“Hand me the knife, Gerta,” my father said. The goat bleated as he held it down, its limpid eyes wide with recognition of what was coming.
“Here, Da,” I said, giving him the worn-handled blade.
The knife was old, older than my father even. Blunted and sharpened so many times over so many decades until it remembered its edge, held within its own memories. It ran with a keen hunger as it separated the goat’s life from its body. Blood gushed out into the bucket—nothing went to waste. It would make good blood sausage, after all. It cried silently, its windpipe severed. Slow twitches as the last of its breath left its body.
I never liked that part. Da was a goat farmer, so it was a daily occurrence, of course. Still, I never liked knowing that the goat was aware of what was happening to it. Never liked to think what ran through its head as it died slowly.
Father hung the creature by its legs from the stocks. The goat would drip from its neck until it was dry, keeping the meat fresher for longer.
“Go see your mother,” Da said. He wiped the knife and his hands on his leather apron, then put the knife down on the counter. “She’s back from the market, now.”
The house was a small cottage, made of stones and mud mixed with hay that was all wedged into the gaps to act like mortar. Most of the other houses in the village were the same. Dog ran up to me, and I smiled. He always made me feel better, so I played with him as I walked, put my mind onto easier things.
“Ma,” I said, walking through the back door. Dog sat patiently at the door for me to return. “Da said you were back.”
My mother was packing away some things.
“Ah, Gerta,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes. Hard to say if it was to any purpose. I could see she had been crying.
“How was the market, Ma?” I said, leaning on the dining chair.
“Oh, the journey was long, like it always is.” Ma smiled at her. More a half-smile, though, and her cheeks were puffy and red.
“You get many buyers?” I asked.
“A few.”
I didn’t say anything but I always worried about it. Though we never went hungry. It just meant we couldn’t buy that new shovel or that new pot. The pots were getting a bit rusty. Da walked in and Ma tensed up, almost imperceptibly.
“Offal tonight,” he said. Offal again. Da always kept the best cuts for the market, of course.
Through luck or chance I had been given a free hour or so before teatime, and I worked on my loom. My most recent project was made from flax, given to me by a nice boy down the river. His mother spun yarn. He gave me a skein as a present, and I thanked him with a kiss.
I bent over as I did the finicky work of hooking the linen thread through each eye and over a peg at the other end. Loop over the heddle stick, then back through the eye. Loop, back through. It wasn’t hard, just tedious. But the end product would be a finely woven piece of fabric that could be used to make clothes or sold at the market for a decent price. A clothmaker made good money, and it was a different kind of life. Different to my own, better.
“Dinner,” Ma called.
“Bollocks,” I mumbled to myself. The hour had passed quicker than I thought. I felt like I’d not even made a dent. I walked into the kitchen. The stew bubbled away on the stove. The vegetal smell wafted into my nose and I nearly gagged. Turnip and entrails, again.
We sat down at the table eating from wooden bowls and spoons.
“Gerta,” Da asked. “How comes the fabric?”
“All right,” I replied. “Bit slow.”
“I was hoping you could sell it at the market when you’re finished,” Da added, blowing on his spoon. “Seeing as you’re spending so much time on it.”
“I’m not slacking in my chores, am I?” I asked. I glanced at Ma. She was quiet, and stared at her soup.
“No, but,” Da said, putting his spoon down. “You’re our only child. Our family are goat farmers, and I need you to start doing that work. We won’t be around forever.”
I frowned.
“Why don’t I take Gerta with me, tomorrow,” Ma offered, voice wavering.
“Really?” My face glowed with excitement. I felt my heart flutter then—I had never been east of the river, and never so far as the city. The city would be different, and perhaps even wonderful.
Da nodded. “Aye, I don’t see why not. Might be useful to see the money side of things.”
A crashing noise came from outside. Dog started barking.
“Gerta,” Da said. Dog was mine, after all.
“Yes, Da.”
I walked out the door. The barking stopped.
“Dog,” I called. Nothing. Even the frogs were quiet. Something moved through the air. There was a change in the atmosphere, as if the tiniest parts of my body vibrated in unison for an imperceptible moment. I walked to the barn, looking for Dog. Evening had settled into the valley, making everything just that little bit harder to make out. Shadows fell longer, too. It made me feel uneasy.
“Dog,” I called again, nervous now. “Where are you?”
The goat still hung in the stocks, now drained. The bucket was full of dark, arterial blood. Behind me a clatter made the hairs on my neck stand on end. I heard children’s laughter, and spun around, found the knife in my hand.
“Who’s there?” I cried, holding the knife forward. I shifted my hand upon the handle. The worn wood settled, contoured to my skin, the grain comfortable along the folds of my palm. I imagined my Da, and my Da’s Da, all the others stretching up through time that might have held this knife. It felt right.
“Gerta.”
Ma called me from the house. I looked around, sad I couldn’t find Dog. He probably just found a rabbit to chase. He would come back. He always did.
“Ma,” I called as I walked inside. “Da. Where are you?” They weren’t there. I walked into the bedroom, the one we all shared. No one there, either.
“Gerta,” Ma said. I jumped in fright. Ma stood in front of me as I turned, blood dripping from her hands. She held something in them.
“You scared me, Ma,” I said, catching my breath.
“Offal tonight,” Ma said. She held her hands out. Intestines. Stinking and still warm. Dripping with dark, arterial blood.
“Where’s Da?” I asked, worry coming over me.
“Offal tonight,” Ma said, for the second time. “You’re a good child. You’ll eat with me.”
“Where’s Da?” I asked again, slower this time. I looked behind Ma. Then I screamed. Da’s body had been stuffed into the loom—his stocky body somehow twisted and bent into the shape of the frame. His stomach had been opened. Blood dripped slowly down the wood.
Ma screamed and lunged at me. I jumped backwards, trying to get away. I forgot the knife was still in my hand. The knife was there, hungering for another life to take. Ma dropped, clutching her neck. Her blood gushed onto the floor.
All I could think was that it was such a waste. What a waste of good blood sausage.