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Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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Bernalillo County, the voice from the ether said, was pleased to honor food stamps. There was going to be a social dance at the Tuba City Chapter. Sports results were brought courtesy of Massey-Ferguson tractors.
Isa made the soda last. When his eyelids started to grow heavy, he climbed out of the truck and rubbed his legs and ran in place to start his blood moving. Still yawning, he drew his father’s old Browning Auto-5 shotgun from the blanket on the cab seat. The sheep were quiet. He’d take one turn around the flock and come back for a nap.
Something fluttered by him. A nighthawk, he thought. The only problem with sheep was during the spring, when coyotes came in for the lambs, or during shearing if the clipping was done badly and cut up the sheep, then the smell of blood would make coyotes bold. But Isa was a good clipper. He left the sheep shorn down to their pink skin without a nick.
He walked for about fifty yards before he became very awake. He could hardly see the sheep, although he heard a constant rustling. The sheep were there, he knew they wouldn’t leave the grass. There was that rustling, a busy, papery rustling that came from every direction. He fought a first, childish impulse to run. And then, just a few feet in front of him, he saw the pale blue of a sleeping sheep’s head. Baby, he scolded himself.
Strangely, he could make out the legs but not the body of the sheep. He could see the head of another sheep, but not its body either. A wing grazed the boy’s long hair, fanning his cheek. Something touched his foot. There was a rusted flashlight with weak batteries in his pocket. He aimed the flashlight at the nearer sheep. A pale, yellow beam picked out the steadily breathing nostrils of the sheep. The light slid back over the curly head.
At first, the sheep’s flanks seemed to be covered by a gray blanket. Then two of the bats raised their eyes to the beam and he saw the blanket was a dozen bats lying on a sheet of blood. The next sheep had its own blanket of bats and, as Isa swung the flashlight around, he saw that all the sheep were covered in the same manner, sleeping under the feeding. The bats were larger than any he’d ever seen before and the ones he’d disturbed only glared at him with open mouths. He shined the light downwards and kicked off a bat that was climbing up his pants.
With all his strength, Isa swung his father’s shotgun at the sheep.
The bats, as a community, were first aroused by the explosion of the shotgun. Two bats were dead. Those closest scattered, only to land a short distance away. The community as a whole drew in, ringing the source of the noise. There were no leaders, except in that the communal instincts would first be carried out by the most aggressive individuals, the females, among a very aggressive species of animal. The instincts were to protect the Food and to repel an aggressor, which they could clearly see was a single man. In a sense, then, more Food. The ring drew tighter.
The Food was a marvelous thing. There were few animals in the world, and no other at the bats’ level of intelligence, whose every organ and sense were so designed and attuned solely for the taking of sustenance, and perhaps this was true because no other animal was so uniquely surrounded by it. From every other warm-blooded animal they could feel the pulsing of the Food, or taste it in the air so rich with sweat and exhalations. As a result, to the bats there were no natural enemies, not even man. There could be no enemies, when all was the Food.
A bat darted by the boy, easily dodging the stroke of a shotgun stock. Another bat flashed by him, slicing his nose. The boy turned in a circle, flailing the air. The agitation, his labored breathing and the pounding of his heart, excited the bats. A whirlpool of them swirled around him, just out of reach of the shotgun. From straight above, one dived and tore open his ear. He fell and at once his back was covered with bats, which
Isa made the soda last. When his eyelids started to grow heavy, he climbed out of the truck and rubbed his legs and ran in place to start his blood moving. Still yawning, he drew his father’s old Browning Auto-5 shotgun from the blanket on the cab seat. The sheep were quiet. He’d take one turn around the flock and come back for a nap.
Something fluttered by him. A nighthawk, he thought. The only problem with sheep was during the spring, when coyotes came in for the lambs, or during shearing if the clipping was done badly and cut up the sheep, then the smell of blood would make coyotes bold. But Isa was a good clipper. He left the sheep shorn down to their pink skin without a nick.
He walked for about fifty yards before he became very awake. He could hardly see the sheep, although he heard a constant rustling. The sheep were there, he knew they wouldn’t leave the grass. There was that rustling, a busy, papery rustling that came from every direction. He fought a first, childish impulse to run. And then, just a few feet in front of him, he saw the pale blue of a sleeping sheep’s head. Baby, he scolded himself.
Strangely, he could make out the legs but not the body of the sheep. He could see the head of another sheep, but not its body either. A wing grazed the boy’s long hair, fanning his cheek. Something touched his foot. There was a rusted flashlight with weak batteries in his pocket. He aimed the flashlight at the nearer sheep. A pale, yellow beam picked out the steadily breathing nostrils of the sheep. The light slid back over the curly head.
At first, the sheep’s flanks seemed to be covered by a gray blanket. Then two of the bats raised their eyes to the beam and he saw the blanket was a dozen bats lying on a sheet of blood. The next sheep had its own blanket of bats and, as Isa swung the flashlight around, he saw that all the sheep were covered in the same manner, sleeping under the feeding. The bats were larger than any he’d ever seen before and the ones he’d disturbed only glared at him with open mouths. He shined the light downwards and kicked off a bat that was climbing up his pants.
With all his strength, Isa swung his father’s shotgun at the sheep.
The bats, as a community, were first aroused by the explosion of the shotgun. Two bats were dead. Those closest scattered, only to land a short distance away. The community as a whole drew in, ringing the source of the noise. There were no leaders, except in that the communal instincts would first be carried out by the most aggressive individuals, the females, among a very aggressive species of animal. The instincts were to protect the Food and to repel an aggressor, which they could clearly see was a single man. In a sense, then, more Food. The ring drew tighter.
The Food was a marvelous thing. There were few animals in the world, and no other at the bats’ level of intelligence, whose every organ and sense were so designed and attuned solely for the taking of sustenance, and perhaps this was true because no other animal was so uniquely surrounded by it. From every other warm-blooded animal they could feel the pulsing of the Food, or taste it in the air so rich with sweat and exhalations. As a result, to the bats there were no natural enemies, not even man. There could be no enemies, when all was the Food.
A bat darted by the boy, easily dodging the stroke of a shotgun stock. Another bat flashed by him, slicing his nose. The boy turned in a circle, flailing the air. The agitation, his labored breathing and the pounding of his heart, excited the bats. A whirlpool of them swirled around him, just out of reach of the shotgun. From straight above, one dived and tore open his ear. He fell and at once his back was covered with bats, which
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