Out in the Open by Jesús Carrasco

they had beaten him hardest, the cloth was stuck to his skin. His face was smeared with dried blood. His poor lips were covered in sores and red gashes, his closed lids as swollen as ripe figs. His limbs were bruised and the red weals on his side resembled extra ribs. The boy again tried to wake him, but the man did not respond. He pulled hard on his arm in an attempt to get him to sit up, but it was as if the old man’s body were nailed to the floor of the tower. He slapped his face, and only then did the old man give any sign of life.
    â€˜Don’t hit me, boy. I’ve had quite enough of that.’
    In the old man’s prostrate condition, with his eyes closed and his voice blurred, it seemed as if it wasn’t him who was speaking, but his mind. The boy shook his head in a gesture that, far from releasing the tension he felt, only increased it. Then he covered his face with his hands and ran his rough palms over his skin. Incapable of taking in what had happened, he felt an urge to burst into tears, to cry out or even to inflict harm on himself.
    â€˜Bring me some water.’
    The boy ran off. On the other side of the wall, half a dozen goats, their throats slit, lay in the area that had been shrouded in shadow on the previous afternoon.Their fly-studded wounds were like broad chinstrap smiles. The flies, often mounted one on top of the other, swarmed insalubriously over the wounds, doubtless depositing both eggs and infections. The three surviving goats were grazing nearby, indifferent to the massacre of their fellows and focused entirely on the needs of their own stomachs. The donkey was standing some way off. There was no sign of the dog or the billy goat.
    The contents of the panniers were scattered near the wall: the empty olive oil can, the frying pan, various rags, the crook and the shearing scissors; the plundered basket of raisins and the tobacco pouch turned inside out. He found the flasks uncorked and fallen on the ground. He tried each in turn, but only a few drops of water came out.
    He carried them over to where the old man was lying and placed them upside down before him. The old man gave a snort of despair or resignation and seemed to want to close his eyes more tightly, as if this news made his weals burn still more intensely. In the face of this bottomless pit of pain, the boy felt that had the old man not been in such a state of extreme debilitation, he would gladly have killed himself.
    â€˜Milk one of the goats.’
    The boy decided not to use the method employed by the goatherd, imagining that it would take too long to fix the bucket firmly in the ground and tether the goat’s back legs to the rods. He found the tin where he had thrown it down when he first spotted the bailiff and the two men. He wiped it clean on the tail of his shirt and went over to where the goats were grazing. He crept up to one of them, but, as soon as the creature noticed him, it ran away. He went over to the next one, but with the same result. He spent quite a while chasing after them, but they slipped from his fingers like mercury. He went back to the wall to fetch the goatherd’s crook and tried to remember how the old man had used it. He put it under his arm as if he were Don Quixote with his lance and set off towards the goats. The crook, however, was heavier than he thought and, as he walked, one end tipped forward and became stuck in the earth. He picked it up again and, gripping it firmly with both hands, approached his prey from behind. He slipped the crook between the animal’s legs, but the goat took fright and fled. After several attempts, he resorted to the rather clumsier method of running after them and using the crook to trip them up. When this method finally succeeded, he threw down the crook, leapt on the goat and pinned it to the ground.
    Then, grabbing one of the goat’s hind legs, he dragged the creature over to the wall. Forced to walk backwards, the goat stumbled and