Chapter 22

And when he us beheld, he bit himself,

Even as one whom anger racks within.

Dante, Inferno, 12.14-15

As they slowly rode on, Dante heard the roaring crash of the barn’s roof collapsing behind them. For some time before that, he had no longer heard the moaning of the doomed creatures inside, though after this final explosion, he imagined a faint wheeze, like an exhalation of breath or a light wind playing over dry grass. He did not look back at the ruin. Whether out of dread or respect, he did not know.

Up ahead, he noticed two dark figures in a field with a decrepit wooden fence around it. Dante could not tell what they were at first, but they moved, so they weren’t trees or stones. Then he could see the figure closer to them was a man. From the way he was moving he was clearly not alive, holding his arms out in front of himself as he lurched toward them. The figure farther from the road was an enormous, black bull, its head down, tugging at what grass was there, oblivious either to them or to its undead neighbor.

Dante had not considered whether animals were susceptible to the plague of undeath. “Do the dead attack animals?” he asked. “Do the animals here become undead as well?”

Radovan was in front, and turned back toward Dante to answer. “I’ve heard the dead will eat carrion, if they’ve been unable to kill and eat any living humans for a long time and have grown hungry enough,” he replied. “But live animals never interest them. Not that I’ve heard.”

“No, they don’t bother animals,” Adam agreed as he rode alongside Dante. “And animals cannot become undead. It is our curse alone.”

Dante couldn’t help but ask: “Why?”

Adam turned to him. “Humans receive many more blessings, and many more curses, from God than animals do. It is always thus, and usually pointless to ask why. But in this case, I believe it is because this plague is a disease of the mind, of the soul. The animals lack these essences, so they cannot be afflicted. Only their bodies hunger, while people desire with their souls as well, and desire so much more than just food. They desire so intensely their hunger can outlive even the death of their bodies. That is the cursed life we see all around us, threatening everything, even the sanctity of death.”

They were right next to the field with the dead man and the bull in it, when Dante saw the bull raise its huge head and shake it, snorting as it glared at them. The dead man never took his eyes off them to look at the bull behind him, but just kept shuffling forward. The bull lowered its head and charged, impaling the man with its right horn, then thrashing its head to toss him off to the right. The corpse landed in a ball, its knees crammed up under its chin, before it started to unfold itself, getting up to its knees and planting its one foot as it tried to rise. The bull charged again before the man could completely stand. This time the remorseless, unyielding wall of its forehead smashed into the man’s skull, sending him to the ground, where he remained, unmoving.

They had stopped their horses to watch the attack. Now the bull moved away from the motionless corpse, walking parallel to the road, its stare fixed on them.

“Why did it do that?” Dante asked quietly, mesmerized by the massive animal.

Adam looked to Bogdana. “I’m afraid you’ve shown more knowledge of animals than I have.”

She shrugged. “You might as well ask why didn’t it do that before? There’s no telling. You can walk by the same bull every day and it never takes a step toward you, then suddenly one afternoon it charges you. Walk behind the same mule every morning and it never moves, then one day it kicks you. You always have to respect animals and what they can do. But the dead don’t know to do that.” She pointed. “I do think it wants out of that field now.”

The bull turned to face the fence by the road, and it charged. The barrier was just a rickety collection of sticks, and the giant beast crashed through it easily. The animal stepped out into the road and turned its head toward them. Radovan was the closest to it.

“If you’re going to throw it a bone or something, I wish you’d do it now,” he said over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the bull.

“Just stay still and let it go,” Bogdana said. “It’s outside your control. Just let it do what it’s going to do. All you can do is react.”

The animal’s black-eyed stare remained fixed on them, and a muscle in its massive shoulder twitched, but still it didn’t move. It gave a huff, turned, and walked slowly off into the field to the right, only stopping to look back at them when it was some distance away. Then it lowered its head and returned to its task of trying to find some edible grass among all the dead stalks.

“See,” Bogdana said. “Now it might stay still and eat for hours. Or it might charge us in the next moment.”

“Let’s go,” Adam said as they started moving forward. Up ahead, the road led back into the forest. “We have to get much farther before nightfall.”

Dante looked back at the bull, which raised its proud head to return the gaze. As it did, the clouds parted slightly, and a shaft of sickly sunlight fell on the beast, making it look more erect and noble. It seemed to lend some of its strength to the thin, weak illumination. The clouds closed back in, and the bull lowered its head to return to its meager supper.