For an hour or more, he sat on the wall of the Pont d’Artigues,
staring down at his feet and the River Os below. Green fronds of lily floated in patterns on
its silted surface. Black dragonflies
flitted across the reflecting water, occasionally landing on some flower
head. A group of barefoot children
passed across the bridge behind him.
‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ they said politely.
But when he didn’t reply, they collapsed into furtive giggles,
collecting their louder outbursts in cupped hands.
Julian was fascinated by the darting insects. They were what they were. He wasn’t so simple. His mind swirled in little whirlpools, deep and
opaque, in an effort to understand. His
stomach churned, his whole body ached, his fingertips and toes were in constant
pain from the curling of his claw-like nails.
His skin didn’t feel like his own.
He inhaled the scented air, closed his eyes and slowly slid forwards
into the river. Toppled like a rotten
fruit from a tree. The passing children
couldn’t say if he fell or jumped, but they immediately called for help. They caught the attention of some approaching
pilgrims, who abandoned their sacks and walking sticks, clambered down the
bank, and hauled the young man free of the entangling river weed.
It had taken some time for Holger
and Birgitta to realise their son was missing.
By the time they had retraced the grooves and furrows of their caravan
wheels and reached the bridge, they found their son huddled on the bank. His rescuers had tried to remove some of the
mud and weed from his face, but he had coiled up in a ball, his hands covering
his face. The pilgrims stood in a circle
round him, not knowing what further help to give.
Julian felt no gratitude towards them. He found it difficult to speak. He had already forgotten why they were
there. He had one thought and that was
to hide the scales that were covering more and more of his face.
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