David Yates’ serialisation of The Last Bullfighter continues this weekend with chapter five. Ed
The two swallows had gathered all the suitable birds they could find on their long flight from Portsmouth dockyard. Now they had to think of a plan to take on the men with the guns.
“We need to have a good look at this beach you keep talking about,” Yul said, before closing his eyes that night.
“I sense we are near there now,” replied Dickie. “In the morning I will take you to visit this terrible place.”
As dawn broke, the birds took flight, flapping the cold stiffness from their wings as they soared towards the glint of shining water away in the distance. After a hearty breakfast of grass seeds, insects and caterpillars, it took less than two hours to reach the sea – the Mediterranean, as Rory called it.
They landed on the edge of the first stretch of sand they came to, taking a safe position in a tall palm tree that threw long early morning shadows across the deserted beach. Dickie sniffed the breeze. He could smell familiar scents in the air. African aromas drifted towards him from across the sea, the sweet fragrance of olives and sun-ripened tomatoes from further up the coast. He felt very close to the place he most dreaded. There was only one way to make certain.
“Hang on here a minute, Mucky and I will fly up to the clouds to find out where we are.”
The two swallows swept up into the sky. As they climbed through a cloud of flying insects, they took on extra nutrition for the ascent, as their wings began to tire in the thinning air. The ground below them fell away. The trees looked like blades of grass. The wide strip of sea became a river, and further west along its northern bank they could see the building they used as a marker on their annual crossing. A large, round, tiered building. They didn’t realise it was a bullring.
The swallows stayed at high altitude for some time, surveying the surrounding countryside, and memorizing the layout. They dived steeply to bring the hills and fields into closer focus, and then spiralled in great circles to pay closer attention to the inhabitants of many of these fields – hundreds of bulls. The seeds of an idea were being sown in Dickie’s head.
“Ah, you’re back. We thought you’d been shot or something,” greeted Bluey, as the swallows returned to the palm tree, their tiny chests beating madly. Dickie drew several deep breaths, then began his de-brief.
“We’re in the right place. Well, almost. Just a few miles up the coast is the small town we use as a signpost when we cross the sea. Just to the west of the town is the beach where the men stand with their guns. I know I’m not mistaken. I’ve seen it twice, and I’ll never forget it.”
“Okay you guys,” said Rory, in a John Wayne voice, “When do we hit the beach?”
The other birds laughed, not because they recognised John Wayne’s voice, but because the notion of attacking so soon after arriving seemed perfectly ridiculous.
“Before we go hitting any beach, we need to recruit a little more help,” replied Yul. “A flock of birds on their own would never make a match for fifty guns. We need to find some other way of using our brains to beat their brawn.”
The birds stayed in the palm tree, discussing all the possible options for launching an attack. But nothing they could think of sounded as if it had any chance of success. The recruited birds did most of the talking. The swallows perched on the outer palm leaves and listened carefully, only adding the occasional, “Good idea.” or, “Yeah, that might work.”
Generally though, they contributed little to the main point of the conference – how the birds could beat fifty men with guns. Dickie looked up to the sky in desperation for an answer. And there it was passing overhead, a cloud shaped like a bull. He uttered a high-pitched shriek, “Sree-sree-sree – I’ve got it – I’ve got it – I’ve got it. When we were up in the sky we saw great fields of bulls. We could try using the bulls to help us attack the men!”
Rory summed up the moment for them all, as the birds fell silent in deep thought at what the little feeble swallow had suggested. In his very best Dr Watson-voice, he rubbed his beak with his left wingtip and proclaimed,
“Do you know what Holmes? That’s truly brilliant. What an astounding piece of logic. Holmes, I do believe you’re a genius.”
The other birds thought he was a genius too, although none of them could quite work out how they could get bulls to help them defeat men with guns. Birds didn’t have guns, and nor did bulls.
“Let’s break for lunch guys,” cried Yul. “I’m feeling a little peckish. We’ll find the nearest market, and think about this bulls idea in the afternoon.”
Check back tomorrow for part two and find out whether the birds manage to recruit the help of the bulls.
Image: dchousegrooves
