The Boy Who Stole Attila's Horse by Iván Repila Read Free Book Online

his brother wouldn’t let him taste even a morsel of the bird, he maintained, was because of the rigorous division of food he had decreed way back on that day.
    ‘Stingy arsehole.’
    The right way to eat it, continued Big, in spite of his brother’s mounting rage, was to cook it. That is, to roast it or bake it. But the lack of utensils as well as the humidity inside the well prevented them from making a fire. And without fire it was impossible to cook anything. Nor could they smoke it, or salt it, or marinate it in vinegar or oil. There was no way around it.
    ‘If you died now, I’d piss on your corpse.’
    But there was one option. An option that meant eating. And eating more than the sum of the last days’ fare put together. The problem, however, was that they would have towait a day or two, maybe three, before trying a morsel. That is: go on starving with the banquet laid out before them.
    ‘Shit-eater, deformed son of a whore.’
    They needed to wait for the bird to decompose so that the flies, blowflies and maggots would come out to gorge on it. Small protested vehemently. Where was the justice in letting a load of bugs have their fill on the food that he’d been forbidden to eat? His brother explained that if they left the animal out in the air, without burying it, the decomposition process would be quicker, and that they could eat the flies and the maggots, hundreds of maggots, and that they would have food for days. What’s more, food they were used to and which would sit well with them.
    ‘You’re a little sack of shit.’
    Though in no way in agreement, Small had to bow down to the superior strength of his brother, who guarded the dead bird with his whole body as if he were defending a fortress. Only once Small was sound asleep did Big succumb to the lightest of slumbers and rest. There was no doubt in his mind that, given half a chance, his brother would pounce on the bird and devour the whole thing down to its bones.
    ‘I’d like to rip your rotten face from your head.’
    If the first night was hard, the day after was even worse. There were no civilities, no good mornings or routines, just unbridled, nasty violence. Tension and silence kept a pressure cooker of unease bubbling away: Big in one corner,Small in another, the bird between them. The stench coming off the animal seemed to intensify the fury with which they watched one another. It was as if the clock had stopped, like dead time in a battle.
    ‘Sheep-shagger, son of a boar and a monkey.’
    When a few flies began to buzz around the corpse, Big ate every one and looked at his brother with a triumphant smile. When a few more appeared, Small refused to eat them, despite the fact that Big was managing, painstakingly, to catch them and invited him to do the same. Your pride will kill you, he said, to which Small replied with insults.
    ‘Dickhead, idiot, freak.’
    It didn’t take long for the maggots to creep out from under the wings, like roving tumours. The first ones were small, then succulent, ring-bound bodies sprouted out of the rotten flesh, moving in and out of its orifices. Big’s face lit up with joy. He caught one between two fingers as it pushed its way out of the bird’s neck. He put it in his mouth and felt an explosion of liquid and jelly as he chewed. He couldn’t recall having eaten anything so tasty in his life.
    ‘Screw your dead family.’
    He ate a few more while Small watched and hurled insults at him contemptuously. Once Big had had his fill, he took the biggest maggot he could find and offered it to his brother.
    ‘Eat. It’s really good.’
    ‘I don’t want to eat your shitty maggots.’
    ‘They taste like chicken. And they’re not cold.’
    ‘Fuck you. Fuck off and die.’
    ‘You are the one who will die if you don’t eat.’
    ‘Which means I won’t have to see your scummy face.’
    ‘Eat.’
     
    Small is so hungry that he can no longer control his body. He baulks, but puts out his hand, into which