He knew the man must be a soldier, because of the steel shell and the ring shirt. From the available facts, he worked out
a theory. The soldier had been drinking; he’d wandered away from the rest of the army, fallen asleep sitting against the bank,
somehow slid over and ended up face down in the rhine, where he’d drowned without ever waking up. It struck him as a sad thing
to have happened, sad and stupid but understandable. Something of the sort had happened to a tinker last year out over Spessi,
and the general opinion had been that it had served him right.
But he didn’t have time for any of that now, he reminded himself; he had to find the sheep and get them down into the combe.
It occurred to him that the soldier’s friends might be out looking for him, so he carried on down the bank towards the reeds,
keeping his head below the skyline. He’d nearly reached the outskirts of the wet patch when he made the connection in his
mind, between the dead man and the things he’d seen lying in the field.
Once the idea had occurred to him, he felt stunned, as though he’d just stood up under a low branch and cracked his head.
If the grey things lying in the field were all dead men… but that couldn’t be possible, because several thousand human beings
don’t just suddenly die like that, all together at the same time, out in the open fields.
But, he thought, they do, if they’re soldiers, in a war. That’s precisely what happens. He knew all about the war, and wars
in general. He’d always liked hearing stories, both the old ones about the heroes of long ago, and the more up-to-date ones
about how our lads were slaughtering thousands of the enemy every day, in victory after victory. It was almost impossible
to believe, but maybe that was what had happened right here, on Big Moor; General Oionoisin had managed to catch up with the
enemy and cut them to pieces, right here, on our top pasture…
He tried to think about the sheep, but he couldn’t. He wanted to go further out into the field, to look at the bodies, but
he couldn’t bring himself to do it, in case some of them were still alive, wounded, dying. Shouldn’t he try and do something
for them, in that case? But the thought made him feel sick and terrified; the last thing he wanted to do was actually go near
them, dying, as if fatal injury was something contagious you could pick up by touch. Nevertheless, he crept out from the fringe
of the reed bed and walked quickly and nervously, as though he was trespassing, up the slope towards a clump of the things
clustered round a gorse bush.
There were five of them. They all had the same steel shells and shirts; one of them had a steel hat, with ear flaps. It hadn’t
done him much good: there was a wide red gash in his neck, through the windpipe. The blood was beginning to cake and blacken,
and the last of the summer’s flies were crawling in it, weaving patterns with their bodies. The man’s eyes were wide open—he
had a rather gormless expression, as if someone had asked him a perfectly simple question and he didn’t know the answer. There
was another gash on his knee. His right hand was still clutching a long wooden pole, splintered in the middle. The other four
men were face down, lying in patches of brown, sticky blood. Teuche noticed that the soles of their boots were worn almost
through. A little further on, he saw a dead horse, with a man’s body trapped under it. There was something very wrong about
it, but it took him quite some time to realise that the body had no head. He looked round for it but he couldn’t see it anywhere.
He tried to think what he should do. His first duty was to see if there was anybody he could help; but there were so many
of them, and besides, what could he do? Suppose there were two or three, or five or six or ten or twenty or a hundred men
lying here still alive, capable of being saved, if only someone came to help them. That made it too difficult. One man, one
stranger, and he’d feel obliged to get him down the hill, somehow or other, back to the house, where Mother and the other
women would know what to do. Just possibly he could manage one, but not two; and if there were two, or more than two, how
the hell was he supposed to know how to choose between them? Besides, he told himself, these people are the enemy. They came
here to kill and rob us and take our land. They deserved it. More to the point, he had to find the sheep.
He reverted to his original plan of action, though he knew it had been largely overtaken by events: down to the dip, where
he found no live enemy soldiers and no sheep. That more or less exhausted his reserve of ideas, and he felt too dazed and
stupid to think what to do next. After a minute or so wasted in dithering, he climbed up on the bank beside the southern gateway,
where he knew he could get a good view of the whole of the river valley, from Stoneyard down to Quarry Pit. Of course, that
wasn’t Kunessin land; it belonged to the Gaeons, Kudei’s family, but he knew they wouldn’t mind if he went on to it to get
his sheep back.
But there were no sheep; no white dots, only a scattering of the grey ones, stretching down the valley until they were too
small to make out. That’s it, then, he thought: the sheep have gone, the soldiers must’ve taken them after all. He knew without
having to think about it that that was really bad, about as bad as it could possibly get. He tried to feel angry—bastard enemy
coming here, stealing our sheep—but he couldn’t. After all, the enemy had been punished enough, General Oionoisin had seen
to that, and what good had it done? Thirty-five acres of dead meat wouldn’t make up for losing the sheep. Then he told himself
that the government would probably pay compensation, sooner or later; it stood to reason that they must, because otherwise
it wouldn’t be fair. You can’t have armies come on to your land and kill thousands of people and steal a valuable flock of
sheep and not expect to pay for it. The world wouldn’t work if people could behave like that.