Wind tasted almost salty to Afton when it was late in the afternoon. The high grasses looked like a tidal body, when the breeze smacked its surface. He said this to Fergus, who trudged ahead.
Fergus grunted, and kept walking. Maybe faster, even.
Afton said it again.
And Fergus said, “Shut up.”
“Hey, Fergus?”
“I said, shut up.”
“Do you reckon this is an ocean?”
Fergus sighed, but it sounded like a growl to Afton, or a soft roar. “No, Afton, it’s not an ocean. Now, stop talking.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know!”
“Oh.”
They walked a bit further, wading through the vegetation. Fergus parted the way with his staff, like a premature Moses. Afton pretended he was a crocodile. He’d read about them in a book at school. They’d been around as far back as the dinosaurs, and the force of their bite was 351 kilograms per square centimetre. Afton had asked Fergus how many kilograms per centimetre he could bite, and Fergus muttered something about Afton being a prat.
The wind had died down by the time they got to the paddock. The sheep were snacking on the shorter grasses, on this side of the hill. Some of them raised their heads and twitched their ears at the newcomers. Fergus opened the gate, and herded she sheep out of the enclosure. Afton stood on the first rung of the fence, and called to Fergus, “Can I herd the sheep?”
Fergus ignored him, and closed the gate.
“Hey, Fergus.”
“Afton!” Fergus snapped. “Stop talking, will you?”
Afton chose to disregard this. “Can I herd the sheep back in?”
Fergus rubbed his face hard. “Okay. Just –just please. Stop talking.”
“Why?”
Fergus bent over, and hunted for a stone to throw at Afton, but there was only grass. He found a clump of dirt, and chucked it across the pen. It missed Afton by a meter. This didn’t faze Afton –neither the clump nor the intention. He beamed suddenly, at Fergus. “D’you reckon there are crocodiles in Elkwich?”
Fergus looked like he was about to answer, but then he thought better of it. He slumped down against the fence, and laid the staff down.
Afton swung back and forth on the fence. He really wanted to use the staff. He jumped down, and ran over to Fergus, who appeared to be sleeping. He nudged Fergus’s leg with his sneaker.
“Bloody hell, Afton!” Fergus shouted. He moved to throw a punch at Afton, but Afton had already stepped away. “What? What. What is it, you stupid sod?”
“Can I play with the staff?”
“No!”
“Why?”
“Afton, go watch the sheep.”
“Can I have the staff then?”
“No.”
“But I’ll need it.”
“No, you won’t.”
“But you said I need to watch the sheep—“
“I know what I said.” Fergus’s tone was final.
Afton went to stand on top of the slope on the other side. He could see the black rain-slicked road from here. It curled itself around the hills, like a gigantic snake, or a river. Afton pretended for some time that he was king of the crocodiles, and was surveying the black river for the wildebeest, so his kingdom of crocodiles could have a feast. He wished he had the staff though. He probably would have felt more kingly.
A big shiny car came around the bend. It was making a loud, sort of pained snarl, before it gasped, and choked, and rolled to a stop, in front of Afton’s hill. All was silent again, except for the bleating of a lamb, but that stopped too.
Afton dropped to a crouch, and narrowed his eyes at the intruder. The car door opened then, and a tall, thin, grey haired man stepped out of the car. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, complete with cane, and tailcoat. He slammed the car door, and popped the hood. He only took a cursory glance at the engine, before closing that too. He looked up the hill, at Afton.
Afton held very still, holding his breath. His legs were aching from crouching for so long.
The man then began to walk up the hill, “Hello, there,” he called.
Afton stood up, uncertain. “ ‘lo,” he said.
“Could you tell me, by any chance, where I might get some petrol?” The man said as he neared Afton.
Afton shook his head. There was something peculiar about the man’s manner, that raised Afton’s hackles, and made his nose twitch. “What’s your name?” he said.
The man smiled, exposing his long, yellow teeth. “Wilk,” he said.
“Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Wilk. “That is it.”
“That’s a weird name.”
Wilk barked a laugh. “And what it your name, small sir?”
Afton stole a look down the other side of the hill, at Fergus’s sleeping form. “Afton,” he whispered the tiny secret.
Wilk nodded, sagely. “A fine name it is.”
“I guess.”
“I suppose those are your sheep you are tending?” Wilk asked, a strange glint in his eyes. It was almost hungry
Afton itched his elbow. “Yeah.” He’d forgotten about the sheep.
“And that –that boy there—“ Wilk pointed to Fergus, “Who is that?”
“Fergus,” said Afton. “He helps me with the sheep.”
Wilk’s shrewd eyes lingered on Fergus. “Yes, I see.” He turned his wolfish grin on Afton once more. A beetle landed on the lapel of Wilk’s coat, and crawled into the breast-pocket.
“Your teeth are long,” observed Afton.
“Indeed?” said Wilk, still grinning rather disconcertedly. His face was starting to look horribly warped, and lined, like a mask. His dark eyes flashed, and his lips curled into his gums, he was smiling so hard.
“How come you’re smiling like that?” said Afton, inching a step away. It was like when he missed a rung on the ladder up to the loft, in the barn, and his stomach careened somewhere south of his knees.
Wilk stepped closer, and hid his hands behind his back. “It’s a nice day, is all,” he said, gazing up at the sky, as if it were brilliant blue, rather than the dingy-sheet-grey from horizon to horizon. If anything, his lips widened, and curled tighter.
Afton took another step back, this one more deliberate.
Wilk followed Afton step for step, still smiling. The smile seemed to be growing, consuming Wilk’s sallow face. There was just a weird contortion of glistening bone and black, feverish eyes, where his face had been. His back was hunching forward, and his slender hands, bent claw-like.
Afton turned, prepared to scream out to Fergus, or run, or something, but Wilk’s gnarled hand came down on Afton’s arm, and pushed him on the ground. Afton screamed.
Wilk smiled, and said, somehow through his ugly teeth, “Be quiet.”
And then he was.
