James Patrick Kelly by Burn (epub)

Author:Burn (epub)
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Things do not change; we change.

–JOURNAL, 1850

The High Gregory sat next to Spur in the bed of the Sawatdees’ truck, their backs against the cab, watching the dust billow behind them. Sly and Ngonda rode up front. As the truck jolted down Blue Valley Road, Spur could not help but see the excitement on the High Gregory’s face. The dirt track was certainly rough, but the boy was bouncing so high Spur was worried that he’d fly over the side. He was even making Sly nervous, and the old farmer was usually as calm as moss. But then Sly Sawatdee didn’t make a habit of giving rides to upsiders. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the High Gregory through the open rear slider.

Spur had no doubt that his cover story for the High Gregory and Ngonda was about to unravel. The High Gregory had decided to wear purple overalls with about twenty brass buttons. Although there was nothing wrong with his black T-shirt, the bandana knotted around his neck was a pink disaster embellished with cartoons of beets and carrots and corn on the cob. At least he had used some upsider trick to disguise the color of his eyes. Ngonda’s clothes weren’t quite as odd, but they too were a problem. Spur had seen citizens wearing flair jackets and high-collar shirts—but not on a hot summer Sunday and not in Littleton. Ngonda was dressed for a meeting at the Cooperative’s Office of Diplomacy in Concord. Spur’s only hope was to whisk them both to Diligence Cottage and either hide them there or find them something more appropriate to wear.

“Tell me about the gosdogs,” said the High Gregory.

Spur leaned closer, trying to hear him over the roar of the truck’s engine, the clatter of its suspension and the crunch of tires against the dirt road. “Say again?”

“The gosdogs,” shouted the High Gregory. “One of your native species. You know, four-footed, feathered, they run in packs.”

“Gosdogs, yes. What do you want to know?”

“You eat them.”

“I don’t.” The High Gregory seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, but Spur wasn’t sure what he wanted to know exactly. “Other citizens do, but the browns only. The other breeds are supposed to be too stringy.”

“And when you kill them, do they know they’re about to die? How do you do it?”

“I don’t.” Spur had never slaughtered a gosdog; Cape didn’t believe in eating them. However, Spur had slaughtered chickens and goats and helped once with a bull. Butchering was one of the unpleasant chores that needed doing on a farm, like digging postholes or mucking out the barn. “They don’t suffer.”

“Really? That’s good to know.” The High Gregory did not look convinced. “How smart do you think they are?”

At that moment Sly stepped on the brakes and swung the steering wheel; the truck bumped onto the smooth pavement of Civic Route 22.

“Not very,” said Spur. With the road noise abating, his voice carried into the cab.

“Not very what?” said Constant Ngonda.

The High Gregory propped himself up to speak through the open window.

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