Celluliferous: Bearing or producing little cells
Yerba mate: is a species of the holly family. It is well known as the source of the beverage called mate (Portuguese: chimarrão), which is traditionally consumed in central and southern South America
Amigo: A friend – a Spanish term
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The bagualero wheels his horse to one side; its eyes are bulging with adrenaline, jelly quivering above nostrils flaring at the stench of blood. He yanks the bridle hard to stop it from bolting, his companion nearby starts to laugh. He is younger, more cocksure and with skin yet to be wrinkled by the weather, his baseball cap is tugged tightly onto his head.
Hey amigo, shut your mouth, shouts the older bagualero, you gotta stay fucking focused. You know what that thing can do to you? You ever seen a fucking horn sticking out the other fucking side of someone’s fucking leg?
The young bagualero’s smirk disappears. No, I ain’t seen that, he says quietly. He strokes the snout of his horse, soothing it, whispering sweet nothings into its ears. The horse is younger too. The younger bagualero looks off into the trees, nothing moves amongst the trees except the insects, buzzing lazily under the early morning heat, thick as honey.
The older man snorts with derision and wheels his horse left then right, bridle still clenched tightly in his hands whilst the fat, muscular head of the horse writhes like a serpent before him. It slows and paws nervously at the ground. The bagualero is a weather beaten sculpture of a man, might as well be hewn from rock; only his leather jacket, tatty and old, has taken more punishment from the elements than he has.
He slips a small cantina from an inside pocket, unscrews the cap quickly with a single twist; it’s all in the wrist, baby. He swigs the chimarrão, hot and tart to the taste, it keeps his head clear. The yerba mate leaves rustle against the metallic interior, imprisoned, trapped in a corner and desperate to escape. The old bagualero takes a second gulp, swills his mouth with the third and spits it on the ground.
I can hear the dogs, he says, suddenly alert. Listen.
The young bagualero strains forward, his ears drinking in sounds, now he hears it too. He nods.
Within seconds the dogs are there, barking, yapping, howling, all drunk on the adrenaline of the chase, their mouths frothy with spit. They spill into the clearing, like the breaking of a dam; footprints cover the ground, shallow hoofs splitting and expanding so celluliferously.
In the middle of the pack is the beast, a juggernaut intent on causing havoc, its baleful gaze falls squarely on the old man, a glimmer of recognition, defiance. My old friend, says the old bagualero, my old fucking friend.
The bull snorts, feet kicking dogs away like dust, flanks engorged, thick as armour. Its body is flecked by the blood of superfluous bite marks, the dogs too eager, starved for too long.
Ready your lasso, calls the older bagualero, we only got one shot, so don’t fuck it up.
The boy’s rope is in his hand already, spinning. The bull senses something, snaps its head around, the rippling crack of straining muscle fibres. It sees the boy with the rope. The bull is trapped in a corner, desperate to escape.
It charges. The dogs howl in delight.
Stories On The Sofa 