‘All right,’ said Clarice.
Julian felt the stab in his ribs and watched them out of the corner of
his eye but didn’t move. ‘Go up to the
bars, Ysabel. Go on. I dare you.’
‘You too, Clarice.’
Cautiously, they drew closer and closer. ‘What kind of man lives in a cage?’ said
Clarice and they took turns with the stick.
‘Put your hand in, Ysabel.’
‘Only if you will.’
‘Leave him alone,’ said some passing stranger.
But they carried on. Abuse
rolled off their tongues as they continued to torment him with their
prodding. ‘Monster. He’s a brute.
A beast. An ugly, oversized
toad. Look at his skin. Like a slimy creature. He’s a fiend from Hell. An ugly, dirty…’ That was the moment Julian grabbed both their
hands, pulled them hard up against the bars, then got them by the necks. The breath had almost left them before he let
them slump to the ground. He stretched
his shoulders, turned his head from side to side, clicking the joints in his
neck and sat down again, the entire episode already beginning to fade in his
memory. The girls scrambled to their feet, stumbled and staggered
home in shock.
There were different accounts from witnesses of the incident, but
the family trundled out of town, the father of the girls hurling abuse and rocks
after them.
Larressingle had been a happy place.
Pilgrims on their way to Santiago passed through, warmed by the sun,
freely picking fruit from the wild apricot and peaches trees, and waving to the
harvesters, bent-backed, their scythes sweeping back and forth like clockwork. Despite his state of confusion, Julian was
drawn to it. As the caravan pulled out
of sight of the castle and out of earshot of the villagers, Julian took hold of
the bars of his cage and wrenched them apart.
As they crossed the river, he slipped out of the back of the caravan.
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