Bruar's Rest

so forcefully, and thought it better to smother her cat inquisitiveness and go with the others. Still, a wee peek might be possible if she hid up on the quarry lip. She followed as far as the vantage point, then found a big rock. From here she’d witness what was sending people scurrying like mice in a dark cowshed from a torch held by the farmer.
    Way down below, men were scattering their campfires and dousing flames, loudly exchanging opinions on which fighter they thought would win. ‘Bull will mush him,’ said one, while another swore Moses had the height to beat Buckley.
    She could just make out Mother Foy’s wagon, and already the old woman had it shuttered and locked. ‘No doubt she’ll have several old folks crowded inside playing cards, having seen it all before,’ she thought.
    Butterflies fluttered under her ribs. Adrenaline forced her eyes wide, ears strained to hear the fighting talk down below. Then a giant of a man walked briskly into the quarry. Circles of excited men chanted ‘Moses—Moses—Moses!’ Fists punched the evening air. He stopped, darting eyes from wagons to trees, as if checking his fighting ground. He grabbed a boy, a small elf-like youngster, and ordered him to make certain there were none of Bull’s men hiding to knife him when he got the better of his opponent. Like a rat the tiny lad shot in and out of every available corner, calling out repeatedly, ‘Nothing in here, Mo.’
    Then, little by little, the baying of the crowd for blood fell silent. All eyes turned toward the man who would fight Moses—Bull Buckley himself.
    ‘So this is the beast, then,’ she thought, ‘let’s see if he’s as bad a bear as I’m told.’
    He wasn’t as tall as she’d imagined, but by God he was broad all right, like a small bullock. ‘He’s well named there,’ she thought. He’d thick, wavy, red hair that fell over one eye. His shirtsleeves rolled above the elbows exposed hamshanks for forearms.
    She couldn’t make out either man’s facial expression, being so far up, but she was glad in a way she couldn’t.
    Ruth, who had wondered why she wasn’t with them on the moor, came back to find her. She huddled down. ‘God, look what the night’s dragged in,’ she snarled, eyeing up Buckley. ‘He’ll rip Moses to shreds. I’m glad we brought in the washing, it’ll stop it getting blood-splattered. Durin will feel a pained man by this night’s end.’
    ‘Do you mind if I stay here, Ruth? Being from a mild-natured tribe we never did that—the bare knuckling, that is. I’m curious to see how they perform.’
    ‘You stay, fill your mind. I promise you, though, that by the end of it your bread and ham will be yellow vomit on the grass.’ Ruth crawled away, leaving Megan to watch. She didn’t scare that easy, though. After finding big Rory with his throat cut and O’Connor’s face split open, it would take a lot to sicken her. ‘It’s only a fight,’ she told herself, ‘There’s nothing scary about two brainless mongrels bleeding each other, just something to tell my Bruar about when we meet.’ As she hid in relative safety behind her natural hiding place of slate rock, down below more and more spectators poured into the circle. Torches were lit and held high, so no one would miss a punch or a spit. Voices screamed odds on Moses, while as many did the same for Bull. Four men came running up the road. Daylight was fading fast, but she could just make out that each held a chunky pole; a bit like a small caber. For a minute she wondered what they were for, watching as each of the men dug holes an equal distance apart, then dropped their wooden posts in. A young lad ran around with a rope, and in no time the pair of fighters stood facing each other like gladiators in a square booth.
    Moses had a large cigar clamped between his teeth. Every so often he’d remove it, spit at Bull’s feet, toss back his head, laugh, and shout at the sky, causing every man there to fall silent as the grave. ‘Look what thinks can beat me—a shit-stump pikey, and me the best street fighter ever drew breath, born with raging knuckles.’ He seemed to bite the air like a coiled snake, lowered his eyelids, and then popped his eyeballs to roll them around in his head. Each movement was to his followers a message of aggression. Another jerk of his jaw almost shoved his eyes out of their sockets, and his head, which was shaped like a rugby ball, turned a deep purple. ‘Moses,’ he roared,