Running of the Bulls

At last, Captain Sargia closes his notebook. “Death by misadventure,” he declares. “It is quite plain. Put a fool with a bull and soon you have only a bull.” He says that as if it is a proverb. If it is not, it should be. Sighing, he continues, “I am sorry your holiday was spoiled. You may go on with it, though.” He heaves himself out of his chair—he has not missed many meals—and leaves us alone.

I go on with my holiday in the hotel bar. Now I can drink. Sooner or later, I will have to let Obert Ohn’s kin know what has happened to him. Later will do better than sooner, or so I think as I get outside of some brandy.

I do not drink alone. Lady Ett and Kime sit next to me. They are also busy getting tight. It is that kind of afternoon. You may think we are holding a wake for Obert. More likely, we are holding a wake for ourselves, and for the parts of us that have died up till now. We have not finished the job, but we are on our way.

Whatever we are doing, we do it up brown. “I can’t feel the tip of my tail,” Ett says after a while.

“Piker!” Kime laughs at her. “I can’t feel the tip of my snout.” He turns toward me. “How about it, Baek? What can’t you feel?”

“Me? I can’t feel anything.”

He thinks that is funny as the demons. I only wish I did.

After a while, we go from the bar to the restaurant. It is better to put down some ballast before you start drinking. Just because it is better does not mean you always do it. We will pay come morning. Morning lies on the far side of tonight, though. We care nothing for it now.

We order something. I do not remember what—too much brandy under the bridge. Whatever you get at Tonmoya’s hotel will be good.

At a nearby table sit three bullfighters. They are new in town, here for the next part of the festival. I recognize two of them. I saw them in the arena last year. They have been in the trade a long time. The fellow who was gored during the running of the bulls will sport a big scar once he heals. The veterans both sport several scars like that. It is a hazard of their line of work.

Their friend is much younger. After a bit, I realize he has to be Moremo, the bullfighter the handlers were talking about. He is not an apprentice anymore. He is a killer in his own right. Killer—that is what the Astilian word for bullfighter means.

Killer or not, he is still a kid. I did not think he would be so young. Everything about coming here for the festival excites him. He is out to make a name for himself. He is also out to have a great time.

The other two bullfighters watch him. Every so often, when he is not watching them, they smile small, sad smiles at each other. They remember when the world stretched out ahead of them, too, all wide and welcoming.

I remember those days myself. They were not so very long ago. But once you leave them behind, you never get them back.

I probably take longer than I should to see I am not the only one at our table noticing Moremo. So is Ett Brashli. And Moremo is noticing Ett. Well, if you are a man, you cannot help noticing Ett. She is older than he is, but not too old. Oh, no. Not too.

Sometimes you think you can get the wide, welcoming days back if you keep company with someone who still has them. By the look in her eye, Lady Ett is thinking that now. Not one who thinks such things has ever been right since the world hatched from its egg, but people do it all the time.

And besides, Moremo is a handsome fellow. You can have a grand time with somebody like that for a little while. Till you need something more than a handsome face, anyhow. By the look in her eye, Ett is thinking about the grand time, not about the till you need something.

She always does. I should know. Hell, I do know. Nobody knows better. And when it goes sour—and it will go sour—who will help her pick up the broken pieces? I will. I know that, too. It is not as if I have never done it before.

When they are almost as good as their word about fixing you up almost as good as new, what else can you do?

“Running of the Bulls” copyright © 2013 Harry Turtledove