The Palace of Curiosities. Rosie Garland
enough to thrash out when the hooks dig through its tendons and the hauling starts, so it takes four men to get it up there, the four who should be mopping the floor, so now we are slipping in the bile it has spewed up. I cut its throat right across, more than is needed, to sever the windpipe as well as the vein, and air whistles out, but at least it is a hiss and not the awful keening.
Finally, we tie it off: heels up, head down, tongue licking the floor; and still struggling. The blade is in my hand. My fellows are getting angrier, and I am the only one who can do a thing about it. I lift my hand; the blade falls and I have some comfort that this stroke at least is deep and true. I lose myself in the sight of its guts, gushing out in a smooth clean tumble. I do not let myself see its juddering terror as I kill it for the last time. I will not let myself think of that at all.
The hauliers are bringing up the next beast, shouting, ‘Get a move on, you fuckers. How long does it take to kill a bullock, for Christ’s sake?’ Their charge is restless: it can smell and hear and taste and see what is before it, and knows its share. Then it is in, stamping out its complaint, and we must continue. I look at Alfred: he is sweating, his hand unsteady. The haulers hate him, the winch-men hate him, the sweepers hate him, the animals hate him. His day is already bad, and the only direction it can go is to the worse.
‘Alfred,’ I say.
I hold out my hand and he places the hammer into my grasp. The bullock looks at me with wet brown eyes, and I look back; I lay my hand on its flank until it grows still. Then it happens: it stumbles forwards, as though kneeling in prayer. I am to be its killer, but I am kind, each blow struck by me being on the mark. It knows it will be fully dead when it is split open. I am the only one it can be certain of. Other men try but I succeed, every time. It closes its eyes, knowing I will be quick and sure. It is my nature.
I do not disappoint: neither the beast nor my companions. They see my kindness, and each of them pauses, even the most brutish of the hauliers, and breathe out their relief.
‘You’re a good man,’ says Alfred, and rubs my shoulder, swabbing it with blood.
His voice snaps in the middle, dry and thin. I return the hammer to him.
The day swims past, and I drift upon its languorous current. My arm continues to rise and fall and I am drawn into a drowse by the movement, by the length and silkiness of black hair flowing in a stream from wrist to elbow, the veins standing out along the length.
With each fall of the blade the muscles of my hand and thumb stiffen and relax, and I find myself thinking how simple a thing it would be to make a vertical incision upwards from the wrist; how soft the curtains of skin as I part them, warm as the inside of a mouth, revealing the workings of the body within.
I see myself slip a flat-bladed knife beneath the musculus coracobrachialis and biceps brachii – for these notations are suddenly known to me – and raise them slightly from their accustomed bed against the bone of my upper arm. I do not want to fix my gaze anywhere but on this work, which terrifies me yet is familiar, and comforting in its familiarity.
I am opened up, and am possessed of a knowledge that sparkles through me. My heart soars: I know this. For what are men but hills, swamps, sinkholes, deep abysses, flat plains? I understand now. This is no gazetteer of any country; it is the terrain of man’s interior geography, and I am a geographer of that body for I know the mountains and rivers, the highways and cities. I gaze at my flesh, opened up so beautifully. It prickles, quickens. I behold the mappa mundi. All I need to know is here.
I feel wetness on my cheeks, hear a cough and the softness flies away, as though I have been roughly shaken from sleep. My heart beats fast, and I am filled with a fear that I shall find everyone looking at me, somehow knowing my strange imaginings, but the sound is one of the sweepers. I examine my arm: it is untouched. My body is quiet again.
I shake my head and empty it of what I have just witnessed. I do not know whence it came. I have been affected by the terrified beast earlier, that is all. I am a plain man and do not know such long words, nor such an overwhelming philosophy. It is nothing. I press my knowledge into a deep well.
At mid-morning my companions lay down their tools and go out for a mug of tea and piece of bread.
‘I shall stay,’ I say, for I desire a peaceful spot in which to gather up my ragged thoughts.
‘Come now, Abel. You’ve earned a breather.’ Alfred grins.
‘You more than any of us bastards,’ adds William, and they laugh.
‘One-Blow Abel, that’s you!’
I make my mouth smile also.
‘There is but one carcase needs finishing off,’ I say, lightening my voice to make it careless.
Alfred dawdles.
‘I shall stay also. We shall follow presently.’
He grins at me as they depart.
‘Just the two of us, eh? Best company a man could have.’
I set myself back to work, striking the carcase before me; but my hand trembles and I only split it halfway. I try again and strike untrue, jarring the bone so hard my shoulder numbs, and I drop the axe. The steel rings against stone, and Alfred calls out.
‘Abel?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘What is it?’
‘I have dropped my blade.’
‘Dropped it?’ His voice sounds with shock, and he pushes through the curtain of cadavers to my side. ‘What ails you, Abel?’
His eyes search mine.
I shrug. ‘It is nothing.’
‘Well, then,’ he says. ‘Very well.’
He coughs, busying himself in picking up my blade and placing it into my hand.
‘See,’ I say. ‘I am steady again.’
I make another stroke to prove my words, but it is a poor effort, shearing away and striking my forearm, and I am sliced to the bone. For an instant, all is peaceful as we stare at my arm, the dark crimson of muscle within. He speaks first.
‘Christ, your arm.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
It is true. It is my arm. He, like me, can see the sick whiteness showing at the heart of the slit. I should be afraid, but I am not; I feel no panic as I watch the wound fill with sluggish blood. I wait for it to commence pumping, in the way that kine do when I cut their throats, but it does not. The liquid rises partway to the brim and then pauses, small bubbles winking on the surface. As I watch, I am aware of another sensation: my soul begins to beat sluggish wings, unfolding them after a long sleep. My body tingles, stirs.
‘Christ,’ says Alfred. ‘Dear, sweet Christ.’
He sits upon the floor, not caring about the stickiness and filth.
‘Sit down, man,’ he croaks.
‘Yes,’ I say, lowering myself to sit next to him.
He is trembling.
‘You are dying. You will die. What am I to do?’ he stutters. ‘You will bleed to death. You are slain. What can we do?’ His hands patter all over his apron, wringing the corners. ‘I must get help,’ he says, but does not move.
‘Yes,’ I agree, and do not move either, for my eyes will not leave the sight of my inner workings revealed in this impossible fashion.
I am surprised, but not in that way of a new thing, a never-before-seen thing. It is the stillness of curiosity. I ache to dip my thumb into the dish of the wound to see if I am warm or cool; indeed, I lift my hand to do so, and only hesitate because Alfred is shaking violently, small sobs coming from deep within his chest.
‘I must go. I must go and find a doctor,’ he says, over and over, not stirring. ‘I