Demonia: a short story

They passed into the harbour of Favignana at the beginning of spring, the island’s single small mountain heaving into view from the Trapani ferry, burned brown by centuries of parch and abandonment. A disused Bourbon castle sprawled upon its summit, while below it near the water stood an old tuna-processing factory with 19th-century industrial chimneys. The raffish little port lay alongside. They came down on to a deserted quay with the harbour on their right filled with the pale blue and copper boats of the bluefin fishermen listing in shallows. The fishermen seemed to have walked off into a different life, perhaps never to return.

In the main square there were shops selling cans of local tuna with the Rais, the sea shaman who led the harvest of the bluefin tuna every year, pictured on the lids. A man with a curling white beard, à la Neptune. Even the servizi turistici was open, its walls advertising nautical adventures. When they ventured inside, an old lady, who had just opened up shop without expecting a soul to appear, looked up from her newspaper and coffee and said, with resort-town English: ‘Are you serious?’

The freezer was filled with steaks, though the agent had said nothing about permission to eat them

‘You’re open,’ Ben said, and put down the bag he was shouldering. ‘We can’t be the only ones.’

The woman gave him a smile edged with a little grimness. ‘You are the only ones.’

They all shook hands.

‘Well, we are the only ones then. We are looking for a house. For a month.’

‘Not a problem,’ said the relieved agent.

Behind them on the wall, the island map was pinned. Shaped like a butterfly, the island was mountainous in the west, flat and gently rolling in the east. Between the two ‘wings’ was a small isthmus where the town lay with its port.