Black Treacle Magazine (February 2013, Issue 1) (6 page)

The barn,
first. The hardest work of the farm came the earliest. The mournful
lowing of the cows changed to grunting, shuffling anticipation as
Jacob and Abraham entered.

“I thought
maybe number Twelve could go today. He looks about ready. What do
you think?” Strange how quickly, after months of running the farm
practically single-handed, Abraham reverted back to the child-like
reverence for the old man’s experience. That’s how it had always
been; the son looking to the father. For appreciation, for
forgiveness, for blessing.

“Looks OK. Hm.
Naw, he’s a good one but I believe we got ourself a winner here.”
Jacob stopped in front if number Seventeen’s stall. He eyed the
animal speculatively. “Yuh-huh, he’ll do nicely. Tell you what,
Abraham; you pick the knife, how’s that sound?”

It sounded
like small appeasement, but one Abraham was willing to live with.
After all, hadn’t he been complaining to the old man just the day
before that he had to do all the work? If Jacob wanted to put in
his fair share, that was only proper. And the selection of the
knife was important, no denying that. Abraham bent to lay out his
knife belt. Gold, silver and steel flashed in muted glory. He
examined blades, from the softest razors, suitable for birds and
reptiles, to the hardest and most modern German industrial
steel.

Finally he
settled on a stone dagger that he himself had purchased from a
genuine shaman down at the Medicine Creek reserve. It was rough,
chipped, not much to look at, but in the right hands, a powerful
talisman. As he rose, he saw a spot of blood on Jacob’s overalls,
high up on his thigh. He stopped, still bent at knee and back,
staring at that violet spot.

“What’s the
matter boy? You all humped up like a jackass eatin’ thistles. Let’s
get movin’ before the day heats up. Today’s a lucky day, I can feel
it.” But even as Jacob spoke, the light changed. It leaked into the
barn like cold water--milky, weak, indistinct. Abraham walked to a
window and stared. A storm was rolling in. Rain hung in membranous
sheets from a roiling cloudbank to the east. It approached quickly,
staining the ground beneath purple and grey. Abraham could smell it
now, like cold steel and clean stone. As it moved toward hem, he
could taste it in the air, a copper tang like blood.

He turned to
his father, whose face showed a curious blend of sheepishness and
resolution. It was a look Abraham had seen countless times before,
on desperate men. Men forced into a corner, walking into a bank to
borrow, hating it, hating themselves, but the knowledge of
necessity in their face. He had never expected to see it on his
father’s face, and it hurt.

“You went
ahead and did it anyway. Didn’t you? Goddamn it.” He was brought
short, his head rocked backwards by a slap from Jacob’s heavy,
calloused palm. The pain was like a hornet’s sting, venomous and
biting.

“Don’t you
ever talk like that to me, boy. Don’t you ever.” The old man’s eyes
raged in the angry light of the coming storm. Rain began to patter
the dirty windows of the barn, first in isolated drops, then a
fusillade. “I did it. You’re right. You knew it this morning,
though. And you didn’t say a word.”

Abraham knew
that he was right, but still, he only stood there, one side of his
face burning, the other cold.

“I had to do
it, boy. You know it, but you don’t understand it, not yet. One
day, maybe.”

Rain sheeted
down in the yard, the dust turning into mud as he watched. The
smell of it was huge and thunderous, saturating the air as it
saturated the ground. The cattle moved restlessly, hooves stamping
into straw in contrapuntal rhythm. Wind whooped and sang in eaves
where the swallows huddled and hid in silence. Lightning flashed,
three times. The lustrous purple after-image painted Abraham’s
vision.

There was
nothing more to be said. He walked to number Seventeen’s berth to
begin the days work. The cow’s eyes were wide and blank in fear,
reflecting the ashen light. One cut to the throat, quick and sure.
Abraham slashed the animals flank in a long sweeping stroke, laying
the flesh back, ushering the blood forth in a weeping rush. The
animal bucked and bellowed, but Abraham was sure and steady. He
moved in to the deliver the final cut; under the shelf of the jaw
to the bottom of its throat. His hands gloved in hot blood, he
stood back, watching as the animal swayed, then collapsed to the
soaked straw. Three cuts, because three was the number of power.
Flesh, blood, and spirit. Three to guarantee good crops, three to
bring the rain, three to bring the sun.

END

 
Jeff Barr's
stories have appeared in Encounters Magazine, Surreal
Grotesque, and JukePop Serials. His website is
www.jeffbarr.com
.

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