Cold in the Earth by Aline Templeton Page B

centuries, from ancient Greece to modern Spain.
    At least Conrad had been acknowledged as an adversary. That was all he’d wanted – wasn’t it? He wasn’t angry any more, except with the Fates wearing official faces who might at any moment dictate the destruction of a relationship that went back over twenty years – a relationship of challenge and response.
    For a moment Conrad held back. The grass was slick with the snow which was just starting to melt. Satan was, what, sixty, seventy yards away across the field? It would be insane, of course – he wasn’t twenty now and it must be ten years since their last encounter . . .
    Conrad had played the game first in his early teens. Edgar had caught him once and thrashed him to within an inch of his life, not because of the danger to himself but because the effort of charging took condition off the bull. It hadn’t stopped Conrad, though, and he’d had a couple of narrow shaves when Satan was in his prime. Surely the beast would be slower now?
    In a matter of weeks, days even, there might be no Satan, no Chapelton herd, if the white-coated men came bent on genocide. His throat constricted at the thought and in the grip of some sort of nostalgic madness, Conrad jumped down into the field and stepped slowly towards the bull, every muscle tense with concentration.
    Satan snorted once more, tossing his head the better to catch the scent of the intruder, his enemy. He pawed the ground as the man took another few, measured steps towards him.
    The charge, when it came, was as always with bulls sudden and implausibly fast for such a bulky creature. The game was to hold your ground for as long as you dared before you fled: Conrad stood still for the first five seconds, retreated for two more, then turned and ran for his life as the ground began to tremble under his feet.
    It came close to a fatal miscalculation. He had trespassed fewer than ten yards into the bull’s territory but he had left his escape dangerously late. As he turned his foot slipped on the treacherous ground and he all but fell; only a desperate effort saved him and he could actually feel the panting breath on the back of his neck as he flung himself over the gate to safety. A fraction of a second later, Satan’s head connected with the stout metal, rattling its poles.
    He must have been mad. Despite the cold, sweat was pouring down Conrad’s face as he fumbled for another cigarette, then needed three attempts to light it. He was getting an unnervingly close look at those sharp, wicked horns as Satan directed them at the gate yet again.
    Gradually Conrad’s racing heart slowed. That must have given it a better workout than half an hour on the treadmill at the gym. He grinned shakily and touched one finger to his forehead in a mock salute as the bull raged to and fro, eyes rolling white, nostrils flaring, shaking his nose-ring and blowing clouds of steaming breath into the cool, damp air as he patrolled his boundaries.
    Conrad’s grin faded. It was all too hideously likely that the next challenge would come from the men with needles carrying death, and no proud defiance from one of the lords of life would move them either to fear or to pity.

6
    The black crow was flying slowly, coasting on the currents of buffeting wind under a lowering sky. Sated on carrion, it had flown further than usual, unimpeded by the need to scan the ground for food, and beneath it now were acres of evergreen forest, bleak moors, an isolated farmstead. Then the hilly ground flattened and fields of rich green pasture appeared where black cattle browsed. The ruffling surface of water in a makeshift cattle trough caught its eyes and it descended in leisurely sweeps to perch on the edge of the rusty old bath. It dipped in its beak, once, twice, three times, and then with thirst as well as hunger satisfied took off again.
    For a brief moment, a red stain showed on the water, then dispersed.
    There was an air of unreality about this