The Boy Who Stole Attila's Horse Read Free Page A

don’t want to sleep yet. I’m afraid to.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I have dreams… strange dreams. I dream about eating things that I shouldn’t eat. I dream about Mother… My dreams are terrible…’
    ‘You mustn’t be afraid of dreams; they aren’t real. They’re thoughts that we have in our head and they get all mixed up, memories that we can’t put into words. If you dream about eating things it means you’re hungry, that’s all. If you dream about flying it means you want to go home… Do you see?’
    Small assents with a lift of his chin. His brother’s words soothe him and he closes his eyes. With his last breath before falling asleep, he asks:
    ‘And what does it mean if I dream of eating Mother?’

7
    T HEY COMPLETE their first week in the well and hear a new sound.
    Small wakes up in a daze, still seeing with dream-filled eyes, as if he were moving through a bank of fog. Even by day the night rules in his pulse and a crepuscular stillness casts a haze over everything. His brother is breathing deeply. The sound comes back, closer now, bringing with it a tremor that reaches all the way down to the boys’ earthen beds.
    ‘Hello?’ says Small, unsticking his dry mouth. ‘Hello?’
    When he speaks for the third time, Big calls out in chorus with him. Only just awake, he shouts according to a primal impulse, without knowing why. Both of them repeat the Hellos, the Helps, the We’re heres. They clap, stamp their feet on the ground, howl. Then they fall quiet and listen for a response that might give some sense to their outbursts.
    The wind is black and greets them with paws and breathy grunts, long like tongues. The brothers look at each other with eyes so wide it’s as though they were trying to pop them out of their faces.
    A pack.
    ‘Wolves?’ asks Small.
    ‘I don’t know. Did you hear growling?’
    ‘No. Do you think they could be wolves?’
    ‘They could be goats.’
    ‘In the forest?’
    ‘They could be lost. If they’re goats, the shepherd might come after them.’
    ‘And if they’re wolves?’
    ‘Then the shepherd won’t come.’
    The steps become more and more clear, and the sound of panting coming from the animals has taken over the night. Inside the well, the brothers’ stillness is catching: the insects have stopped buzzing, the water has stilled in its tracks; at last, nature is silent. For a moment, the well slips its bonds and breathes like a home that the brothers don’t want to lose. The siege appears to be a fleeting assault. A wash of calm crawls up the walls, stills the mouth of the well and extends beyond its sheer edges to where the baying creatures howl. They go quiet, and for a split second the forest settles in an implosion of peace.
    Then, like an unearthed landmine, it hits them.
    ‘Wolves!’
    Snouts start to appear, sniffing out sweat and dirty flesh. The brothers know they reek, that their own excrement and bodies have given them away. The snouts are crowned withrows of jagged teeth, and above their slavering tongues, rounding off the image of the beasts, slitted eyes glisten, filled with night.
    The boys open their mouths as if to shout, but don’t.
    The first of the wolves drops its head and eyeballs them, baring the roof of its mouth. It knows its prey is weak, that it’s ailing and has no means of escape. There is constant movement at its sides. The pack circles the hole in a hunger dance. One of them extends its paws, threatening to pounce. It’s not the only one. They seem to be considering ways of reaching their feed and retreating back into the forest. Another one prepares to launch itself into the well, the very idea of which leaves a long thread of drool dangling from its muzzle. But before it bends its legs a rock splits its head open and the dance breaks up.
    ‘Get out of our house.’
    The sound of bone cracking is followed by an authentic yelp, genuine pain. The animals protest and pace around, but the rocks keep hitting them all the