not　have　got　out　of　the　field；　Jon　was　sure　of　that。　Only　this　last　spring　he　had　blocked　up　every　patch　of　sparse　growth　in　the　hedges；　unsightly　but　effective。　It　had　to　be　down　in　the　hollow；　possibly　stuck　in　the　cloying　mud　or　else　just　after　water。　Either　way　。　。　。　Sylvia　Atkinson　screamed；　a　piercing　shriek　that　the　echoes　immediately　took　up　and　magnified；　starting　those　four　nervous　calves　running　again；　tearing　blindly　back　along　the　hedgeside。　And　in　that　instant　Jon　saw　why　she　had　screamed。
　　
　　Out　of　the　dip　came　a　grey…black　fearsome　brute；　long　pointed　ears　lying　flat　along　its　head；　bushy　tail　streaming　out　behind　it　as　it　ran。　Only　once　did　it　turn　its　head　to　look　back　and　the　watchers　saw　slobbering　open　jaws；　and　eyes　that　seemed　to　glint　redly　in　the　sunlight。　A　rough　coat；　bare　in　places　as　if　it　had　been　devastated　by　mange。　Even　as　Sylvia's　scream　died　away　the　waiting　echoes　took　up　the　bestial　howl；　a　bloodchilling　sound　that　was　filled　with　hate　and　anger　but　not　fear。　The　creature　fled　because　its　instincts　manded　it　to　but　in　no　way　was　it　afraid　of　Man；　'Gwyther's　Alsatian。'　At　least　Jon　thought　that　that　was　what　it　was；　the　resemblance　was　vaguely　familiar　although　he　was　sure　that　the　dog　had　never　been　quite　as　big　as　that。　He　shivered；　recalled　the　goats　and　the　hens；　how　they　had　once　looked；　the　calves；　too。
　　
　　'It's。　。　。like　a。　。　。　a　wolf。'　Sylvia　was　trembling　violently　and　for　one　awful　moment　Jon　thought　that　she　was　going　to　pass　out。　Every　vestige　of　colour　had　drained　from　her　face　and　only　by　holding　on　to　him　did　she　manage　to　remain　upright。　But　it　had　to　be　Bill　Gwyther's　dog；　it　couldn't　be　anything　else；　there　was　no　other　feasible　explanation。　At　least；　none　that　he　could　e　up　with。
　　
　　His　narrowed　eyes　followed　the　Alsatian's　flight；　now　an　easy　loping　stride　that　carried　it　up　the　far　bank　to　the　right　of　the　cattle；　through　a　gap　in　the　hedge　and　into　the　sheepfield　beyond。
　　
　　The　sheep　milled；　their　frightened　bleating　filling　the　still　air；　pressing　back　into　that　corner；　oblivious　of　the　cruel　strands　of　barbed…wire。　By　some　miracle　the　fence　stil！　held　firm；　posts　and　wire　taking　a　tremendous　strain。
　　
　　The　fleeing　dog　halted　momentarily。　Again　its　instinct　was　offering　it　a　choice。　Flight　or　those　sheep；　the　latter　easy　prey；　pull　one　down　after　another；　run　them　until　they　were　incapable　of　running　any　further。　It　bounded；　heading　right　towards　the　flock；　then　for　some　inexplicable　reason　altered　course　up　towards　the　forest　on　the　horizon。
　　
　　Jon　and　Sylvia　stood　watching　until　the　animal　was　out　of　sight；　lost　to　view　in　those　acres　of　darkness　up　on　the　skyline。　Like　the　sheep；　they　were　tr