The minute paws of a mouse made a light tapping sound on the bedroom wooden floor as it scurried away to safety. That soft noise lasted only for a few seconds, but it was enough to wake Peter up. 

Like every single day in the last decades, he opened his eyes to a total darkness. The sunrise was still a couple of hours away. He turned his head to read the big red digits of the naff alarm clock sitting on the bedside table: 4:30 AM. He wasn’t in a hurry. So he stretched his legs, still numb from the night, under the duvet, put both his hands under his pillow and remained still for a moment, staring at the invisible ceiling, his mind empty.

Finally, he decided it was time to get up. With a sigh, he threw the duvet off and sat on his bed, his legs dangling from the frame, his arms tightly pushing against the mattress. He heard the regular breathing of Seamus, his old dog, who was sleeping on the rug. That made him smile. He leant forward and put his hand on the dog’s head – he had no need for light: that gesture had been repeated so many times it was almost reflex now. The dog shuddered with the rough contact, but he made no other sign of protest or content. 

“Come on Seamus!” Peter said, as he groped for the light switch. “Time to get up my old hound!”

The dog yawned and opened bleary eyes. At almost fifteen years, he wasn’t supposed to yap or jump for joy. He was a serious dog. He had his dignity to uphold. Occasionally, he would still stoop to running after a branch or a ball his master would throw him. Sometimes he would sniffle the trail of a nearby bitch in heat, but even the vivid memories of his former matings weren’t enough to turn him on any more now. No, that time was past. Now he enjoyed his sedate routine: he liked to spend his days wallowing in the armchair; he liked his food delivered at regular hours; and when he was forced to leave the farm to accompany his master during his chores, seldom did he now venture out of sight of the man who provided him with shelter and love.

And so he did not move when his master walked across the bedroom to the toilets, and back a few moments later. Only reluctantly did he stand up when the tinny rattle of the clashing pans echoed from the distant kitchen, followed soon after by the delicate scent of freshly brewed coffee. 

A scent that promised food.

The stovetop coffee pot had just started to steam when Seamus strutted into the kitchen. His master opened the cupboard and paused, shilly-shallying to pick a mug. Finally, he chose the one with the English flag  – a souvenir of one of his rare journeys out of the district – went to the stove and poured the hot black liquid into it. Then he padded back to the table, that frayed, ancient, sturdy oak table that was a heirloom of his family and whose top has been polished by uncountable years of use. Close to his mug he placed the a fresh slice of the large loaf of bread he had bought the day before and a slab of fresh butter, which he spread on the crumb.

He chewed his thick slice slowly. Every now and then he tore from the loaf slivers of crust and crumb that he threw to the dog, who had come to sit next to him. When he finished, he turned his gaze to the window pane and beyond it to the void that was the outside, until a muffled thud snatched him out of his reverie. His eyes focussed back on his mug and he chugged what was left inside. He stood up, put the mug in the sink and shuffled to the opposite door, then down the narrow corridor to the entrance of the cowshed. He switched the light on and breathed the strong, pungent odour that permeated the place.

The large room was almost desert. Next to the far wall, in a small pen, a couple of hens were already cackling and tiptoeing on the straw. Not far from them, in a row of hutches, red eyed white bunnies scrunched their jiggling noses against the iron mesh, begging for food. But the denizen who required immediate attention was a large sorrel cow, tied to the long trough that ran throughout the shed by an iron chain, whose clasp was bound to the metal loop of her leather collar, where the bell normally would hang. On her other side, a dirty string, pulled through a clever system of pulleys and springs in the ceiling, held her tail up, even when she was lying. Her flanks were taut and lustrous, her whole body swollen by the the calf she was bearing. Just a couple of days before her ordeal would end.

Meanwhile, she had to remain inside. Peter took the shovel and scrubbed the floor under the animal, pulling the slimy, stinky dung into the trench. When nothing conspicuous remained, he took the hose and doused the floor liberally, flushing the crud into the drain pipe that led a few metres downwards, on the other side of the exterior wall.

When he was satisfied, he turned the tap off, and with a pitchfork ferried hay from a heap which lay in a corner into the trough. The cow mooed softly and, as if to thank him, bobbed her head and started grazing.

When everything was done in the cowshed, Peter returned to the kitchen. He washed his hands, cut himself another slice of bread, wolfed it down and proceeded to the shower.

At five thirty he was back in the kitchen. In summer, he would have gone outside to enjoy the crisp air at the breaking of dawn, weather permitting. But at this time of the year, sunrise was still nowhere near, so he fixed himself another coffee and turned the radio on.

He didn't mind much the words which flooded from the device. The outside world was only half-real to him. As the years had gone by, his territory had shrunk. When he was young, he had often thought to leave this place in the boonies, look for a job in a remote city, meet a girl and maybe have kids. But when his father had died unexpectedly, run over by his own tractor, his bubble had been burst. He had had no choice but to take over in absolute emergency and start to work all year round to take care of the cattle and of his mother. When she in turn had died a few years later, it was too late: he was already too deep in the routine of farming, and found to his surprise that he had formed a liking for the animals. 

Unwillingly, he had let himself be snared into that trap. Instead of wedding a girl, he had wedded his farm.

And as the hope of escaping the forlorn spot that was his home faded away, so his interest in the vicissitudes of the world grew dim. His errands rarely bade him further than the nearest middle-sized town, about thirty kilometres away. The number of people he came in contact with slowly dwindled until he ceased to talk to anyone but the inhabitants of the hamlet his farm was part of, and the clerks of the few shops he had to regularly visit.

When he had no errand to run, he spent his days alone with his dog and cattle, and step by step he learnt to find comfort and peace in isolation. At first, he was still happy to take part in the shindigs or revelries the mayor organised all around the year. Maybe, in those years, he was still secretly hoping to meet a girl there, like his father had done before him. But with time passing that dream died out for good, and binge drinking became despicable to him, until he stopped showing up altogether. His fellow farmers were puzzled, but got used to it after a while. Truth be said, in those remote areas, many people had quirks more weird than his.

Around a quarter past six a ghostly light seeped from the window. It was the signal. Peter flicked the radio off, slipped into his boots and put on the grey, warm coat lined with eiderdown that was hanging on the coat stand. He rushed into the corridor, followed by a sleepy Seamus. Snatching two empty, clean milk jugs he flung the front door open and bolted outside.

At the threshold, he paused to glance at the scenery. The sky was still navy blue, studded with bright stars, but high above the timberline the loftiest mountaintops were already tipped in a delicate pink tinge, forerunner of the glory of the sunrise to come.

But he had no time to lose contemplating the landscape. Whistling his dog over, he strode headlong along the path that sloped downwards. The dim light was barely sufficient for his eyes, but he knew the way like the back of his hand.

Five minutes later, he sidled through the chink in the electric fence into the meadow where the rest of the cows were already gathered, lowing as if to greet him. With a smile he grasped the old wooden stool he had left there, removed the lid of the first jug and clucked to coax the beasts.

When the first one ambled to stand before him, he moved sidewise and put the jug straight under her swollen udder, full to the brim, begging to be funnelled. He spat on his gnarled hands, rubbed them together, then slowly closed them around the nearest two teats. He began by pulling them slowly, almost amorously, then harder and harder, until the first jet of warm white liquid spurted and crashed on to the bottom of the jug with a high-pitched rattle.

Milking the cows by hand was a ritual he  had grown so fond of that it was out and away his favourite moment of his day. There was something sensual, carnal in the contact his palms and fingers made with the teats. They felt soft and warm. He had often wondered if women's breasts would also feel the same, but he never had had any opportunity to find out, and now it was way too late: as a matter of fact, he didn’t care any more.

Now his thoughts turned further away, and he smiled once more when he imagined what grimace the folks in towns would make if they ever discovered the milk they drank had been brought out manually. Of course, what he produced was but a drop in a white ocean overflowed by the rivers pouring out of modern installations, where scores of highly productive cows were parked inside huge sheds. In those prisons, they never got to see the sun or even a single blade of grass, were artificially inseminated, nurtured with complex, shoddy mixtures of tasteless powders, deprived of their calves at birth and milked by machines that sucked them like vampires three or four times a day until they would dry up and the cycle would start again, on and on. And then, on a bright day, as a welcome thanks for all they had freely given during their pitiful life, the farmer would send them to the slaughterhouse where their carcasses would be chopped and butchered into gobbets of meat to be delivered to the nearest Mac Donalds, where they would end up in repugnant hamburgers. 

Modern man envisioned cows as simple and efficient appliances to morph grass into milk and meat.

Grass. There was almost no more need of it. His eyes left his juggling hands and he looked around him. The light had brightened up and the surroundings were plainly visible. What would happen to his meadows after his death? Having no children or even nephews, all his estate would return to the state, namely the municipality. There was a slight odd they might endure, serving as common pasture for the other farmers around. But Peter had no illusion. More likely, they would be sold to a land developer, either to build a slew of cookie-cutter, ugly “chalets” or a new ski lift for fucking dickheads teens coming from the capital city. Traditional farming was done for anyway. Global economy, as they had christened it, called for better ways to exploit mountains, even if it meant defiling the landscape and stripping the place from the soul slowly forged all along the past millennia.

How could he, alone, stand and ride out that juggernaut? He sighed, and focussed his attention back on his hands.

Half an hour later, the jugs were full of steaming, creamy milk. Peter screwed the lids back in place, and endeavoured to tow them back to the farm. Twice ten kilograms to carry uphill. Up until a few years ago, the challenge had left him undaunted. But now it wasn’t the same cakewalk as before, and he had to stop for breath three times along the way.

Maybe he had been slowed by his stream of thoughts, but he had barely returned into the hallway that he heard the familiar drone of the dairy truck pulling in. He about-faced and walked back to the threshold, just in time to see the truck brake and the engine die. The driver, a man in his sixties, his white hair and recessed blue eyes contrasting with a deeply wrinkled, tanned face, stepped out and walked to him. He extended his hand and they shook.

“You’re late Peter?” the driver asked in dialect. “That’s not like you. Are you feeling fine?”

“I got stuck thinking about Nelson’s decision,” Peter lied.

“Uh-huh. It’s still sticking in everybody’s craw, doesn’t it?”

Peter looked down and scuffed the ground. “I don’t understand it. Why sell eighty percent of his property to those…” he hesitated. “Vultures.”

The driver put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Look. The guy has kids. He probably wants a better future for them than all this.” With his other arm he made a gesture that took in all the landscape. 

For all answer Peter grunted. There was a hush that lasted several seconds, until Seamus barked at some distant shadow hurrying along the road.

“Come on,” the driver finally said. “I’ve got your check. May I come in?”

“Sure,” Peter said, “there might be some coffee left.” Both men trod into the house.

[center]***[/center]

“Hundred twenty-three?!” Peter exclaimed.

“Yeah, and there’s no mistake. I’m sorry.”

“It gets lower month by month. Is that ever going to stop?”

“Not sure. Tim says milk prices are on the skids. Too much production, you see? The world is glutting with milk, and the dairy transformers are fuelling the downfall, in order to improve their margins and line their pockets. Modern life… Who cares about small producers any more? Vultures are anywhere, you know.”

“We are doomed…” Peter said glumly, his gaze locked on his mug.

“I mean, at the end of the line, sure thing. And then when it’s not the price, it’s the law. I heard they’re preparing new regulations in high places, driven by the current paranoia about bacteria and stuff. Everything will have to be sanitised, cleansed three times, pasteurised, disposable gloves, overalls and stuff, and so on. Good bye old jugs, good bye hand milking. They want to turn every farm into a sort of modern factory. In a couple of years, you’ll be ready to get embalmed and enter the museum, pal. End of an our era… soon we’ll be dinosaurs.”

“Time to retire, you think?”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t hesitate… What do you have to lose? I’m sure you’d get a higher allowance than what you currently eke out with your cattle – well what’s left of it…”

There was another heavy break. The driver gulped what what left of his coffee, then scraped his chair backwards and stood up. “Gotta go,” he said almost apologetically. “Still a few guys to visit before turning home. Thanks for the coffee. Take care.”

“Yeah, thanks, you too,” Peter answered. He remained seated. “Don’t forget to pick up yesterday evening’s jugs in the fridge before leaving,” he added.

“Will do,” the driver said. “See you tomorrow Peter. Don’t keel over. We will stand and fight, be it only for honour’s sake.” And with that, he exited, closed the kitchen door behind him and was gone. Peter heard the engine start up and the clutch being engaged. The noise faded away as the conveyance backed along the path to the main road. 

A sudden fatigue fell over him. He lay both his arms on the table into a cradle and buried his face in it. He closed his eyes and blanked his mind…

[center]*[/center]

How long did he remain seated in his chair, asleep, he couldn’t tell. But when he finally roused from his dozing, it was well past noon.

He felt famished now.

He sliced another hunk of bread, slathered butter on it and lay atop a sliver of ham and another of cheese from his larder. Finally, he chopped a clove of garlic and sprinkled the bits mall over his personal bruschetta. When he had munched it away, he washed it down with a glass of red plonk.

He felt slightly better. Maybe this was the end of an era, but there were still things to enjoy.

He stood up and stuffed some lumber into the stove’s hearth. Then he laced his trekking shoes, clasped the walking stick he had carved himself out of an aspen branch and put his coat on. Finally, he squashed a nondescript plastic bag into one of his pockets. With the dog skittering ahead of him, he simply pull the door closed behind him – he never locked it; what was the need? There were no burglars here, and anyway he had nothing worth stealing, except maybe the few tenners he tucked away in one of the drawers of his bedroom cabinet. 

Now instead of taking the right path to his meadows or left one to the main road he elected the one that ran sidewise to his house and straight ahead into the forest. As he arrived under the cover of the first spruces, that small path joined a larger trail that looked like a forest road. In his youth, when it was just used by the lumberjacks to tow timber down, that path was one of his favourite strolls. During the week-ends, and especially at this time of the year, he would get up before sunrise and set out into the woods. Already at twelve years old he was enjoying the silence and freshness of the early morning, loved to slake his thirst at the clear water of the merry brooks that crossed the path, and would occasionally freeze in wonder when, round a hairpin, he would catch a glimpse of a deer, before the elegant animal would pronk away to safety.

For a long time the trail had remained unspoiled. But, with the runaway development of tourism, some city pricks had eventually discovered it. Then, for a couple of years, it had mutated into a sort of whimsical highway: every summer, cars would line up and trundle up with difficulty, digging deep ruts all along the way and transforming the meadows that lay above the forest into a vast parking lot defiled by the trash those disgusting city scumbags always left behind them. Until the inevitable had finally happened: two cars had come to face each other in the narrowest and steepest stretch. No driver had yielded, and the car that drove along the precipice had tried to force the way up. But an unseen rut had made it slew into the void, and it had tumbled down, crashing more than one hundred meters down. Two kids and their parents had died that fateful day.

Thereafter the municipality had built a barrier, and, except for the general state of the path, which was now all cut up by the repeated trampling, the area had reverted to its former state. That is, up until two years ago when the new team had decided this was an ideal playground for mountain biking. So now, starting late spring and ending early autumn, squads of nutjobs of all ages regularly barrelled down on their bikes, to the despair of the causal walker who had to be constantly on guard, lest one of those frenzied missiles would lose control and smash into him.

But there was nothing to fear now. The last mountain biker had vanished with the return of hoarfrost, and, anyway, during the week the traffic all but was nil. So Peter ambled up quietly and enjoyed the quiet, inhaling deeply the almost pure oxygen while his dog scampered along, his tail wagging with each spoor he sniffed. About one hour and half later he had reached the upper edge of the forest. From there, the path continued for a short while, skirting around the meadows that extended up to the hilltop, before sinking back into the trees’ shadow until it finally ended at the wooden shack built by the hunters to serve as a meeting point.

That was not, however, Peter’s target for today. Rather, several hundreds metres before the shack, he left the path to venture into the untrodden undergrowth. He knew a secret spot where he would be able to find a certain variety of cep and various other mushrooms he planned to eat tonight with his omelette.

[center]*[/center]

It was around five when he came back home. Tossing his bag full of mushrooms on the kitchen table, he hurried to tend to his cattle. Milking cows had to be done at regular times, the slightest delay could cause great pain to the placid beasts. When that chore was over and the jugs safely stored into the fridge, waiting to be collected the next morning, he turned his attention back to the pregnant cow who was stranded in the shed, gave carrots and salad to the rabbits, corn to the hens, and picked up the eggs they had lain during the day. 

Back in the kitchen, he rinsed the mushrooms in the sink and chopped them. He put a frying pan on the stove, dropped a dollop of butter inside. When the butter had melted, he added the mushroom slices and the garlic leftovers of his lunch.

While the mixture sizzled and a nice scent filled the room, Peter broke the eggs and whipped them into a perfect bright orange fluid that he in turn poured into the pan. He watched it warm and coagulate into a solid mass. When it was cooked enough for his taste, he slid it out of the pan into his plate and sprinkled ground pepper over it. He sampled it: it was scrumptious. Satisfied, he filled his glass with the same red plonk and set about eating the rest.

His dinner over and the flatware washed up, he proceeded to the shower. Then, purged at last from the stains of the day, he went on to close all the shutters: first the kitchen, then the living room. He was about the close the bedroom ones when something outside caught his attention. What was it? 

Was it the unusual carmine of the dying sun, as an army of ruthless dark clouds angrily marched against it through the already darkened sky, blotting out the light of the early stars? Was it the puzzling lack of any bird chirping? Was it the deep, doleful tone of one of his cows’ mooing? He couldn’t place it. Something was amiss. Something was definitely weird, and Peter stood at the window, both intrigued and fascinated, all his senses in alert.

Then, in a flash of realisation, he understood, and a bright smile illuminated his face. He had nothing to do, just to wait. How long exactly he didn’t know, but the issue was inevitable. His instinct, honed by decades of experience, couldn’t betray him. He felt elated, like in his childhood, when every fifth of March he would go to bed, eager to wake up the next morning to discover what his parents had bought him for his birthday.

He closed the window and, calling Seamus, he walked to the front door and outside. There he stopped and lifted his face up towards the invisible sky, as his dog came to sit next to him. Both remained out in the cold, expectant, two tiny shadows lost under a greater one.

Until at some point in the midst of darkness Peter felt on his nose the soft, but icy, touch of the first flake.