The Journey Read Free Page B

madness in them, and there’s no sense to be had from them, no sense at all. What about you? What does the artist in you do?’
    Argus was taken by surprise and tried to think. ‘I suppose my leatherwork,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I like making belts and stuff like that.’ He wondered about his parents, and decided that his mother’s astronomy was an outlet for her, but it was more difficult to identify one for his father. Gardening, perhaps? He seemed to get a lot of pleasure from the flowers he grew in his garden.
    As the two of them ate under the trees Argus pondered the scene in front of him once more. ‘What are they growing?’ he asked.
    â€˜Grapes,’ the man replied, showing no surprise at the question.
    â€˜Is there much work around?’
    â€˜Yes, they’d probably take you on, but it’s not easy.’
    â€˜No, I can see that from your painting.’ Argus finished his pie and licked the crumbs from his lips, then leaned back, drowsily enjoying the afternoon sun. He could hear the occasional murmur of voices from the pickers, who were gradually moving closer to them. He heard the chattering of the frustrated parrots in the trees on the far side of the field. The rich warm smells of the harvest settled around him as his eyes slowly closed. He said to the artist, ‘It’s a pity you can’t paint smells and sounds and flavours’ but the man, who had resumed his painting, did not reply. Or did he say, ‘I do’? Argus, asleep from his ears down, could not be sure.

Chapter Four
    T hat evening Argus was caught in a violent thunderstorm that frightened him. He was soaked through. It did not last long, but at its climax a tree on a slight rise on the other side of the river was struck by lightning and exploded with a booming crash. The world was reduced to nothing but noise. Argus knew he was probably not going to be frizzled by a stray bolt, but it was exciting to realise that it was a possibility. He enjoyed the storm while being terrified by it and wishing it would end. When the thunder and lightning finally moved away, across the plains, a heavy downpour of rain completed the drenching of the shivering boy, who by this stage was huddled under a fallen tree. He waited until the showers too had ended and nothing was left of the storm but an unspectacular drizzle; then he set out across the fields for some trees that he guessed concealed and sheltered some buildings.
    It was a long and uncomfortable walk but his guess proved to be correct: the trees hid a farm, a large white house, a spread of outbuildings and yards. The house was too grand for Argus, who felt that he was probably a miserable sight in his bedraggled clothes. And there were wet strands of hair plastered across his forehead.
    He picked out a large low building on the edge of the complex and slipped over towards it. The smells and scuffling noises emanating from it suggested to him that it was the stables. Argus entered the building quickly and quietly, but there were no people there. The horses, most of whom were eating from feed-bins, paid him no attention. Argus, however, was astounded by their number. He had never seen so many horses in one place in his life. He walked down the central aisle of the building, examining them more closely. They were fine-looking creatures, obviously well-tended, though Argus, a farmer’s son, thought rather contemptuously that they would not be good for more than an hour’s hard work at a time. He was accustomed to the sturdier, less glamorous mountain ponies.
    But the building was dry and warm and the presence of the horses gave it a homely feeling. Argus found an empty stall and stripped off his clothing, then leant over into the adjacent pen and grabbed an old towel that was hanging there, which had obviously been used to rub down the animals. The occupant of the stall, a restless-looking, beautifully-contoured young stallion, tossed his