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She mumbles a few incomprehensible words, a sort of perfunctory protest, without disobeying me. She just stands there, straight as an arrow, staring at me in anticipation of a feat that may never come to pass.
I levitate above the current and quickly locate a school of wriggling gudgeons. These fish are small, but they’ll suffice to fill Believ's stomach for the time being. I move closer to the waves, keeping out of sight, and watch the coordinated movements of the little school of fish, obviously looking for food not far from the bank, where the rocks and seaweed are denser.
I'm so close, I'll soon cross the current. I'm concentrating.
One.
I take a deep breath—as if that would make a difference.
Two.
The water continues its course, while the fish gorge themselves on invisible particles before spitting out the sand.
I'm ready.
Three!
Suddenly, as I lunge to grab one of the fish and throw it in the direction of Believ, who seems to be getting impatient, an eel pops out from under a rock and swallows my prey! In my momentum, I grab it instead. It gives me a terrifying jolt I never thought I would feel. Nevertheless, I keep my fingers tightened around my catch and, while tightening my embrace, send it a wave of electricity in turn. It tenses under the impulse, as stiff as a piece of wood, just before I manage to throw it into the greasy grass, where it wriggles for a moment more before coming to rest.
What a creature!
Believ's face decomposes. She was obviously expecting something less repulsive and probably a little less slimy. If she's hungry, she'll have to make do!
“This thing is huge,” she manages to articulate, her eyes riveted on the inert eel.
“That'll give you more to eat. Enough to build up your strength before...”
Before what? We don't know what nightmare we're about to get ourselves into, or even if the outcome will be favorable to me. In Believ’s words, it stinks.
She has donned her black suit and is now busy lighting a fire, no mean feat in a region as humid as Britain. After positioning rocks in a circle like a miniature Stonehenge, she gathers twigs and a little moss, which crackles under the flame of her lighter. She tries again and again but finally gets it right. A timid fire licks the wood, from which steam escapes. She feeds it for a moment to make sure it won't sputter out, and then sets off in search of materials to make a makeshift skewer. With relative delicacy, she pushes it through the eel's body with a giggle.
“Holy crap! Not only does it weigh a ton, but its skin stings!”
When she puts it over the fire, I see her hands reddened by the stings of the fish, whose skin she should have scraped off before picking it up.
I watch her, powerless and silent. This body covered in light bruises exerts a particular attraction on me and an uncontrollable need to protect her, when in fact it's she who has come to my rescue. How I would love to nurse her back to health, to erase those painful scratches, to hold her close like a treasure, to admire her until my pupils burn, to make her mine and keep her by my side.
All sorts of images flash through my mind. Burning, exciting, even sweet. Then I come back to reality, hers and now mine, albeit incongruously: I'm dead and, in absolute terms, I'm going to stay that way.
Sitting on the grass, she loses herself in the contemplation of her meal, which she turns from time to time. What's on her mind?
After a moment of eternity, she begins to tear away the shreds of flame-blackened skin to reach the white, translucent flesh. She takes small pieces and shyly stuffs them into her mouth.
“It's delicious,” she enthuses, biting into the dripping fat.
It certainly is. Like the moment I savor, before returning to the uncertainty of my fate.
It's my turn to forget what's around us and, as I cling to her glossy, luscious lips nibbling away the fat, I find myself hoping, terrified that soon we'll reach the end of this insane journey.
No sooner has she finished her meal than she smothers the fire and stands up.
“What are you doing?” I ask, displeased to be disturbed in my divine observation.
“It's time to go. They won't be long.”
“Who's ‘they’?”
“No idea. Church henchmen, I suppose. The police... There's no shortage of pursuers these days.”
