A Poet of the Invisible World by Michael Golding

Author:Michael Golding
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250071309
Publisher: Picador

Fourteen

One night, as Nouri was returning to Enrico’s from Soledad’s, the answer came. He’d been invited to join Soledad’s family for supper; the eldest sow had given birth to a litter of six, and there was a feeling of celebration in the air. Soledad’s mother made fritters, which she served with a bitter lemon compote, while Soledad’s father roasted loin chops and brought out a jar of trotters he’d smoked the previous fall. When the eating was done, Concepción sang a song and, with the help of the others, persuaded Soledad to join in. Then Soledad’s father and Fortes became engaged in a discussion about the best methods for harvesting grain. They seemed, point by point, to disagree with each other, yet their exchange was playful. And though they left Nouri out of the conversation—which was wise, since he knew nothing about harvesting—the evening made him feel as if he was a part of something again.

As he climbed the mountain path, he was free of thought, the air cool and dry, the small copper lantern flashing its light as he moved along. When he reached the farm, he paused for a moment and looked up at the endless pinpricks of light that punctured the darkened bowl over his head. Then he made his way toward the barn past the small enclosure where Enrico slept with the sheep. As he approached it, a wave of gladness washed over him, followed by the need to piss. So he placed the lantern down, lowered his trousers, and released a warm stream upon the ground. He felt strangely content. Relaxed. At peace. As he raised his trousers, however, he noticed something glinting near his feet.

He knelt down and brushed away the dirt. A blade appeared. He tried to wriggle it free and managed to loosen a small knife from the soil. It was heavily crusted with something dark and dried. But it was only when he grasped the handle and felt the weight of it in his hand that the memories came rushing back.

The anger.

The fury.

The struggle.

The bloodshed.

The pain.

The pain.

The pain.

The pain.

The violence of Nouri’s dreams had been real. But rather than vent his rage on The Right Hand, he’d killed the rams. And the only thing more shocking than this realization was the fact that he’d managed to bury it so far down in the dark corners of his mind, he hadn’t even known that he had done it.

* * *

WHEN NOURI RETURNED TO THE BARN, he fetched a bucket, filled it with water, found an old rag beside the pump, and in a hidden corner beneath the loft began to scrub away the dirt and dried blood that befouled the knife. He rubbed and rubbed until the slender blade gleamed. Then he carried it up the ladder, slipped it beneath the thin straw mattress, and lay down to sleep.

It soon became clear, however, that sleep would not come. His heart was too anguished at what he’d done, and he was concerned that if another dream came he might do it again.

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