



They stood within a cloud of flies, stared at the stinking bulk before them.





It was the carrion wreck of a cow, prone on the

browning pasture and surrounded by gore-stained scrub. Flies spiraled to and fro from the hollow of its ribs and belly, torn open and bereft of innards.



"I found her like this, my poor querida," said a weatherbeaten man in a felt cap, somber. "Please, help me repair things." The others, a pair of cutters, looked at him quizzically



"Farmer Jamaro, you kn ow we'll help…," said an oily-haired man. He held a handkerchief to his mouth, breathed shallow in distaste.



"Provided you pay," added the third, a pale woman with a long nose.



"But we can't put your cow back together."



Miserably, the farmer shook his head. "No, no. Señor i Louis, Clovette. My Firlish fails me. I beg you repair my relations with the lemures."



"The whats?" said Louis.



"The lemures," said Jamaro. "The shades, dark spirits. They have surely done this, for they are angry with me and my family."



Louis raised an eyebrow. "The spirits killed your cow and absconded with her innards?"



Jamaro bobbled his head, shrugged. "Si . "



Above the kerchief, an eyebrow raised. "I suppose we can try. Why do you think these, eh … lemures, are angered?"



The farmer gritted his brown teeth, shook his head. "I have no way of knowing. We, my family, have always been in good terms, making lemuria often, to please them. Very good terms. Never bad."



Louis g estured with his free hand. "Where do they live, the spirits? Can we speak to them in any way?"



"They live in the sea caves, the sacred grottoes, but none are allowed to see them."



At this, Clovette perked up, worried. She tugged on Louis' sleeve. "Good Messieur Jamaro, allow us a moment to strategize." She took Louis by the arm and pulled him away.



Louis looked at her askance. "Qu'elle?"



Clovette spoke covertly. "Louis, we are dumb salauds. Remember, when we killed the ugly creatures in the caves?"



"The stupid fishgut beasts? Who smelled of liver? We killed them for the swag the drunkard mentioned."



"Yes. In the sea caves."



Louis's eyes widened. "Merde, we are dumb. We killed the spirits."



"And angered the rest," said Clovette.



"Wait, wait" Louis screwed up his eyes. "We can still make bank at this, I am certain."



"Oui. Try."



"Messieur Jamaro, " said Louis, turning to the farmer, smiling. "How do you propose we appease the lemures?"



"Oh" said Jamaro, frowning. "Only a great lemuria would suffice."



"A what?"



"Lemuria" said Jamaro. "An offering of food. A great one, for they seem to be angered deeply. I would do so, but I fear to show my face to them. "



The cutters met eyes. "Bring the uglies food. Not hard," muttered Clovette. Louis raised an eyebrow, nodded.



"We can do it," he said.



The farmer smiled, clasped his hands. "Bien, bien. I will tell the butcher."



Clovette frowned. "For what?"



"For the offal, the food."



The cutters met eyes, grimaced. "Fig ures," muttered Louis, swatting a fly off his cheek. "Maybe we wo–"



"Where do we offer it?" interrupted Clovette.



"Deep in the spirits' home. In the cavernas, the halls of the dead."



"What?" startled Louis.



"The deepest sea grottoes."



Louis looked as if to speak. Clovette cut him off. "We will do it at twenty-five percent more."



The farmer shrugged, sadly. "I must see the lemures appeased, for my family. I must pay."



At this, Louis huffed. "It will be don e, Messieur J amaro," Clovette said. She stepped to shake hands over the dead cow. Flies alit upon their wrists.



Mon ami, i The cutters set off. Louis looked sour. Clovette spoke lightly. " t is like we have generated our own fortune, with this job. D o not worry yourself over his talk of caves."



Louis shrugged. "You are right, b ien sûr. We have faced the lemure spirits already . Only have to feed them, now."



"'Spirits,'" said Clovette. " How tough can they be?"



With confident step, they set off across the scrubby pasture, wound round the buzzing wrecks of a hundred gutted cows.











A summer's breeze slipped through the kitchen window, through hanging pans and swaying sheafs of basil. Heady, sedative, laden with sea salt and the sweetness of orange groves in full fruit.

Neath the window, sprawled

on a countertop,

dozed a fat ginger cat. By the hearth, in a crooked chair, slept a plump old woman. Nary a hint of black remained midst the grey of her nodding head.