Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling

Book 8/Part 2.

Chapter 7

Bellamy was well cared for all through the summer and autumn. The first Greek farmer he worked for passed him on to a friend, and then there was another who needed extra labour. He was a good worker, happy to continue all day until someone told him to stop. They suspected that as long as he was provided with accommodation and meals, he wouldn't even notice whether or not he was paid. He was obviously simple, hardly spoke, and sometimes trembled for no reason. But he kept himself clean, and was young and goodlooking, with an innocent, unfocused gaze that tended to make people want to caress and reassure.

He no longer fretted in his sleep. The great pain within him had been pushed back, but the cost was a more clouded mind. He no longer knew who he was, or what he was, except that he still used his easy magic to keep himself cleanshaven, and sometimes to clean himself or his clothes. He did as he was told, and found some contentment again. His wives no longer nagged, but sometimes he'd see them, and they'd smile and nod.

In late autumn, he was taken shopping by the wife of his latest employer. She thought he needed new clothes, and helped him buy jeans, and then pointed him to some shirts, wincing as he selected the brightest possible from the rack. Carefully the new clothes were folded and put in the small backpack he liked to carry. And then she allowed him the treat of an ice-cream, pleased to give him pleasure. As she watched him, she wondered idly how far his obedience would go, and flushed as the picture came to her of him working bare-chested in the orchard. And maybe it was because of her own embarrassment at her thoughts, that she instructed him to wait for her as she did her own shopping.

An hour later, he still waited in a small park, where he'd been left. Policemen were apparently investigating some crime, because they were stopping people close. Bellamy rose from his seat, apparently without purpose, and faded from sight behind some shrubbery. Once lost, he had no idea how to return, though his employers had been kind to him. So he walked.

Months later, he walked along a country lane in Spain. Although winter now, the sun shone. He paused in delight. The mares and big foals were Andalusians, he knew it. And they were beautiful. He climbed the fence and talked to them. And he hugged an old white mare who looked at him with wisdom in her gaze. Her black colt was a bit small, as the mare was really too old for breeding, and had not been able to give him the nourishment he should have had, especially in those early months. Bellamy stayed in the paddock with the horses all day, lunching on a few slices of bread from a loaf he carried in his backpack.

In the misty, early morning, the owner of the horses did his routine check, and investigated further when he noticed that three horses had not risen to their feet at his approach. The young man was soaked through with the rain that had fallen in the night, but curled up sound asleep at the flank of the white mare. Her colt grazed nearby.

"What's this then?" Covas asked the mare quietly. The mare whickered very softly, blowing over the man. Bellamy didn't stir. To Covas, he looked rather pitiful, far too thin, and pale with the cold and wet. His small backpack lay nearby. Quietly, Covas looked into the backpack. A few clothes, and a nearly empty bread wrapper.

When he looked back, the young man was awake and blinking at him. He seemed dazed, and his gaze wandered. The white mare nudged him, and he scrambled to his feet.

Jorge Covas still stood, looking impressive in a thick raincoat, with a shoulder cape, and heavy boots. The stray backpacker wore cheap running shoes with holes in them, and they looked to be wet through too. On a sudden thought, Covas asked for a passport, and looked at it carefully as it was handed over. "Henry Bellamy," he said aloud, and he looked at the birthdate. Just twenty. A boy, really. He had papers, he was not an illegal immigrant. Bellamy had still not spoken.

"Do you want breakfast?" Covas asked, and Bellamy gave a wide smile. It seemed that breakfast was a good thought.

"A little work first," Covas said, and Bellamy helped him as ordered as he went about tending to his livestock.

Isabel Covas was surprised that her husband had apparently taken pity on the trespasser. Knowing her husband, she would have rather thought that he'd be sent off with a flea in his ear. She was even more surprised when Covas told the stray that he could stay a little while, and do some work in exchange for a room and meals.

A few weeks later, Covas handed him money, and Isabel took him to the small village close, and helped him buy a warm jacket, a cheap pair of boots, and a new pair of sneakers. Covas paid Bellamy regularly after that, only a small amount, but his needs were few. Bellamy was useful to him, not just that he helped with the work, but he had an almost magical communication with the horses. There were unbroken three year olds being prepared for sale, and Bellamy played with them, talked to them, and hopped, perfectly casually, onto their backs. Covas knew that he'd found a treasure, even when it quickly became obvious that he was somewhat retarded.

Through the winter, things went smoothly. Bellamy very soon knew each one of the fifteen mares, their young ones, and the young of previous years. Except for the fillies chosen for breeding, Covas kept few of his horses, selling them mostly as three year olds, although sometimes younger. He didn't keep a stallion, and his real business was his market garden. There was another worker, who supervised Bellamy, and found that he was able to take it easy himself, as the young man worked, perfectly happily, all day.

Early spring, and buyers started arriving for the three year olds. Bellamy could add a lot of money to the price of an unbroken colt when he was seen to hop on its bare back, and amble around. He didn't encourage them to buck and play, as somewhere in his memory, he knew that his play made it difficult for other riders.

Late spring, and it was time for the breeding mares to be sent to a stallion. Most of them had new foals at foot, and Bellamy had been invaluable there, too. Somehow the foaling always seemed to go easier when he was present.

The white mare had no new foal, and there was another, also, without a foal. They were too old for breeding, last year's colts had grown up, and Covas, as was his usual practice, decided that it was time for them to be put down. It was only practical, he thought, he couldn't afford to keep unproductive horses.

Bellamy was stunned when it dawned on him what was to happen. He protested, stammering and shaking as he tried to tell Covas that he couldn't do that, that it was not yet time. Covas flushed, and Bellamy felt the lash of his temper for the first time. Who was Bellamy to tell him what to do? Covas stalked away, still furious that the half-wit had forgotten his place. The mares were to be taken away the following day.

Bellamy stared after him, still trembling, and now with tears running down his face.

Bellamy's morning chores were completed well before sunrise, and it was only after a leisurely breakfast that Covas discovered that Bellamy was missing with the two old mares, and a little feed. Covas was very loud in his anger, and ignored his wife who reminded him how valuable Bellamy had been.

The local policeman, with Covas in the car with him, found Bellamy quite quickly, walking along the road, in company with the two old mares. The roaring farmer approached, and Bellamy stood protectively in front of the horses. The policeman watched, bemused, as the retarded boy defended the horses. He was vehement, but scarcely coherent at first, stammering through a dozen languages, before settling to Spanish, and explaining frantically that old horses were supposed to be coddled, that there should be an Old Horses' Paddock, and a warm shelter. That only when it was time should they be put down, and it was not time yet.

The farmer roared again, "What's a halfwit like you to tell me what to do?" The halfwit was violently trembling, and tears ran down his face, as he repeated again and again, that it was not time yet. The mares should be allowed to live until it was time.

The policeman touched the farmer on the shoulder, "Jorge?"

Covas had been trembling himself in his fury, but suddenly the anger died, and he took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "We'll make a retirement home for horses - but if I go broke, you realise you'll be out of a job!"

Bellamy didn't understand to begin with, and the policeman said, "You've won, boy! You've beaten Jorge Covas, and I've never seen him lose an argument yet!"

Bellamy questioned, "Boss?"

Covas nodded, "Yes, boy. We'll keep the mares." And Covas had to remind himself that he was a hard man, when the wide smile lit the face of the simple boy.

Work slackened off during the summer, and a neighbour thought that he could do with an extra labourer. Bellamy was sent to help him, but it was only when the two mares were given a place there that Bellamy stopped wandering off. They knew how to keep him then, and Covas shared him around, two old mares and the boy as a job lot. He was mostly treated well, but not always. At one place, the work gang thought it amusing to leave him to work every day as they went to lunch. And they tried to provoke him, at first with insults that he didn't seem to understand, and then with some fairly mild pushing and shoving. After the first few days, he stopped sleeping in the dormitory with the others, instead sleeping outside with his horses.

Isobel Covas was annoyed when he came back to them, again looking too thin. He would not be sent there again, and she complained to the employer. He was a good boy, if simple, and should be looked after.

Bellamy had been with Covas nearly three years, when the white mare became very poor. Covas was very relieved that Bellamy agreed that it was time. He was also surprised that Bellamy was perfectly prepared to stay with the mare as the job was done, as humanely as possible, and well away from the other horses that might have become upset. The other old mare was a few months later. Covas had quietly sold off a couple of other older mares while they were still good for a few foals. He didn't want a herd of old and useless mares consuming good food. He still thought of himself as a hard man.

Bellamy wasn't needed by Covas for a few months, and was sent to a racehorse trainer, who was temporarily short staffed. The other stable helpers thought it was funny when Bellamy couldn't find the room he'd been given, and curled up in the loose box with one of his charges instead. And the head lad found it very convenient that he was apparently perfectly prepared to hand over his pay packet on demand.

It was not until the third week that one of the other lads protested, and told Bellamy firmly that he shouldn't allow his paypacket to be stolen from him every week. Bellamy looked from one to the other in bewilderment. He was supposed to obey orders, and now he was getting conflicting orders.

"Give me the pay, Dopey!" said the head lad.

But Anton had been kind to him, and Anton told him that he should keep his pay, that no-one was allowed to take it from him. Uncertainly, Bellamy put it in his pocket.

Geraldo took a step toward him, and gave him a thump on the ribs. "Give me the pay!" he said again, with emphasis.

Bellamy looked at Anton. Anton said very firmly, "It's your pay, Henry, Keep your pay."

Geraldo thumped him again, but Bellamy turned to walk away. He wasn't allowed to fight, but maybe he should keep his pay, as Anton said he should.

Geraldo swore, and turned suddenly to Anton, hitting him. He was unprepared for the fist that took him on the cheek and knocked him to the ground. He stared at the halfwit in disbelief. "We'll have to teach you your place, Dopey," he said, dangerously, and instructed two of his offsiders to hold Dopey, as he turned to Anton.

Bellamy was trembling. He wasn't supposed to fight. He was a crazy man, and crazy men were not allowed to fight in case they hurt someone. His arms were now firmly held by two of the lads. Geraldo smiled at him slowly, and then turned to Anton. "You first, for interfering," and he quite slowly drew back his fist. The blow never landed, as Bellamy attacked.

Five minutes later, three men lay groaning on the ground. Bellamy looked around, worried and upset. He was not supposed to fight. His backpack landed in front of him. "You'd best go!" said the man. Bellamy picked up the backpack and started walking. Anton still stared in disbelief, but thought he'd best go, too, and went to his room to pack.

The racehorse trainer was treated to a blast of fury from Covas when he heard that the boy was gone. The trainer tried to defend himself. The boy had attacked three of his hands. Maybe he was not just retarded, but a dangerous lunatic. Covas snorted. He was just a poor, defenceless, simple-minded boy. And if he had been in a fight, Covas was quite sure that Bellamy had not been the aggressor.

Covas, who considered himself to be a hard man, was acutely anxious, and enlisted the aid of his policeman friend to search. Covas was sure his boy would starve by himself. But they greatly underestimated how far he would walk in a day, and he was not found.

***chapter end***