Free Parrot in the Pepper Tree by Chris Stewart Page A

lying awake and listening to the terrors of night, the shifts and cracks made by my parents’ old house, or more probably by fearful fiends and things too horrible to name who were inching their way out from under the bed. I was always a little surprised to see the sun shining through the curtains in the morning, and to know I had made it through yet another night. But over the years I became accustomed to surviving, and this was the first night for a long time that I had been unsure of.
    As I considered the stars in those dark hours that come before dawn, I began to feel a little more confident of making it through to morning. And then I heard him — of course, he would choose the darkest hour. He was creeping through the bushes on the hill above me. He could see me from there before I saw him. I froze with fear, fished again for my glasses and waited shivering by the bed, hefting the mattock. I could hear his breath, he was that close. Then a careful footfall and the breaking of a bush. I gripped the mattock hard. I heard him cough —and then an enormous fart. No man could fart that loud, not even the formidable Juan. It was Lola, the horse, and now I could hear her munching happily amongst the rosemary.
    A distant cock crowed and then another, and the scops owl stopped booping. The sunlight filtered through, a fly settled on my nose, and I knew it was morning. Juan wouldn’t come now. He didn’t come the next night either.
     
     
     
    I told Manolo about the business and he looked earnestly at me. ‘Juan?’ he said. ‘Juan! You don’t want to mess with Juan — he’s a maniac. He kills people for fun! You know he killed old Pepe Diáz, don’t you? He’s known for fighting — even the Guardia Civil are frightened of him — well, they’re frightened of everybody but they’re particularly frightened of Juan. He carries a navajón — a ten-inch knife — in his boot. He’s bad news. Cristóbal, you’re in real trouble now.
    ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘That’s very reassuring. How do you know all this, anyway?’
    Manolo rolled his eyes. ‘I worked for Juan last year, mucking the dung out of his sheep-stables. He’s a strong bastard. He could lift a mule up with one hand. And he has a terrible temper — I’d sooner mess with a wild boar than with that Juan.’
    ‘Still,’ I replied, keeping a front of optimism. ‘He didn’t come and get me last night, nor the night before. I don’t think he’ll bother to come and kill me now. I may have got away with it..?
    ‘Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. He’ll probably get you at the Feria — the summer fair. That’s when these things are done here. He’ll be drunk and spoiling for a fight and he’ll be furious about losing his blonde. Yes, Feria’s when he’ll get you.’ Manolo smiled happily at me.
    Orgiva Feria — the town’s big festival — was the following week. The business with Juan might make it a little more interesting than usual. Feria is a time of unbelievable cacophony, when the townsfolk go overboard indulging their passion for noise. There’s a fairground where each and every ride has its own sound system, each more ear-splitting than the last. The streets are lined with brightly-lit sweet stalls and lottery stalls where you can win polyester day-glo cuddly toys, and these too have their own music, pumped out at about ten times the decibel level that strikes you stone deaf. The bars in the plaza, meanwhile, have sound systems the size of small houses, which thunder and rattle day and night, making it impossible to hold the faintest trace of conversation. Yet the locals just sit there chatting away as though nothing were happening. It’s my belief that the Spanish have better evolved ears than the rest of us.
    As if the noise isn’t enough, Feria is also the time of year when the wind gets up. It comes trickling over the top of the Contraviesa, building up speed as it races through the gullies and canyons, then roars uphill from