The Giant, O'Brien: A Novel

Начало книги

All crib from skulls and bones who push the pen.

Readers crave bodies. We’re the resurrection men.

—GEORGE MACBETH, The Cleaver Garden

one

“Bring in the cows now. Time to shut up for the night.”

There came three cows, breathing in the near-dark: swishing with the tips of their tails, their bones showing through hide. They set down their hooves among the men, jostling. Flames from the fire danced in their eyes. Through the open door, the moon sailed against the mountain.

“Or O’Shea will have them away over the hill,” Connor said. Connor was their host. “Three cows my grandfather had of his grandfather. Never a night goes by that he doesn’t look to get the debt paid.”

“An old quarrel,” Claffey said. “They’re the best.”

Pybus spat. “O’Shea, he’d grudge you the earache. If you’d a boil he’d grudge it you. His soul is as narrow as a needle.”

“Look now, Connor,” the Giant said. His tone was interested. “What’d you do if you had four cows?”

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