Galilee
Part 7 - Mike
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This story was selected as the Third Prize winner of the Second Edition of the Substack Writer’s Contest (Spanish edition).
Galilee
We arrived in Galilee, and they almost killed us.
We didn’t eat. Three days ago we got a stolen piece of barley bread; I can still smell it on my fingers. Yesterday it was two hard crumbs and the end of a pickled olive. Today nothing, only the memory turning over in my mouth.
They say that on the other side of the lake, this afternoon, a man handed out bread and fish for everyone. The news arrived, not the bread. People whisper it with a faith that sounds like hunger.
We listened from the shadow of the wall, pressed together to keep warmth and a little courage.
“They stole!” a woman said as she passed. “They stole bread from the market!”
She didn’t say our names, but everyone knows it was us. Then I felt her hand, warm, steady.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said, not letting go. “Just watch.”
First came a hum, very low. It was the wind: it carried voices. They climbed up from the lake through the narrow street, striking the walls. The noise throbbed in my chest. Each step brought a word: miracle. It felt sacred to look at, with the certainty it could also hurt you. I felt the street beating to an invisible rhythm. I was afraid, and at the same time I didn’t want to turn away.
A butterfly came out of the crowd and rested for a second on my finger. Its wings trembled and then it spiraled back toward the noise.
She slipped from me and moved toward the baskets. It was quick: a hand in, the bread pressed to her chest, my arm yanked back. But he caught us.
“Bitch. You again,” spat the man with the knife.
He cut us off. He raised his arm, aimed straight at her chest. With the other hand he tore the bread from her arm; I watched it hit the ground. I felt the hum swell, pushing everything forward. The crowd moved as one; someone slammed into him from behind and knocked him down. The knife skittered away. She grabbed it and we ran.
Our legs burned, our stomachs dry. We went back to the room behind the market. No bread, no oil, no lentils. Only a bottle that smelled of vinegar and the old chair.
Our feet hit the dirt floor; she set the knife on the table. She began slicing the air, slice after slice. Each time she brought it down, she sang a note. She was singing. I closed my eyes.
The street’s hum drifted away, but the word stayed inside: miracle.
She offered me an invisible slice on her palm. I brought it to my mouth and tasted only saliva and warm air. Then she pressed the pad of her finger to my lip; I pressed it to fill myself.
“Keep going,” I asked. “Sing.”
“If we have to die here, it will be like this,” she whispered. “I’ll sing to you anyway.”
She brought her hand to my mouth.
“I feed your lips, my precious,” she hummed as she fed me.