sense of importance which fills him in the telling.
Farm by farm Mig embroiders his story. He adds little details. The man is from the ocean. He eats fish raw when he can get it. The scars from the redfleur are in the form of scales, golden, like fish, or like a simurgh from the old tales, yeah, lizards with wings. When he brings back the supplies the guilt returns and he tells himself this is the last time. He’ll confess to Vikram; he’ll stop this stupidity.
But he can’t help himself.
His story garners different reactions. Sometimes people are angry, and he guesses that, like him, they’ve lost a loved one to the redfleur or some other horrible plague. They don’t want to be reminded. Other times they can’t get enough. Wanting to hear more, they bribe him with extra food. Perhaps he’d like to stay for supper? They can spare enough for another mouth…
Settled in his role as storyteller, Mig starts accepting the occasional gift. A lemon from the groves, its skin thick and waxy, the flesh a bursting tartness on the inside of his mouth. He insists on eating the fruit straight, to the mirth and delight of his hosts. He wants to say to them, you think you get lemons two a dozen in Cataveiro? The next day it’s a plate of enchiladas cooked fresh, with seasoning plucked straight from the fields. Then a tumbler of wine. He says no, the first time, knowing it’s best to refuse this particular type of hospitality, but at a second entreaty relents and accepts. What’s a drink, after all?
The wine tastes rough and acidic and Mig doesn’t care for it, can’t believe people would drink this stuff for pleasure, but after a few gulps it becomes more tolerable, and by the end of the glass he is feeling faintly light-headed, warm and relaxed and ready for another. Yes, he’ll take another. The farmers – a brother and sister, both with the same narrow face and clouded eyes – press him for details about the man who survived.
Mig is in an expansive mood. His inventions grow wilder and less plausible with every sentence, and he watches with satisfaction as they swallow it down. He has found that the kick he gets from telling these tales is exponential to how far his fabrications deviate from the truth. By now he has settled on a style of delivery: a mixture of wide-eyed innocence and bewilderment. When the farmers ask how he came to be travelling with such a man he says he was bewitched, or thinks he was – his head is so foggy now it’s hard to remember. After the second round of wine he stands to leave; he really has to go. Won’t he take another? they ask. But Mig is firm this time. He has to go. He smiles, thanks them, and heads for the door.
And finds the man standing in his way.
For the first time Mig experiences a moment of panic. He asks the man to let him pass. The man smiles – not a pleasant smile, not any more – and says he doesn’t think so. Keep calm, Mig tells himself. Make a dash for it. You’re faster than this arsehole. He sprints for the gap between man and door, but either his balance is off or the man trips him, and somehow he misses. Falls. Face down to the dust-clogged doormat, the dust clenching him in a sneeze, and then the man has his arms pinned painfully behind his back. He’s dragging Mig backwards into the house, Mig’s heels kicking uselessly against the floor. He thrashes in the man’s grasp and feels his arms yanked tighter, contorting his shoulders. Mig yelps in pain. The man hauls him up the stairs, Mig shouting and screaming with every step. All the while he’s aware of the other one, the woman, closing the front door, watching.
His panic dissolves into terror. What are they doing? What are they planning? He’s thrown into a room and the door slams, and locks.
The man’s footsteps thud down the stairs. Mig is left in the room, in silence.
He can hear his breathing, fast and ragged. The thud of his own heart against his ribcage.
Fuck, fuck, fuck,
Farm by farm Mig embroiders his story. He adds little details. The man is from the ocean. He eats fish raw when he can get it. The scars from the redfleur are in the form of scales, golden, like fish, or like a simurgh from the old tales, yeah, lizards with wings. When he brings back the supplies the guilt returns and he tells himself this is the last time. He’ll confess to Vikram; he’ll stop this stupidity.
But he can’t help himself.
His story garners different reactions. Sometimes people are angry, and he guesses that, like him, they’ve lost a loved one to the redfleur or some other horrible plague. They don’t want to be reminded. Other times they can’t get enough. Wanting to hear more, they bribe him with extra food. Perhaps he’d like to stay for supper? They can spare enough for another mouth…
Settled in his role as storyteller, Mig starts accepting the occasional gift. A lemon from the groves, its skin thick and waxy, the flesh a bursting tartness on the inside of his mouth. He insists on eating the fruit straight, to the mirth and delight of his hosts. He wants to say to them, you think you get lemons two a dozen in Cataveiro? The next day it’s a plate of enchiladas cooked fresh, with seasoning plucked straight from the fields. Then a tumbler of wine. He says no, the first time, knowing it’s best to refuse this particular type of hospitality, but at a second entreaty relents and accepts. What’s a drink, after all?
The wine tastes rough and acidic and Mig doesn’t care for it, can’t believe people would drink this stuff for pleasure, but after a few gulps it becomes more tolerable, and by the end of the glass he is feeling faintly light-headed, warm and relaxed and ready for another. Yes, he’ll take another. The farmers – a brother and sister, both with the same narrow face and clouded eyes – press him for details about the man who survived.
Mig is in an expansive mood. His inventions grow wilder and less plausible with every sentence, and he watches with satisfaction as they swallow it down. He has found that the kick he gets from telling these tales is exponential to how far his fabrications deviate from the truth. By now he has settled on a style of delivery: a mixture of wide-eyed innocence and bewilderment. When the farmers ask how he came to be travelling with such a man he says he was bewitched, or thinks he was – his head is so foggy now it’s hard to remember. After the second round of wine he stands to leave; he really has to go. Won’t he take another? they ask. But Mig is firm this time. He has to go. He smiles, thanks them, and heads for the door.
And finds the man standing in his way.
For the first time Mig experiences a moment of panic. He asks the man to let him pass. The man smiles – not a pleasant smile, not any more – and says he doesn’t think so. Keep calm, Mig tells himself. Make a dash for it. You’re faster than this arsehole. He sprints for the gap between man and door, but either his balance is off or the man trips him, and somehow he misses. Falls. Face down to the dust-clogged doormat, the dust clenching him in a sneeze, and then the man has his arms pinned painfully behind his back. He’s dragging Mig backwards into the house, Mig’s heels kicking uselessly against the floor. He thrashes in the man’s grasp and feels his arms yanked tighter, contorting his shoulders. Mig yelps in pain. The man hauls him up the stairs, Mig shouting and screaming with every step. All the while he’s aware of the other one, the woman, closing the front door, watching.
His panic dissolves into terror. What are they doing? What are they planning? He’s thrown into a room and the door slams, and locks.
The man’s footsteps thud down the stairs. Mig is left in the room, in silence.
He can hear his breathing, fast and ragged. The thud of his own heart against his ribcage.
Fuck, fuck, fuck,
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