The Law of Dreams

by Peter Behrens

  “No good, no good,” Murty Larry groaned. “Them sojers want to crush us all.”

  The gate snapped off its hinges with a loud twang and clattered down on the pavement. Looking around, Fergus saw pauper women already fanning a fire. The miller’s cart, driven by a frightened-looking boy, rumbled over the flattened gate and into the workhouse yard, dragoons crowding in behind, their massive horses creaking with gear and leather.

  Murty Larry bowed low, sweeping his arm toward the open gateway and the snowy street outside, in a gesture of magnanimous invitation.

  Fergus looked back at the fire where a dragoon was piercing sacks with his saber and pauper women were already sluicing yellow meal into the kettle. The inmates stood about anxiously like cattle waiting to be milked.

  Looking through the opening in the walls he saw Murty Larry running away down the white street, already a dim figure in the mist, leaving black footprints on the snow.

  The scent of the raw meal — sweet, dusty — was tempting.

  You might stay, get yourself a ration.

  The road, the road.

  Red soldiers, famished inmates.

  Rations might keep you alive, but they were all you’d ever get, and you wanted more.

  Phoebe, Ohio, the mountain, a place to dream.

  Stepping over the iron grillwork, he started away.

  Lost

  SNOW SCALPED THE HILLS surrounding the town. Murty Larry tried begging from a gentleman in a cloak, who ignored him, then from a couple of drunken soldiers who laughed and threw him a button.

  Fergus was stiff, shy, no good at begging — he couldn’t speak to strangers. One lady wearing spectacles shoved a tract in his hand then hurried on while Murty Larry shouted, “Give me something I can eat, you old whore!”

  Grabbing the tract from Fergus, Murty pitched it in the gutter.

  “Never mind, Fergus, never mind — pleading is not the game, not for us, it won’t serve. People are too wicked here.”

  “We ought to get out of this town.”

  “Going where?”

  He shrugged. “Back to the mountain.”

  “Mountain? I ain’t going for no fucking mountain, captain. No, I am not. Starve like a crow on your old bonny mountain. Limerick, that’s the place — look here, look at this old creature.”

  Peering through the gray curtain of snow falling, Fergus saw a beggar woman sitting up ahead in the road.

  “We’ll get that shawl off her,” Murty Larry said.

  “Her shawl?”

  “Just watch me now.”

  As they were walking by the old woman Murty Larry reached down, grabbed a corner of the shawl, and tried pulling it off her.

  “Thief ! Thief !” Screeching, the woman hung on.

  “Let go, you old wretch, let me have it!” When Murty kicked her in the side she let go of the shawl and Murty raced down the street, slipping and sliding on the snow, waving it like a banner.

  Fergus stared at the old woman on her hands and knees, muttering and spitting, unable to stand up.

  Feeling pity and not pity. A gauze-over-all feeling.

  “Come on, come on!” Murty Larry screamed.

  IN A livery stable behind a beer shop, they warmed themselves lying on horses’ backs. “We shall go for Limerick. Find a wagon man in Limerick. You’ll learn the wheel trade, Fergus. Only we must have shoes for the road.”

  They swallowed handfuls of oats soaked in water, then Murty Larry slid off his horse and started making slippers, tearing up the old woman’s shawl, wrapping the cloth around their feet.

  Wearing the wrappings they quit the stable, Murty Larry insisting he knew the way for Limerick. But after they had passed the beer shop twice, Fergus realized Murty could not even lead the way out of Scariff. The cloth binding their feet was already shredding and dissolving.

  “This isn’t going to work, man.”

  “Limerick’s the mighty town,” Murty insisted. “Lots of roads going there.”

  “I don’t know why I’m following you — you don’t know the way.”

  “Don’t lose me, Fergus.” Murty Larry began to weep. “I am getting awful fights in my head. Hurts so it’s killing. My stomach hurts too.”

  Fever.

  Start in one direction, keep going.

  He started down a long street of wrecked cabins, resolved to follow it wherever it went.

  “This ain’t the way for Limerick!” Murty Larry protested. “This is the road for Hell.” He kept falling behind but Fergus refused to slow down or turn around. In ten minutes they had reached the end of the town. For as far as he could see ahead the hedges along the road were lined with men, women, and children sitting under the branches or lying in holes and scrapes dug into the ground and covered with sticks and rags.

  “Don’t leave me, captain!” Murty Larry had stopped in the road. He was swaying, clutching his belly. “This isn’t the way out of the world. I can’t walk so hard, Fergus.”

  A heavy dray, the type called a land carriage, was coming up behind them, loaded with freight.

  “It’s a road,” Fergus said. “We can’t stay here or we’ll be as bad off as the rest of them. We have to move along.”

  “Do you know where she goes? Is it Limerick?”

  “It’s a road, man, we’ll follow it and see.”

  “This is worse . . . everything’s worse . . . I want something sweet again,” Murty moaned.

  Four heavy gray horses were drawing the dray; he could hear the harness jingling. Fergus pulled Murty out of the road and watched the big wagon rumble past, loaded with stacks of newly built pine coffins and lids. The teamster was swaddled up against the cold.

  Murty Larry sank down on his knees and began coughing and vomiting bloody dregs.

  “Only don’t leave me here, your honor,” he whispered. “Only take me with you!”

  Fergus looked at the dray disappearing down the road. “Come on then.” Half carrying Murty, he struggled along the road after the dray.

  The people under the hedges were already dying, rain was dissolving them, they would all be finished soon.

  “My head is knocking, Fergus, I can’t think.”

  The horses were plodding along steadily. Supporting Murty Larry, Fergus struggled to catch up to the back of the dray, but they were losing ground.

  “Put me down, captain, put me down. You’re killing me.”

  Murty Larry’s legs were soft and would no longer support him. Fergus brought him to side of the road and let down gently on the frosty grass.

  He stared after the dray, hearing the hubs squeaking and the harness jingle as the horses moved away under the moon.

  He looked down at Murty Larry flopping on the grass, barking, his face dark. In a few hours the maroon fever sores would be blossoming on his chest. But he wouldn’t live that long, not in the cold.

  He looked at the dray, moving away from them.

  You had to stay alive; every instinct told you. Stay in your life as long as you can. If only to see what would happen. Every breath told you to keep breathing.

  Kneeling, he rifled Murty’s pockets until he found the warden’s coppers. Gripping them tight in his fist, he stood up and started running after the dray.

  After catching up, he didn’t try to climb in at first, but kept a few paces back, close enough to reach out and touch the tailboard with his fingertips.

  The teamster in the driving seat didn’t know he was there. The horses plodded on.

  Light bled from the sky. Rain ceased and the sky blew clear. The road hardened with frost. There was no other traffic. Fergus stared at his feet, concentrating on the effort required to keep going. Finally when he knew he could walk no farther, he dragged himself aboard and wriggled in between stacks of empty coffins. He lay in a tight space, smelling pine pitch and glue and iron nails, and let the horses’ footsteps lull him to sleep.

  The Bog Boys

  WHEN HE AWOKE THE DRAY was still moving and he had no sense of how far they h
ad traveled. The moon had arisen. Looking back, he could see a patchwork of stone walls and fields falling away from either side of the road. The cold was thorough and sour. He could hear the teamster snoring. The wheels banged and thumped over the frozen road.

  Suddenly a youthful voice called out, “Halt and stay! Halt and stay!”

  Peering out between the coffins, Fergus saw a young man walking alongside the dray, holding up a pitchfork and addressing the teamster. “Lift your mitts, or we shall drill you quick.”

  Peering ahead, Fergus saw a soldier standing in the middle of the road, aiming a musket at the teamster.

  “Hoppers aboard, Luke!” the soldier cried, seeing Fergus and shifting his aim.

  “Don’t shoot me, if you please,” the teamster begged. “Swear before God, I haven’t any money.”

  Small boys were dropping over the walls, grabbing the bridles, pulling the team to a halt.

  “I’m a poor man, sir,” the teamster was saying, “I’ve a dozen mouths to feed.”

  “Shut your trap, we’ll kill you all soon as blather.” The soldier swung his aim back to the teamster. “Shall I shoot him now, Luke?”

  Luke, the leader, was dressed in layers of rags fused by weather. His breeches were torn off below the knee, and a clay pipe was jabbed in his hatband.

  Stepping up onto a spoke, Luke studied Fergus. “Stand up.”

  He stood slowly, clenching the coppers in his fist.

  Luke was small. Dark hair and a thin, white face.

  Kill me. I wouldn’t mind.

  “What do you have there, in your hand?”

  Fergus said nothing.

  “What is it? Show me.”

  He opened his fist, displaying the two coins.

  “Here, give them over.” Luke reached out.

  Instead, hating obedience, Fergus closed his fist and flung the coins hard and high out over the frozen fields, where they fell without a sound.

  The hungrier you were the stronger you hated it.

  “What is it?” The soldier sounded panicked. “We’ll kill the fellow — what is it, Luke?”

  Luke had turned to stare out over the fields. “Why’d you do that?” he said softly.

  “Didn’t wish to give them over.”

  “Tell this one he must give over his coat, Luke!” the young soldier cried, roughly poking at the teamster, who had sunk into his greatcoat. “Give it over, you beast, or I’ll skin it off you.”

  “Come along, mister,” Luke said, “you’d better give Shamie what he wants.”

  “And boots — I’ll have them boots as well, you great fat pig. I’ll have them boots or skin you.”

  The small boys had been boosting one another aboard the team. Suddenly a horse bucked and snorted, jolting the dray.

  “Easy there, men, easy.” Luke turned his attention back to the teamster. “Come now, mister, you must skin yourself, or Shamie’ll do it for you.”

  With a groan the teamster stood up and began unbuttoning his greatcoat. As he handed it down, the straw that was padded inside for extra warmth fluttered down on the road.

  “Now with them boots,” the young soldier insisted.

  The teamster sat down on his seat and began pulling off his boots while the soldier pulled on the greatcoat over his red jacket and cross-straps.

  “I’ll freeze to death,” the teamster said, dropping the boots on the road. “Sure you can’t take everything, boys?”

  “We’ll have those,” said Luke, pointing at the teamster’s red stockings, “and your shirt, if you please.”

  “And breeches!” said the young soldier. “And look smart about it!”

  “Boys, boys, you don’t want the death of a poor man on your conscience. I’m father to nine.”

  “Give him your shirt and breeches, or he will shoot you in the brains,” Luke said. “Shamie, pass that here.”

  The young soldier had found a clay jar in the teamster’s coat. He handed it over to Luke, who plucked out the stopper with his teeth, took a swallow, and coughed.

  “How’s that?” Shamie said eagerly. “Give it here, if you please, Luke, a taste of old stormy would do me nice.”

  Instead Luke offered Fergus the jar. “There you go, take a bite.”

  A horse screamed.

  “Easy there, men, easy!” Luke cried. “Take your turns, fair is fair.”

  The children had nicked a vein on one of the horses — houghing — drawing blood, which they were licking.

  The poitin tasted like smoke. Fergus coughed, spat, and thumped his chest, then handed the jar back down to Luke, who passed it to Shamie.

  “Are you going to shoot us?” Fergus asked Luke.

  “Have anything else worth robbing?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “The workhouse.”

  “Shamie! Shamie!” Luke called. “This fellow is out of the workhouse.”

  Luke looked at Fergus thoughtfully. “We were told they serve out rations — meat soup, three rounds a day. Is it true?”

  “No. The soup had no meat. They have fever there.”

  “Do they?” Luke sounded disappointed. “Ah well, I was not believing there was any such place, anyhow. Meat soup — it was hard to credit.”

  “Alls I want,” Shamie said, “is meat.”

  The teamster had pulled off his stockings and his linen shirt and was dropping them on the road. Flesh swelled from his breast in two pouches as he stood up and began unbuttoning his breeches. His belly was round and white. Stepping out of the breeches with a sob, he dropped them on the road. Shamie picked them up delicately on the tip of his muzzle.

  “Leave him his drawers?” Shamie asked.

  “Are you ribbonmen?” Fergus had heard of bands of ribbonmen, tenants displaced, roaming the country and taking vengeance on farmers and landlords.

  “He must give them over,” Luke told Shamie, sounding weary. “Ribbonmen? Perhaps.”

  “I’ll perish!” the teamster cried.

  Shamie stepped up and pressed his muzzle against the teamster’s breast. “Shall I shoot you now, you pig? I could flay the bacon off you, you great damned bastard. Get up, get up, and give us over what we want! Get up!”

  The teamster peeled off his drawers and hung them on the muzzle, then sat down on his driver’s seat, hugging himself, shaking with cold.

  “The hat,” said Luke quietly, “don’t neglect the hat, Shamie, it will serve you nicely.”

  Jumping up on a spoke, Shamie lifted the teamster’s beaver hat from his head.

  “Is he a soldier?” Fergus asked Luke.

  “He was a soldier boy at one time, but no more — he’s a good clean deserter.” Luke was studying Fergus. “Where were you, before the workhouse?”

  “Ejected.”

  “Your people, where are they?”

  “Dead.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?” Luke asked.

  Fergus was silent. It was all he had. Why give it up?

  “Come, give it over.” Luke smiled. “We won’t spend it. You’ll have it back.”

  He was about to say his name was Murty Larry when something stopped him — a sense of violation. “Fergus.”

  “Thieving and outlawing ain’t so bad, Fergus. We killed a sheep once, and would do better if there were more of us. When was the last time you had mutton for your supper?”

  “Luke!” Shamie was smirking and clowning, wearing the teamster’s hat. He spun his soldier cap at Luke, who caught it.

  “If you was ejected they won’t have you back,” Luke told Fergus. “They’ll drive you to a ship and send you over the water. You’ll never see your country again. No, come with us. We’ll give you the oath, won’t we, Shamie?”

  “He’s a damned grasshopper stealing rides. It’s not for him to question.”

  “We are the Bog Boys, Fergus. You’ve heard of us, perhaps?”

  “No.”


  “No matter.” Luke sounded resigned. “Better that way, I suppose. We ain’t done nothing mighty yet. Will you throw in with us or not?”

  The teamster was wailing. Fergus tried to shut his ears.

  “Here,” Luke said, “there’s nothing for it now. You won’t find no soup at Limerick. We’re living quite a gallant life. We’ll take you to our home and offer you a meal — what is there to say to that?”

  “Why him?” Shamie protested. “He’s a spy perhaps.”

  “Come, Fergus. We’ll be your sure ones.”

  No use resisting. Spurned, they’d kill him. Murderous boys.

  And Phoebe, and the mountain — that was over, he didn’t believe in it, not really. And Limerick was just a word, Ohio another word.

  Can’t live on words.

  Jumping down off the dray, he stumbled and fell on his hands then stood up quickly, wary.

  Luke smiled at him. The moon glowered across the fields, and the tormented horses snorted and whinnied.

  “Stand away, men!” Luke called. “Tell the fellow he may go, Shamie.”

  Delicately picking up the reins on the tip of his muzzle, Shamie raised them until the teamster took them.

  “You may go.”

  “I’ll perish, I’ll perish,” the naked man moaned.

  “Well, God bless you, mister,” said Luke. “I am sorry for your trouble.”

  The small boys had scrambled onto the stone wall and perched along the top, clutching stone, knives, and sticks, faces smeared with horse blood.

  The teamster flapped the reins and the horses pulled. Shamie pointed his musket in the air and discharged, the barrel spurting red just as the horses snapped the wheels from the freezing mud.

  Standing in the road between Luke and the soldier, Fergus watched the dray lumbering away, the cargo of coffins banging and squeaking.

  “We might have kept them horses,” Shamie said. “A troop does well off horsemeat.”

  “Whoever heard of outlaws eating horses? Jesus, Shamie, you would curse a fellow with your glooms.”

  The younger ones were laughing, frisking, pitching stones out into the fields, but Fergus stood with Shamie and Luke, watching the dray as it moved farther and farther away, until he did not see it at all.