First, they put all their power into building the mudbrick house on the hill. The grit getting into the cracks of their hands. The grime gathering in their cutilces. Cursed, and called hippies by both sides of their familes, the Gaughtons wanted nothing more than to exit the formula that had kept them in the city for so long. Planting unborn lettuce and potatoes in a bed of rich dense soil, the couple reached deep into themselves for something forgotten.
Benjamin Gaughton had never handled a rifle, so the first time he loaded, cocked and shot a wild dog was a moment of sadness. But this passed when their sheep were left alone again. The summer was boiling. They crafted simple funiture from smashed up limbs. They put barbed wire on top of fences. And all this time, wound up city slicker springs uncoiled the tension from their brains, necks and backs. Katy Gaughton often found herself sucking in deep mouthfuls of the light, untainted air. Soon glowing with a swell, she found she was due for an Autumn birth, which she announced to Benjamin under a virginal morning sky. Embracing, deep hot rain fell together from their eyes. They had never been as close as they had been since they had moved out here. And slowly that was growing every day.