Ivan Repila - The Boy Who Stole Attila's Horse

In his dream the well is big like a city. Some say the citizens are all 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 carrying babies 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 still as 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 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?’

THEY 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 with rows 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.