Read Online Boy on the Edge by Fridrik Erlings - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fridrik Erlings
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the soft fragrance that trailed behind her, of white soap and purple flowers and the warm sun in a clear blue sky. And his heart jumped with relief.
When he lifted the milk containers out of the cooling tank they felt light as feathers, and he carried them outside with no effort at all. When the tanker arrived he grabbed the containers by the handle with one hand, placed the other hand under the bottom, and almost threw them up in the air. The driver stood on a platform, ready to pull up the containers, but he was quite unprepared for having to grab them in midair.
“Whoa! Not so fast,” he cried. “Feeling strong today, are we?” He grinned.
Henry couldn’t help but smile.
“Yeah,” he growled. “Very strong.”
Early spring was the most exciting time for the little ones.
They were happily captivated by the wonder of the little lambs that were being born into the world. Emily had put them on night shifts, two at a time, and if any ewes started to give birth in the middle of the night, one of them was to run to the house and wake her.
Reverend Oswald used the opportunity to talk a lot about the Lamb of God. The boys had seldom understood his preaching so well.
At breakfast they had sleepless, bloodshot eyes from staying awake and watching over the ewes. They had a competition among them over who had delivered the most lambs. Henry didn’t understand their excitement, how they marveled at the fragile state of a newborn lamb barely able to rise on its trembling feet.
He wasn’t put on any night shifts in the lambing season, for he had the cows to take care of, and he fed the sheep twice a day too. He was disgusted by the slimy bugs that the ewes squeezed out of their rears. They woke him up, abruptly, in the middle of the night with their high-pitched bleating, so he had to cover his ears with his arms. And to make matters worse, the bitter stench of sheep shit oozed through the wall, somehow stronger than before.
Finally all the ewes had given birth, and the old farmhand, who now lived on a neighboring farm, came to inspect them.
Henry heard that the boys had nicknamed him the Brute, because of his manners, bulk, and filthy language. He was a tall, tanned man with a cigarette constantly hanging from the corner of his wide mouth, wearing blue overalls that were far too baggy for him, spotted with everything from paint to plain dirt.
The Brute had arrived to brand the lambs.
About half the boys were in the dormitory, packing their bags, for they were leaving on the afternoon bus. Some were going back home, others to new foster parents in another part of the country.
The rest of the boys sat in a row upon the fence inside the sheep shed, unaware of the horror that was about to take place. Henry stood by the door that opened into the barn and watched.
The Brute moved quickly, seizing a lamb in his large hands, kneeling on the slatted floor, holding the trembling animal in his crotch with one hand and brandishing a pair of rusty shears in the other, stroking the white velvet ear with its sharp blade. Then he glanced at the boys on the fence with a murky grin.
“Now I’ll teach you how to do this,” he said. “The brand mark for this farm is: tip-cut left; slant-cut right. Now, how am I to do that?”
The boys had no idea what he was talking about.
The Brute held the lamb tightly, placing the velvet ear between the rusty blades of the shears, cutting the tip of the left ear in a quick move.
The lamb jumped up, screaming, shaking its head wildly, as the blood ran down its curly cheeks. Its mother bleated loudly on the other side of the fence, furiously trying to climb over to protect her little one. The boys’ faces turned pale. Some covered their ears because of the lamb’s high-pitched screams of pain. Or perhaps they just felt for the little thing, rubbing their own ears to try to soothe those of the lamb.
The Brute grinned and squinted through the cigarette smoke, assessing the
When he lifted the milk containers out of the cooling tank they felt light as feathers, and he carried them outside with no effort at all. When the tanker arrived he grabbed the containers by the handle with one hand, placed the other hand under the bottom, and almost threw them up in the air. The driver stood on a platform, ready to pull up the containers, but he was quite unprepared for having to grab them in midair.
“Whoa! Not so fast,” he cried. “Feeling strong today, are we?” He grinned.
Henry couldn’t help but smile.
“Yeah,” he growled. “Very strong.”
Early spring was the most exciting time for the little ones.
They were happily captivated by the wonder of the little lambs that were being born into the world. Emily had put them on night shifts, two at a time, and if any ewes started to give birth in the middle of the night, one of them was to run to the house and wake her.
Reverend Oswald used the opportunity to talk a lot about the Lamb of God. The boys had seldom understood his preaching so well.
At breakfast they had sleepless, bloodshot eyes from staying awake and watching over the ewes. They had a competition among them over who had delivered the most lambs. Henry didn’t understand their excitement, how they marveled at the fragile state of a newborn lamb barely able to rise on its trembling feet.
He wasn’t put on any night shifts in the lambing season, for he had the cows to take care of, and he fed the sheep twice a day too. He was disgusted by the slimy bugs that the ewes squeezed out of their rears. They woke him up, abruptly, in the middle of the night with their high-pitched bleating, so he had to cover his ears with his arms. And to make matters worse, the bitter stench of sheep shit oozed through the wall, somehow stronger than before.
Finally all the ewes had given birth, and the old farmhand, who now lived on a neighboring farm, came to inspect them.
Henry heard that the boys had nicknamed him the Brute, because of his manners, bulk, and filthy language. He was a tall, tanned man with a cigarette constantly hanging from the corner of his wide mouth, wearing blue overalls that were far too baggy for him, spotted with everything from paint to plain dirt.
The Brute had arrived to brand the lambs.
About half the boys were in the dormitory, packing their bags, for they were leaving on the afternoon bus. Some were going back home, others to new foster parents in another part of the country.
The rest of the boys sat in a row upon the fence inside the sheep shed, unaware of the horror that was about to take place. Henry stood by the door that opened into the barn and watched.
The Brute moved quickly, seizing a lamb in his large hands, kneeling on the slatted floor, holding the trembling animal in his crotch with one hand and brandishing a pair of rusty shears in the other, stroking the white velvet ear with its sharp blade. Then he glanced at the boys on the fence with a murky grin.
“Now I’ll teach you how to do this,” he said. “The brand mark for this farm is: tip-cut left; slant-cut right. Now, how am I to do that?”
The boys had no idea what he was talking about.
The Brute held the lamb tightly, placing the velvet ear between the rusty blades of the shears, cutting the tip of the left ear in a quick move.
The lamb jumped up, screaming, shaking its head wildly, as the blood ran down its curly cheeks. Its mother bleated loudly on the other side of the fence, furiously trying to climb over to protect her little one. The boys’ faces turned pale. Some covered their ears because of the lamb’s high-pitched screams of pain. Or perhaps they just felt for the little thing, rubbing their own ears to try to soothe those of the lamb.
The Brute grinned and squinted through the cigarette smoke, assessing the
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