Susan Kiernan-Lewis - Free Falling

He remembered for a moment the woman he had fallen in love with so many years ago. Sarah had been downright fearless in those days. It’s a terrible thing to realize the person you thought you knew was just a cover for the person they really were . He wondered if she thought that about him. Had he changed since they’d come to Ireland? It was only three weeks but he now had callouses he never imagined owning back then. He closed his eyes. And here he was sitting out in the middle of a pasture a hundred miles from nowhere in the middle of the frigging night, waiting to shoot someone for messing with his sheep. Yeah, not in a million years could he ever have imagined that scenario back home. And David found himself smiling as he dropped off to sleep.

“Whoa, you’re a heavy sleeper, Dad. What if I were a wolf or something?”

David woke to the sight of his son walking toward him and leading his pony. It was daylight. David yawned and stretched, instantly feeling every rock and stick that had dug into his back and hips while he’d slept.

“Hey, John,” he said. “I don’t suppose you brought a thermos of coffee?”

John started counting the sheep.

“They’re all there,” David said, getting up and picking up his blanket. “Rocky was my early warning device and he didn’t go off all night so I know we’re fine.”

“Mom says breakfast is ready. I’ll take over now.”

David packed his saddlebag and tightened Rocky’s girth.

“I don’t think predators will attack in the daylight,” he said.

John frowned. “Is that true? They only attack at night?”

David realized he had no idea.

“Only at night,” he said. “Don’t stay out too long, okay, sport? I’m going home to catch some shut-eye.”

“I’ll be fine,” John said. He gave the gun a glance as David mounted with it, cracked open over his arm.

“You don’t need the gun,” David said. “Something comes, throw rocks at it or come get me.”

“Fine,” John muttered.

Back at the cottage, a hot breakfast of scrambled eggs, biscuits and tea awaited him. And something else.

“Eat fast,” Sarah said when he’d peeled off his jacket and sat down to his breakfast. “We don’t know how long he’ll be gone.”

David had a forkful halfway to his mouth before he realized what she was saying. He bolted his food, grabbed a quick slurp of tea and met his wife in the corner of the cottage that served as their bedroom.

It had been over seven weeks since they’d touched each other in any kind of intimate way.

Later, Sarah quietly did the dishes and let David sleep. It was raining again, turning the thin layer of snow on the ground to slush. She realized she didn’t even care about the rain, about how it affected her intention to tack up Dan and go keep John company at the north pasture. She tried to think of even one time she had been rained on back in the States. She moved from house garage to car to office parking garage and never even owned an umbrella. She didn’t need to. She never got wet.

She realized as she mounted Dan and moved out of the frontcourt of the house that she had felt no anxiety tacking up the horse. She tried to remember when that had stopped. She leaned down and patted the horse on the neck. Probably about the hundredth time she’d moved him out of the stall to clean up after him, or transferred him from barn to paddock. She was halfway to the pasture before she’d realized she was wearing only a thick wool knitted cap for protection against a fall. She’d left her own hardhat in the barn.

She never brought Dan out of a walk, just felt the peaceful rhythm of his gait through her hips and kept her eyes anywhere but on his feet. She left the road after fifteen minutes and let the horse pick his way through the snowy pasture. Trust that he knows what he’s doing, she thought. She watched the birds, the horizon of grey clouds looking like more snow on the way, the slate-blue sky.

The air was crisp and mean against the exposed portion of her face, but also made her feel alive. She listened intently for any sound of her boy and his flock. As she got nearer, a sensation like nervousness tingled in her chest until she realized it was joyful anticipation. The world around her was beautiful and she was an integral part of it. She could see John from the top of the little knoll she had just climbed. He sat on his pony as still as a statue, watching the flock and scanning the surrounding scrub and pasture. When he saw her, his hand went up in a wave and he began to move toward her.

“Did you bring the gun?”

“No, why?”

“I found the culprit,” John twisted in his saddle and waved his hand to indicate that the animal was somewhere behind him. “A dog. He looks starved. We’re gonna have to shoot him.”

Sarah gaped at him. Was her own ten year-old son suggesting they kill a dog?

“Are you serious?”

“About what? That a dog’s killing the sheep?”

“No, about wanting to kill the dog.”

“Mom,” John sounded like he was world-weary having to explain something so basic as his reasoning to her. “I don’t want to kill the dog. I want the sheep to not get eaten.”

“Maybe we could catch the dog,” she said with no conviction.

“So he can eat our chickens? Or Lucy?” (He’d named the goat.) Miz McClenny says once a dog’s eaten a chicken or a sheep, he can’t unlearn the wanting for them.”

Sarah felt a wave of exhaustion and resentment. Why do we have to go through this? Why does my child have to even consider killing an animal we’ve taught him to consider a pet? Why does everything have to be so hard?

“Dad will do it,” she said tonelessly. “If you’re sure it’s the dog.”

“Saw him with blood on his face. Saw him stalking the flock.”

“Okay. Let’s let Dad sleep a little longer. We’ll stand guard on the flock in the meantime. Unless you’re cold and want to—”

“I’m good.”

Sarah looked at the sheep. They’re oblivious, she thinks. Danger is so close and they don’t know. They’re too stupid to be afraid. Then she looked at John and watched him as he continued to scan the horizon, the brush and the rest of the pasture. Maybe , she thought with surprise, maybe they’re not so stupid .

Suddenly, she spotted the dog but not before John launched a handful of rocks at it. Sarah watched the dog retreat—but reluctantly, she thought. It looked like someone’s pet. Not a dingo or something wild. Just something hungry and desperate.

Like us.

She filled her jacket pockets with the small but heavy rocks John had collected and then sent him back to the cottage to fetch his Dad and the gun.

“And don’t come back with him,” she told him. “Grab a bite to eat and feed Star. You don’t need to see this.”

“Mom, I saw Old Yeller ,” he said. But she could see he didn’t want to argue the point with her.

Later that evening, David returned from the pasture. Sarah couldn’t remember ever seeing him look so tired. She and John had heard the rifle report an hour earlier. John hadn’t looked up from the saddle he was trying to mend, but she could see he had registered the shot.

She and John met him in the frontcourt. David tossed the reins to John.

“Put him to bed for the night, will you, sport? Your old man’s beat.”

Sarah put her hand on David’s sleeve and then jerked it back. Something was moving in the knapsack he had used to store the gun.

“Oh, yeah, there’s this,” David said, widening the neck of the sack.

“Puppies!” John cried out, with laughter in his voice. Sarah tried to remember the last time she had heard that happy childish tone come out of his mouth.