The Boy Who Stole Attila's Horse by Iván Repila Page A

stomach hurts.’
    ‘There’s nothing to eat.’
    ‘What do you mean there’s nothing to eat? We’ve got the bag.’
    Big remains silent for a second or two. The bag is in the corner of the well, rolled up in a muddy ball. Neither has touched it since they got there.
    ‘The food in the bag is for Mother,’ he says firmly.
    Small pulls a face somewhere between resentment and resignation and gets up, supporting himself first with his hands on the floor, then on the wall. His brother lets out a pained sigh.
    ‘We’re getting out of here right now.’
     
    They stretch out their limbs for a while, study the position of the sun to work out the time, and shout, calling for help. Afterwards, they grope the walls. They search them, scratch them, probe them for jutting fragments of rock, hardenedsnags, holes. They go on shouting. They repeat a few of their moves from yesterday afternoon, but barely raise themselves a couple of metres before they plummet back down to the bottom of the well. They dig up the earth looking for objects they might be able to use as a bridge: a large root, the remains of a trunk, anything. With each hour that passes they shout less. When the sun declares noon, pointing at the boys with his marble fingers, Big makes a decision.
    ‘Hold on to my hands firmly. I’m going to throw you out of the well.’
    Small suffers a fit of panic. The prospect of being thrown out of the well, as if he were a stone or a gun or any old object, makes him feel extraordinarily small, but his brother’s resolve prevents him from protesting. After a few seconds of to and fro they manage to adopt the position required for the move; with their hands gripping on to the other’s forearms they take slow breaths to quell the riot in their hearts, unsettled by the mystery of the exertion to come.
    ‘I’m going to start spinning now. Don’t be afraid. When you feel your legs lifting off the ground, let yourself be carried. We’ll spin a little bit more to pick up speed and then I’ll call out loud for you to let go of me. Have you got it?’
    Small looks at his brother, amazed, as if seeing him for the first time. The image of his shattered body crosses his mind for an instant, leaving the taste of coins in his saliva.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘I’m strong and you’re small. I think I should give it a try.’
    Then they take their positions: Big spreading his legs to steady himself when the speed picks up, Small with one knee on the ground so that he isn’t dragged along, both of them gripping with such force that their knuckles blanch. And without another thought they start to spin. Big pulls his brother upwards so the rotation is clean and goes on spinning, and Small is raised a hand from the ground and he spins, another hand and he spins, until with the next spin he’s virtually horizontal, with his eyes closed and his clenched teeth making dents in his gums; and still they spin, faster and faster, with each spin mapping a bigger circumference, and when it seems like they are at the point of falling, exhausted and breathless from so much spinning, Small slips down to the ground, but doesn’t touch it, then soars back up at an angle, and they repeat this twice more, and in the final ascent Big shouts Now, and lets go, and with his eyes still closed Small breaks free and he takes off from the earth towards the sun like a comet of bones, and for just a few seconds he is flying, but he smashes, literally smashes into the wall, producing a dull crunch that drowns out any cry; and then, unconscious and bleeding from the mouth, he falls the few metres that separate him and the floor and lands on the dizzy body of his brother, like a circus act that ends in a bundle of piled up flesh, and no applause.
    When he recovers, Big rinses the blood off his brother and cheerfully announces that apart from a few broken teeth and some bruises, it’s nothing serious. Small protests:
    ‘My whole body hurts. That didn’t work. And