Chapter 2: Neville – Flies
The mulatto’s name was Neville. He was fourteen years old when War invaded his home. From the top of the hill he saw six soldiers dragging their dirty feet through the aimless streets of Debur. The city had grown around the Emerald Castle after Sátiron disappeared and the empire crumbled. Under Sátiron’s wings, everything grew organized and clean, with proper sewers, clean water, and light. Debur looked like stone crumbs dropped by a careless giant. Houses sprouted on hills and moors, bunches of rocks here, wooden pillars there. The streets ran between buildings, currents of dirt that often ended in alleys, sometimes flowing into the fields, rarely reaching a road. A narrow street led to the Emerald, which used to be lit with sorcery before the War, but light also went when Sátiron disappeared.
Many travelers who entered Debur saw more of the city than they’d planned, getting to know alleys, nowheres, and many walls. Those who enter Debur may die in Debur was a popular saying among travelers of War.
The six soldiers Neville saw from the top of the hill knew the city. They took the right turns to avoid alleys, and they carried among themselves a heavy burden that looked like a filthy hammock. Sometimes they disappeared behind a house, then they reappeared, tripping on holes, closer and closer to the mulatto’s house. He ran down the hill to see if they had brought news of his father. He assumed that, as usual, his captain and father had gone directly to the Emerald to confer with King Henrique of Baynard.
The soldiers arrived first at Neville’s house and dropped their burden on the table. The boy stopped at the door, black eyes darting here and there, trying to understand the horror that had entered his home. Blood, old and brown, on cloth spread on the ground; red and thick like lava on the table. Where did that smell of carrion come from? Part of the boy knew it came from the table, from the thing he refused to understand. Another part rebelled, refused, could not.... It occurred to him that he should close the door so the flies wouldn’t come inside.
His mother was leaning over the table, her strong, black shoulders bent under an invisible weight.
‘Neville,’ she said, ‘We’ll have to cut off both legs.’
Thus Neville had his first encounter with The Civil War of Franária. He took a step forward and dipped into the horror, but not entirely: a piece of him stayed at the threshold. Neville helped his mother mechanically and numbly, half-deaf, half-blind. Half. His innocence stayed outside with the flies.
