He found the donkey grazing placidly, seemingly as happy to nibble on last spring’s aborted oak leaves as it was to munch on tiny, crunchy wild asparagus shoots. The boy untethered it, climbed onto its back and headed off towards the path. They proceeded at the gentle pace dictated by the old donkey, whose swaying gait again sent tremors through the boy’s stomach. Fortunately, he had nothing more inside him. After days spent out in the open, a whole night spent perched on the sill of an arrow slit, followed by another sleepless night on the trail of that half-putrid water, and now, having found the well and having been spared any dealings with the villagers, he felt so relaxed that, by the time they entered the village, he was asleep with his arms around the donkey’s neck and with the hard frame of the saddle pad sticking into his stomach. As if endowed with the skills of a water diviner, the donkey headed straight along the street to the square, where the fallen pitcher had left a pool of water. When they arrived, the donkey stopped and reached down to lick the damp mud, almost propelling the boy forward over its head. However, the boy woke just in time to regain his balance. He then sat very erect on the donkey’s back and stretched his arms up to the sky, fists clenched, then he unclenched them and felt something click in his solar plexus. He dismounted, and the first thing he did was to lower the pitcher down the well and give the donkey some water to drink. As soon as he placed the pitcher on the ground, the donkey thrust its muzzle into the pitcher’s round mouth and lapped up all the water its tongue could reach. While the donkey was drinking, the boy considered removing the flasks, filling them up and then putting them back. He had seen similar wicker-covered flasks at home, usually filled with wine, and he reckoned they must hold at least five gallons of water each. In the end, though, he rejected this option as impracticable and decided instead to fill the flasks gradually, without taking them off the donkey’s back. He accordingly spent the next hour drawing up water from the well and pouring a little into each of the flasks in turn, so that the load wouldn’t become unbalanced. When he thought the flasks were half full, he decided to sit down and rest. He walked round the well, in search of shade, but the sun was so high there was scarcely any shade to be had. He could have gone into one of the houses, but, given the precarious state of most of the roofs, he dismissed this idea too. Instead, as he had on the long walk to the reed bed, he decided to use the donkey to protect him from the sun. He sat down, leaning his back against the stone wall of the well, holding the halter so that the donkey would not move away, and then promptly fell asleep.
He woke, feeling hot and agitated and with a feeling of dampness around his feet. He opened his eyes and found that his feet were buried in a heap of dung and urine deposited by the donkey, which was now standing a couple of yards from him, flicking away flies with its tail. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting in the sun, but into his mind came memories of the goatherd’s poultice and the dog licking his teeth. He felt slightly dizzy and, for a moment, his vision grew blurred. He leaned against the wall of the well to steady himself, and was filled with a sudden loathing for that beast of which all he had asked was a little shade, only to be denied even that. He strode over to the donkey and punched it hard on the muzzle. The animal merely shook its head, unmoved, whereas he felt a pain, like a cramp, shoot from his knuckles right up to his skull. He stood among those few ruined houses and gave an agonised cry which he kept up even when the pain in his bones had abated. A long howl that made him fall to his knees, exhausted, in the middle of the dusty square.
‘You don’t seem very happy.’
The boy started to his feet and backed away from that male voice, which had emerged from somewhere behind him. He hid behind the well and stayed there utterly still, playing for time while he listened, ears cocked, for any sounds of movement. For a few seconds all he could hear was the cooing of the pigeons in the roofs of the houses. Then came a creak as if from an axle, which he identified as coming from some sort of wagon. He assumed the man was a peasant farmer.
‘Come out, boy. I’m not going to harm you.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘I know. I’ve been watching you since I saw you up at the church.’
The boy whirled around, as if expecting to see watchful eyes at every window.
‘Please, just let me leave.’
‘Come out, will you? Like I said, I’m not going to harm you.’
‘No, I won’t come out.’
The boy glanced towards the entrance to the village and considered escaping down the street, but the street was too long, and if the man had a shotgun, he would prove a very easy target. And even if he didn’t get shot, walking to the castle in the heat of the day would be impossible. And if he returned with no water, the old man would die and so would he.
‘How do I know you’re not going to harm me?’
‘You just have to look at me.’
The man had long, matted hair and a black beard, and wore only a tattered hessian tunic tied at the waist. His hands were not fully formed, and his legs had been amputated just below the knees. Frayed leather straps bound his thighs to a wooden plank fitted with four greasy ball bearings that served as wheels. The tension in the boy’s muscles dissolved at once when he saw that the threat he had imagined was no threat at all, and then, as if he were studying a painting, he stood, hypnotised, staring at that peculiar body, from plank to head. He observed him as if through a tunnel of caulked walls, at the end of which the man and his plank seemed to form one being. Both plank and man were equally filthy, and not even the stink of urine and creosote he gave off could distract the boy, his senses numbed both by the sight of that strange creature and by his own now dry effluvia of urine and sweat that had gradually been so absorbed into his pores that they seemed to form part of him.
‘Do you like my chariot?’
The boy emerged reluctantly from his stunned state. After the initial shock, the blood was once more flowing aimlessly through his slack veins. The person talking to him proved so utterly inoffensive that the boy, confusing relief with rudeness, answered rather peevishly, forgetting that the man might easily be the owner of that well or have a pistol concealed beneath his tunic.
‘I only took a little water.’
‘That’s all right. You can take as much as you want. Except, of course, the water’s bad. It’s probably already given you the shits.’
The boy said nothing, but instinctively clenched his buttocks.
‘What are you doing here all alone?’
‘I’m not alone. My father and brother are waiting for me in the oak wood up there.’
‘And they sent you to fetch water, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, go and get them. You can all eat at my inn. I won’t charge you much.’
The boy looked around for some sign, some advertisement, but saw only houses that were either locked up or derelict. He pulled a sceptical face.
‘It’s over there,’ said the man.
The cripple craned his neck to one side, indicating the road leading north out of the village. The boy thought he must be lying, because no one in his right mind would keep an inn in a place like that.