Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 46 - Lex Talionis

Oh no. Was this his fault?

He kept both his feet wedged underneath the door and pushed up with his lower legs, ignoring everything but this, not noticing his bleeding hooves and cut ankles. The heavy door slammed into his feet and he snorted, crying in fury at himself. Maybe he wasn't strong enough.

Chicero grunted in the terrible pain Pepelito knew so well. Eyes dripping with tears, he forced his right foot under the metal, driving it twenty centimetres above the ground, then pushed and kicked with his left, the skin on his legs grazed. Now the bottom edge was level with his ankles. Pepelito lowered his head, trying to force the door upwards with his horns, create space that didn't exist. The stabbing sensations in his neck he thought had gone returned.

'The querencia, eh? Come on now, out your comfort zone,' a spectator laughed. Chicero pressed himself against a wooden board near the one obscuring Pepelito's door, his agonised cries almost drowned out by excited shrieks, applause and laughter. With the scent of blood overwhelming him, Pepelito tried to sit, scraping his horns and ramming his bleeding, bruised knees under the door, panting as he heaved it higher.

What if he couldn't stop them?

'Go on. Get him out his little corner, make him fight,' a woman snarled, her voice full of hate.

'Hah. That'll teach him to run. Pathetic.' The door was now high enough that Pepelito could lower his head and push with it. Clenching the teeth in the back of his mouth until his eyes rolled back, he pushed upwards with his forehead and horns, then his nose. The resin plug on his other horn came off, stinging him. He pushed until he could fit his whole head underneath, his neck squeezed so tight his throat constricted. As he sniffed the air in horror, a bullfighter stabbed a fourth pair of black 'punishment' darts into Chicero's back.

Jolyon waved his white handkerchief. To the sound of a trumpet, Henry re-entered the ring alone. The crowd screamed its delight. Hold on, Pepelito begged his friend, forcing the rusted barrier up with all the strength he had.

'This is it,' a man said, breathless. 'The suerte suprema. Just watch.'

His entire body was sore from the effort but he couldn't give up, not now. Out of breath, Pepelito watched, unable to intervene, as Henry led the exhausted, bleeding bull around in the sand with his matador's cape. Sand and dirt stung his eyes. His friend's pain was breaking him with rage and sadness. The door weighed heavily as he nudged it upwards with his neck, his spine about to crack.

He paced back, put his head underneath the metal door and heaved up with everything he had, until he could fit his shoulders underneath. He pressed at the depression with his feet, drawing his aching muscles upwards until the door clicked and the lock mechanism snapped.

'Convention dictates that I must dedicate this bull to someone,' Henry grinned, waving around Belmonte's sword as Chicero panted for breath. He took his hat off, placed it between the bull's horns, leaned forward and screeched, inches from his face. Then, flourishing his cape, he theatrically spun round, turning his back on Chicero. The crowd cheered, enraptured with barbaric excitement. Someone yelled, 'Henry is Innocent', another spectator shouted 'Bravo'.

Pepelito edged forward cautiously, the door heavy against his scarred and tender back.

He took a step, then another one.

Time to fight.

'Allow me, then, to dedicate this first bull of ours to the esteemed proprietor of this most magnificent of establishments, the great aficionado, our wonderful friend, Sir Jolyon Richmond. Who could fail to appreciate his excellent hospitality?' Before Henry had finished speaking, the heavy door answered him with a metallic crash.