Turbinio

Habanero Powder

You know when something is coming. Something – something specific, terrible and dark – is going to happen. You imagine it, you push it away. It keeps coming and going, slowly and inexorably, in your mind. You prepare as best you can. Or you think you have, even though your bones know the truth. There's no way around it, no way to accommodate it, no way to lessen the impact.

It will come and you will be helpless before it.

You know it.

And yet, somehow, you still think it will never be today.

With a stone in your hand, you stared at the terrain you had chosen. It was in the same clearing where you had woken up, between huge boulders covered in lichen, under the shade of fir trees and at the foot of an immense white cedar. The place wasn't inaccessible, but it was unlikely to be crossed by a random passer-by; you intended to go back there – preferably not alone.

Diego, for a start. Maybe just Diego, and then you could tell him about his father's whereabouts. Then Gyro, Johnny, and Hot Pants. For God's sake, if they all came out alive, you'd bring them to this place. They need to get out alive. That way they'd say goodbye, no matter if it was just a cat.

The image of any of them in a hole in the ground hit you like a dagger, but was repelled by the reminder that they probably wouldn't actually end up in a grave, and you felt even more pain. You couldn't bear the sight of your friends' bodies abandoned somewhere in isolation.

"Mierda!'' You exclaimed violently, dropping the stone and turning to look for others. You had seen dead and dying people.

Tears ran down your face, along with the sweat of that day. You didn't bother, stopping only to wipe your nose on your clothes from time to time. You had tied a twisted scarf around your head, to hold your hair back and prevent more sweat from running into your eyes. But you were soaking wet, having a vague certainty that this was some side effect of the poison, by the time you had finished adding another twenty small stones to Agno's grave.

You took a step back and wiped your face, breathing hard. Insects buzzed past your ears and, even though you were standing in front of him, you couldn't think about Agno. Each stone placed on top of the other was a different name repeated in your mind. Most of them dear names.

What were you going to do now? Running away was out of the question. The tears in your eyes blurred your vision and gave the woods a dusty stony look.

Gyro and Johnny. What were they doing? What were they planning to do? You hoped that, at the very least, they were still alive. You had to do something, you couldn't let your despair spread any further. You had to get back to the city and look for them, but for that you also needed a horse – after what happened with Agno, you would never think of exposing Cadichon to any risk by bringing her.

Without much idea of what to do, you walked back the way you thought Diego had come, making a few turns along the way to make sure no one was following you. You were exhausted, seeking oblivion from the torturing despair and the knowledge of certain and imminent disaster. There weren't many people in that part of the city, let alone in the stables. Would stealing a horse be a good idea? You asked yourself. You grew up pickpocketing, without a just reason to do so – was trying to save your friends' lives a good reason to steal a horse?

Maybe so , you concluded, as long as you find the time to return it later and, if possible, apologize to the owner. You stopped in front of the stable, the impending ruin casting a long shadow.

The wooden door creaked, damp and almost rotten. There was no one there, just like in the streets. Your presence did nothing to bring life back to the place. You walked silently through the dark stable, whispering like the heavy breathing of sleeping men, the air filled with the dullness of sadness.