The Boy Who Stole Attila's Horse Read Free

starving because the land exhausted itself. Small can’t recall life outside of the well, but Big is older than him and remembers.
    ‘They needed space up there,’ he answers whenever Small asks why they live in such a rotten place.
    ‘Are there many of them up there?’
    ‘No, very few of them.’
    ‘So above is small?’
    ‘No. It’s very big.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Up there is where they hold the power.’
    ‘What’s that, then?’
    A flying dog licks his horns, tickling him. His brother always talks like this, with few words, because he works a lot. For years he has been constructing a ladder out of liquorice laces in order to reach the edge of the well.
    ‘Can I have a little nibble?’
    ‘You know you can’t. We need all of the laces.’
    ‘I’m hungry.’
    ‘So am I. But you ought to think about everyone, not just yourself.’
    Small looks about him: there are people sleeping on the streets, children playing with talking flowers, men carryingbabies in their marsupial pouches. There are others, like his brother, building contraptions in an attempt to get out of the well: a slate boat, a tower of clouds, a catapult made from the bones of the last dragon.
    ‘I’m tired of thinking about everyone!’
    Big lays another lace and a worm the shape of a chicken slips out from a hole. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm and says:
    ‘Once we are up there, we’ll throw a party.’
    ‘A party?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘The kind with balloons and lights and cakes?’
    ‘No. The kind with rocks, torches and gallows.’
     
    And, on dreaming of fire, suddenly he wakes up. He feels as if a flame has set alight the base of his skull or somewhere behind his eyes. The sky is only just beginning to let the light in and Big is sleeping, so Small gets up slowly, taking care not to wake him. With the taste of fluorescence still in his mouth he rummages among the roots for an ant or a worm. He knows that he is meant to follow the diet that his brother has devised for him strictly, but the hunger he feels on waking is hard to control. According to Big, he can go many days drinking the muddy water from the well, eating a few bugs and sucking on the tips of the roots. However, he stresses, he must remain as stillas possible so as not to expend energy outside his hours of collecting.
    He spots a small worm a metre away and moves closer, but just as he is about to trap it his stomach lets out a rising growl, which ricochets across the tapestry of earth hanging all around him. Something inside him jolts his guts with the lash of a whip. It’s so loud that it seems like a ghostly echo from the well itself, and Big wakes up, sullen, orienting himself more with his ears than his eyes.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘You’re awake already? What was that noise?’
    ‘Me.’
    Big rubs his face and sees his brother fixed to the wall as if he formed part of it, stooped in the shape of a question mark.
    ‘You made that noise? It sounded like mooing.’
    ‘I think I’m breaking inside,’ says Small.
    The day passes without incident, continuing its round of fears and hopes. Nobody responds to their shouts but they are getting used to that. When night falls, Small clutches on to his brother tightly.
    ‘I’m not feeling good.’
    ‘I know. I can see it in your face. You’ve lost weight and you’re weak.’
    ‘Maybe I should eat more.’
    ‘Not yet. Relax, you’ll get used to the hunger. Your stomach is getting smaller each day, which is why it hurts: it’s shrinking. Once it has shrunk as much as it can, you’ll find that what you’re eating is enough.’
    ‘But I’ve got no energy. It’s hard to get up. It’s hard to do anything.’
    ‘I’m the strong one. You don’t need to concern yourself with anything other than holding out. If something happens, if it’s cold, if you’re frightened or if an animal attacks us, I’ll defend you. I’m your big brother. Try to sleep.’
    ‘I