Richard Kornak
©2006
It’s comforting to count ‘em all, late at night, while everything sleeps. Two goats, fourteen cows and half as many calves, two dozen chickens, six bulls, three cats, one dog. A daughter, a wife, and me. That makes sixty. Sixty lives that I am responsible for. Sixty beatin’ hearts.
The goats, they are twins. Still kids. My daughter, Lily, has taken a liking to one of ‘em. She named it Martha, and trained it to sleep in bed with her. They are inseparable. Best of friends. The other one, he’s mine. I’m trainin’ him to herd. Lily named him, too. Billy, appropriately. None of the bovines have names. The dog is Jack. The cats we call Lucy, Ricky, and Duke. The chickens are variables in the countin’ game, also nameless. My wife, Eleanor, sleeps soundly beside me.
We are self-sufficient Wyomingites. The Big Horn Mountains are to our east. Then, nothin’ for miles and miles between. Eventually, you’ll come across civilization. That’s us. Isolated. Then, again, nothin’ for fifty miles. We’re inside parameters, but hardly part of the town. Our ranch is far removed from the tradin’ post.
My great-granddad built it. It’s the longest standing ranch in the county. For that, I am well-liked in town. There was a time, years ago, when I wouldn’t have hesitated to say I knew everyone. They were the ones started callin’ me “Bear.” The name came from my father, Bartholomew. Everyone called him “Barry,” and shortened that to “Bear.” I think of him. Of his pride. His ranch. I think of Eleanor, my wife. She expects me to continue the tradition. The family depends on it. I can’t ever turn my back on the ranch.
I start to count again. This time, aloud. Warm and unaffected, Eleanor snores next to me. She always sleeps soundly.
I, Balthazar Bartley, better know this side of the Big Horn as “Bear,” can not find sleep. I know why.
The slaughter is approachin’. Meat-hooks sway, disinfected, shiny. The livestock are plump. While the others dream, I hear ‘em, lazy calls from thick-muscled necks. They call for me all night long. Visions of bulging eyes, strung-up hooves, red raw meat. Between my ears resounds the drip of drainin’ blood. The thump of mallet meetin’ skull. The bite of cleaver into cutting board.
This is why the livestock are never named. Chickens are one thing. They lay eggs that hatch within a few weeks. Recurringly. There is little attachment. Try cuttin’ the throat of a cow after you’ve witnessed its entire life. Gestation, birth, growth. A cow your daughter would call, “Betty,” or “Beatrice.” No. They all die without a name.
It’s things like these that keep me frazzled into the small hours. I dread this time of year. The splatterin’, the drippin’, the drainin’. Buckets of pink bleach. The processing. This year will be particularly awful. Lily will learn the terrible truth of the herd. She will understand why the goat leads the cattle into the pen. She will know what happens after that. She’ll notice the empty stables. The decline in grazers.
It’s worse.
More often than not, she accompanies me on mock herds. At sunrise, we take the twin goats and head to the grazin’ field. For my daughter, it’s a way to keep the siblings together. That’s very important to her. She’s four.
Me? If I don’t slaughter the beasts, we’ll starve. I require the help of a herder. That’s where Billy comes in. He gains the trust of the livestock, and eventually leads them to their deaths. They willingly follow him to the slaughterhouse. The Judas goat.
The cattle’s calls are a lullaby. The sounds are distant. Foggy. I’m finally dozin’. Even in dreams, I hear ‘em. I can see em, shufflin around, anticipating death. The dueling drawn-out cries get louder. Hangin’ by the hooves, meat marionettes. The violent writhing of desperation. They scream. They fear. They will watch each other die.
Suddenly.
Alarmingly.
Thrust out of sleep.
I spring up in bed. Eleanor’s chest is risin’, fallin’. She is undisturbed. I wonder, what has startled me? An instinct? Perhaps a sound?
I still hear ‘em, that inescapable pleading. My head won’t let me forget. It’s torturous. Only after I scan the room, after I look to make sure everything is in its place, to assure that there is no immediate danger, only then do I realize that the screams I’m hearin’ aren’t in my head. They weren’t part of a dream.
They are comin’ from the stables.
The shotgun under the bed is heavy, its bulk forgotten by years of negligence. I reach deeper and pull out a box of shells. Wild, disturbing screams continue to disquiet the night. I can’t help but imagine the most horrifying scene.
Outside, hayseed is collectin’ between my toes. I’m totin’ this shotgun. The stable looms, spotlighted by the moon, and when I pass the chicken coop I see tons of feathers slowly settlin’ to the ground. I haven’t the time. I needn’t look long to know they were ravaged.
Judgin’ by the bleating and shriekin’ comin’ from the stables, whatever attacked the chickens has made its way to my cattle.
As I approach, an ashen blur appears. At first, only a small bit of fur is exposed, but the figure comes around the corner and grows. I meet eyes with the wolf for only a second. It begins to trot away. I raise the shotgun to my shoulder. I brace for its impact.
By the time I’ve got it in my sights, it can’t be distinguished from shadow. Relieved, I lower the gun, but there is still the aftermath to face.
The cattle are untouched, likely too massive to tempt the lone wolf. They continue to sound their discontent, bangin’ and jarring the walls around ‘em. I go to pet the closest, try to settle her down, and my foot strikes somethin’. On the ground, in a pile of mussed red hay, Billy struggles for breath through a throat ripped open. His front right leg is nearly detached at the knee joint. A bloody tongue glistens. He is ruined.
I sling the shotgun over my arm and pick up the sad remnants. He quivers. The cattle have quieted. They watch.
I bring the mangled body outside. I take it all the way to the edge of my property, to a stream that flows from the mountains. The body is sticky and warm and limp. I place Billy on the ground, his frightened eyes sparklin’ in the moonlight. I lower the barrel so that it points at his coarse fur. I turn my head. One less beatin’ heart.
I wash my hands at the water pump, all the while considerin’ what to tell Lily. I’m doubtless she is sittin’ up in bed, eyes wide, cuddling close with her goat.
So many thoughts. Too many. Of my daughter awakened by a gun blast, of a dead goat floatin’ downstream. Sleep won’t come tonight. Not with the dead goat’s twin, Martha, crowdin’ my thoughts. The single option for a substitute. My child’s only friend. The only other creature the cattle will follow.
Back in the bedroom, Eleanor is asleep, unaffected.
BACKGROUND
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Richard Kornak is a young man living in the upstate New York region. He enjoys writing and spending time with loved ones.
