Cross eyed Mara, his brother Nata and their cousin, a gangling, mute simpleton, called Gaja loaded the last iron barrel onto the bulla-cart and tied it down securely. There were three other such barrels already positioned in the cart and tied down, and Mara looked on in satisfaction. There were at least a hundred litres in each of the barrels and the two bulls, which were to pull this load, were tethered at the side, munching on feed and swatting misquotes away with their swinging ears.
The load – a secret – was illicit alcohol; the village brewed grog that sold fast, because it was cheap and promised a high that obliterated all care and worry. It had to be transported under the cover of night and conveyed secretly to the town because the government had strict bans on such concoctions. If Mara and his brother got caught, they knew that they would spend a considerable time in jail or pay a heavy bail to roam free. They wanted neither…but the lure of money from the village brew was tempting and weekly deliveries in the night had made them masters at their trade. This was not their only source of income though. Both brothers had about ten acres of land each, just by the river and therefore had lush green crops most seasons. They both had rather fine-looking houses in Kollegall, a short distance from their fields and their children studied in an English Medium school in the neighbouring town where the Headmaster, Mr John Waide was a kind but firm man.
But money likes to multiply, and when you have some of it and the means to make more, it’s rare that you would not give into temptation. Mara, the one with the brains and Nata the one with the recipe formed a good duo. Then Gaja’s father, with the intent of teaching his son a trade brought him to Kollegall to stay under the care and guidance of one of his two nephews. Mara didn’t like the idea at first but then realised that his imbecile cousin was actually a boon to both of them. He certainly had no brains, but he had the brawn.Very quickly he replaced his cousins on the bulla-cart that conveyed the illicit cargo to a tavern in Mulberry, about 50 miles from their own village.
So, when the barrels were loaded on and covered completely by hay, to disguise the cargo, Mara surveyed the set-up and smiled in satisfaction. It was just getting dark and he was at the far end of his field where it bordered with his brother’s. He knew that if he didn’t get home quickly enough, his officious wife would send his eldest boy looking for him and he didn’t want that. The fewer that knew about this business the better. With Nata, it was much the same. He seemed eager to get home.
Gaja was the idiot. He knew that the barrels contained something to drink; he had once been coaxed into drinking some of the stuff by his cousins, and he didn’t know what had happened to him after that. His cousins had been in stitches though, because the poor speech deprived man had been so smashed, he had tried to sing and dance, and had made a complete mess of himself. He thought that the drink was magic; something that made you do strange things; something that clouded your brain; something that made you forget. He could not understand what was illegal and what was not, because he had no concept of it. Which was why, it was his job to drive the bulla-cart each Friday night to Mulberry. If he got caught, the authorities wouldn’t get a word out of him and the worst that could happen was that he would get flung into prison…which would not be so bad, Mara had once reasoned with his more compassionate brother, because the poor fellow would never know what happened to him. He had the mind of a six-year-old, but the shoulders and arms of a man five times that age. Obviously, they could never get him married and so he lived with Mara, and Mara’s wife had no time for him. He was a dumb idiot as far as she was concerned, who followed her husband like a dog and his guttural, uncomprehending conversations angered her.
When the two brothers started for their homes that evening, they had made a slightly different plan to the one that they had drawn out the previous week, and they had their reasons.
“Let’s start later this time,” Mara was saying to his brother as he wiped his face and neck with his towel and flung it across his shoulder. “Maybe by one or two in the morning. The drive would be straight through to Mulberry this time. I don’t want the same thing happening as last week.”
The week prior, when Gaja had driven the load to Mulberry he had started off at about ten as was normally the plan. The road to Mulberry is north-west, through the small village of Sategall, over the river and skirting the Anglo town of Landsend via a bypass road. It was here, where the main road forks to Landsend, at what is called the Cross that Gaja had felt he needed to sDougp a little. So, at the fork in the road, where a big tree stood, spreading its branches like a dark canopy above, he tethered the bulls and fell into deep slumber in the cart. He thought that he had tethered the bulls well enough but it was apparent that he hadn’t. One broke loose and made its way back home in the night much to Mara’s astonishment. Gaja came back, liquor and all, driven by one very tired bull and Mara had not been very impressed. He expressed his sentiment with two, flat-hand blows across the poor hulk’s neck, and with a mouth full of expletives. The load was moved again the following night and this time both brothers travelled together with the poor man. They second journey had been uneventful.
So now, the instructions to Gaja were as simple as ever. He’d start at two in the morning, drive the cart to Mulberry at a leisurely pace, reach there just before dawn, unload the barrels at the tavern and head right back. He would collect no payment, and that was because the brothers had instructed their client not to conduct any money transactions with their cousin. Once every week, Mara rode his ram-shackle motorbike to the town, poked around the market place, chatted up his friends, complained about the weather, cursed the government, acted like a dignified man and then made his way to the tavern to collect his payment.
So, at about half past one that night Mara rose silently and tip-toed to the veranda where his poor, dull cousin snored with his great mouth open. With a rough shake he got the man awake, and presently they were walking through the darkness to the field where a lantern shone uncertainly in the night. Nata had already reached the spot and had been waiting for them.
Doug Geoghegan was 14 years old, quite tall for his age, with a voice that was already deepening and eyes that were a clear blue. Walking home from school, he critically examined his black, leather shoes, all muddy from playing football in the school playground and knew that he was in for it from his father. His tie was loosened at his collar and the lapels of his white shirt hung out from the belt of his grey trousers, the result of a rough game with the boys. Walking beside him was another boy, of the same age but a lot shorter and somewhat plump. He had just wrestled the football from Doug and was dribbling it between his own dusty shoes. This was Alan Geoghegan and though he had the same last name as Doug, he was in no way related to his friend. Both boys lived in the valley beyond the Cross, a place where the highway crossed with the village road, and both were best friends.
The third that walked with them was different, but only in appearances and looks. The tie loosened at the collars and dusty canvas shoes proved that this individual had also been part of that rough football game after school. Only thing, there were no grey trousers. Instead, there was a grey skirt and a long, thick, brown, braided hair that bounced against her slim back as she walked with the boys. This was Rebecca Waide, the Headmaster’s tomboy daughter who played a game of football just as well as any boy, and who was Doug Geoghegan’s other best friend. She had a nice-looking face, sprayed by freckles, healthy red lips and big brown eyes. She lived in a red-roofed, stone house just by the Cross, but spent most of her time at Doug’s home where his other two siblings – younger sisters – kept her in touch with her femininity. She had now begun to laugh as Doug went down on his knees, opened his satchel, ripped off a page from one of his note books and began to wipe the dust from his shoes.
“I’m in for it from Dad,” he muttered deeply. “I’ve been warned not to play with my black shoes on.”
“We’re all in for it,” Alan agreed and took the discarded sheet from his friend and tried to clean his own shoes. “Except for Beka,” he observed squinting his hazel eyes at her canvas runners.
“So, do we meet at here tonight?” she asked.
“Tonight?” Doug queried in astonishment at first; then he realised and his blue eyes lit up. “By Jove! Yes, we are. Al, we almost forgot!”
“You’re telling me!” Al returned energetically with a grin. “You bet we are! You think it’ll work again Doug?”
“Why wouldn’t it?” he asked. “See ya here at twelve Beka.”
She nodded and waved out to them, turned past her gate and both the boys crossed the road, turning into the valley, where they both lived on farms.
At midnight, Alan heard a thump on his window pane and knew that Doug was out there waiting for him. He snuck out of bed, tip-toed through the dark house and slid out through the back door. Then they both vanished beyond the line of trees that ran along the border between their farms, and headed for the Cross and BekaWaide’s home.
Their friend was already up, sitting in the porch with a flashlight, some sandwiches, three apples and a bottle of some homemade wine saved up from the previous Christmas. The boys grinned at her. Trust ol’ Beka, thought Doug, to come prepared like they were going for a picnic.
“Let’s wait here,” suggested Beka in a whisper.
“What if your dad wakes up?” asked Alan
“We’d be in big trouble,” Beka grinned. “So, let’s not make any noise.”
“Let’s get to the road, under the tree,” Doug whispered. “We have the bench to sit on.”
“No…let’s wait here,” Beka insisted and Doug threw her a curious look.
“I…I…I think it would be better if we waited here,” she insisted.
“You’re scared!” Alan hissed.
“I’m not,” she hissed back. “I just don’t like to be out there under the tree at this time.”
Doug was now grinning. “Sissy,” he teased softly. “What a funk you are Beka. As if something’s going to eat you up!”
“Shut up!” she flung back at him. “I’m not a funk.”
It was pitch-dark under the tree. Further, at the far end of the triangle that the main road made with the one running on the right to the village town, a single lamp post stood where a dull, yellow light shone in the darkness. But under the tree it was pitch dark and perhaps a little scary. The boys looked at one another, looked at Beka, and then Doug picked up the flask of wine. Taking a pull right off the bottle, he settled down on one of the chairs and whispered, popping an eyebrow up in satisfaction, “this is bloody good stuff,” before passing it on to his eager friend.
Beka smiled, and sinking her teeth into an apple settled down to wait. The sandwiches and the apples were passed around, the level of wine slowly ebbed and by and by children relaxed in their seats.
The wait was longer than they expected and pretty soon, as it is expected of children who had spent a day in studies and an evening in a rigorous game of football, all three were cuddled up in their cane chairs fast asleep,
Gaja didn’t like the darkness. He hated and feared it and had never wanted to go on the drive. All his tantrums with his cross-eyed cousin had only been understood as eagerness for the task, and he had been harnessed to it in much the same way as had been the bulls that plodded down the dark road, lit by a single lantern between them. The trees alongside which locked overhead formed a black tunnel, and the strange shapes of the darkness looked weird and frightening to the poor man. He moaned and hunched up in his seat and began to weep. Then he lay down, curled up in the cart and gawked at the rocking lantern up in front between the necks of the bulls. That gave out some light; he wailed softly – he might have been trying to say something to the bulls or he might have been trying to sing. Pretty soon his eyes began to get heavy and with the lantern swaying, almost hypnotising him, and with the jingle of the bells, he slowly dropped off into deep sleep.
It was about three that morning when Doug was awakened by a distant jingling of bells and he sat up wondering where he was. He checked his watch, frowned and then listened again. There certainly was a jingle and it seemed to come nearer and nearer with every passing moment. He stepped out into the night, slid out of the gate and turned around the corner of the wall, and peered up the long dark road. Ahead a yellow light swung like a pendulum; and it came closer and closer. He ran back to the porch and roused his friends.
“It’s here,” he hissed. “The beggar’s late. Come on…don’t make a noise.”
The three friends tip-toed out of the gate. The bulla-cart was now near and the white sides of the bulls could be discerned in the dull light from the yellow street light. The bulls were plodding slowly and the lantern danced between them. But there appeared to be no one guiding the cart!
“I’m going to check,” Dougsuggested.
“Oh God! Doug!” Beka held him back even as he ran forward. “He’s mad. What if there’s…there’s…a ghost there?”
It was a possibility thought Alan miserably. It could have been a trap for them, considering that both he and Doug had done this the week prior as well. Someone could be hidden in the straw to catch them in their prank!
The truth was, Beka’s bedroom was on the first floor of her home, overlooking the road. She had noted that a bulla-cart drove down the road every Friday at around midnight and had told her friends about it. Being the kind of boys they were, they had waited under her porch the Friday before, and the cart had appeared like clockwork. Only thing, it halted under the tree and a great man that resembled an ape climbed out, unharnessed the bulls and tethered them to a stump nearby. Then he had climbed into the cart and in moments was asleep.
That was when Doug and Alan had crept up in curiosity to poke around the strange cart. They looked around, could not understand the straw concealing what looked like huge metal cans and had shrugged at Beka who stood by her gate hissing at them to get back. They had ignored her and with the sole objective of playing a prank on the snoring individual, untied one of the bulls, turned it around and slapped it on its rump, sending it back to where it came from. They were in the process of freeing the second beast when there was a guttural sound of the man talking in his dreams, and the boys raced away, their hearts pounding half in excitement and half in terror. Beka had seen what had happened and vanished into her home, creeping beside her slumbering father and holding onto him with a shiver.
Which explained her reluctance to wait out under the tree on this occasion. What if…?
Doug had already reached the cart by now and he was half running back, alongside with the bulls, peering at the supine form that lay in the straw, the reigns and the quirt in his great, limp hands. He beckoned to Alan, whispered something quickly to him, and Beka watched them both steer the bulls around the turn in the road leading to the village town. Then, still with the cart, they continued to steer it along the triangle, under the dull light and right back again the way they had come. The bulls were skittish, but both boys lived on farms and knew what to do. The big, apelike man was still snoring loudly and pretty soon the bulla-cart was on its way back the same way it had come, the dull, lantern light growing fainter in the tunnel of darkness.
“Wonder what’s in those cans,” Doug muttered as he dusted his hands.
“Didn’t you get a sweetish, disgusting smell,” Alan asked as they both walked back to Beka and his companion nodded.
“You beggars are horrible,” she told them with a shaky laugh and a shiver. “Was that a man in there?”
“A big, hairy monster,” Doug answered.
“He had his mouth open and you should have seen his teeth Beka,” Alan added, but he was already grinning and jumped quickly to escape his friend’s flying fist.
Doug had not been so lucky.
In an uncertain dawn, Gaja awoke and looked around, ecstatic that he had slept through the night. The bulls plodded on quickly, pointing in one direction and he was happy that he didn’t have to lead them. He looked around…Mulberry appeared to have changed. The long school building at the edge of town seemed as if it been demolished and replaced by lush, green fields all…in how long? One week? The broad town road with a line of street lights in between was now a narrow, broken country road. He wondered and gazed around and scratched his head stupidly. He made a sound, as if asking the bulls if they knew what had happened and one of them threw its head back, eager to get back home, to food, water and rest. The weight had not become lighter today!
A familiar hill came into view and Gaja stared in astonishment. He looked back and looked forward, and looked back again. In his childish mind realisation dawned and he gave out a cry of bewilderment. He reined in, jumped off the cart and looked around, and tears began to fill his eyes. Terror filled them too and his great, big limbs froze. He collapsed by the side of the road and howled and the bulls blinked their great big eyes at him.
He was thus sat by the side of the road until noon, still whimpering and wondering, and very, very frightened when his cousins found him, their illicit cargo strangely returned to them. Of course, they couldn’t get anything out of their speech deprived cousin, and of course the bulls couldn’t chatter either. Very wisely the two brothers thought that this was a sign and decided to lie low…for a while at least.
Mara had figured that Gaja had encountered a demon on the way; that accounted for his two unsuccessful trips. In a roundabout way he told his wife what had happened; this woman while putting her children to sleep decided that this was a great story for her boys.
Now Mara’s son loved to be the centre of attention among his white classmates, and he pig-headedly believed that BekaWaide fancied him, so in his halting English he told them the story, adding more frills to the frills that his mother had added when she told him the story. Doug Geoghegan, with his arm hung on Alan’s shoulder listened with interest and looked very amused. Beka’s face reddened as she strove not to laugh. Alan’s face was like marble.
“And this happened to your dad when he was a boy?” Doug asked the enthusiastic lad, popping an eyebrow up. “Hmmm. Interesting.”
“And frightening,” added Alan pretending to shiver.
“Very frightening,” stressed Beka. “Football you beggars?”
“You bet,” cried both boys in unison.
The three pranksters paced away, roaring with laughter and Mara’s son wondered if he had scored with the Headmaster’s daughter or not. He would have been sure he had…not, if only he had heard the girl of his dreams comment:
“Demons! My…a..unt!”
