Behold the Void

by Philip Fracassi

  He had met the Marshalls before, of course. In his many years as a stable hand, he’d met practically every rancher, barn-owner and breeder from Tampa to Ocala and, in a different life, across the state in Jacksonville up to Yulee. So many barns, so many horses. So many indifferent, low-paying owners and too many potential ranch hands, all of them reaching, all of them desperate. He’d been desperate, as well.

  As a young man, raising a small boy and having a beautiful wife to look after, he had taken whatever he could get, regardless of hours or pay. He’d worked hard, and he knew horses. Knew how to talk to them, to steady them, to prepare them for the privileged daughters and weekend businessmen with the itch for riding. It was a gift he’d had since he was a kid, working a ranch in Sonora with his father, before the family had moved to the states, to an uncle who had work waiting for them in Florida. They had crossed the border, like so many then, illegally. His sister Theresa’s body was left behind after dying from exposure in the Sonoran wasteland just north of Sásabe. She’d been only six, he nine, and there was not enough water for the long weeks they walked, exposed to the heat. After they reached Nogales, they rode huddled and frail atop a freight train—known as la bestia for the way it chewed up those who dared straddle its metal back—to the border in silence, his papa wary for bandits, his mother inconsolable. Eventually, after many weeks of hardship, they made it through the southern American states to their uncle in Jacksonville, the small family broke and forever broken.

  Fifty years he’d worked horses, fifty years of shoveling estiércol, repairing barns, building stables in the wet heat. Long days, hard days, making less than minimum wage, barely surviving, eating little, sleeping less.

  Now that he was making real money, he had no one left to provide for, no need for it. He did it because he could. He felt, somewhere deep, it was owed to him. Besides, what had horses ever done for him? Shit and eat, wait to be brushed, wait to be shoed, stare at him with their devil-god eyes.

  Gabino took off his worn Stetson, wiped his forehead, ran a hand through his short-cropped graying hair. The night was hot, and he was in a bad state, he knew. It annoyed him. He was a man who enjoyed laughing, enjoyed cold cerveza and tequila with his friends. This horse business was a bad one, and he prayed his Mariana was in heaven forgiving him; his Luis, killed when just nine years old, standing with her, waiting for him to come join them.

  He put the Stetson back on his head, continued his prowl through the arena. He reached the rails, deftly climbed them, lost his footing, fell, whisper-cursed. “Me lleva la chingada,” he said, rubbing his bad knee as he stood, dusted himself, then stopped, listening.

  It was quiet. He knew no one would be here. The Marshalls had no security. No alarms. No staff that worked past midnight. No boarders. Only their half-dozen warmbloods, two of them retired champion grand prix jumpers. The wife’s, Far North, was an older mare well past her competing age. Mrs. Marshall liked riding her, training her, keeping her own aging body in form, an old equestrian herself. The daughter, Lilly, a savage teenager with an ugly face and a mean temperament, rode the diamond of the bunch, Widowmaker. The brat and Widowmaker competed around the world, often placing, sometimes winning. She was a beautiful, black mare, as slick as midnight and strong as two bulls. When she ran her black coat rippled with underlying muscle like a wind-blown lake in Hell. The girl, in her helmet, lambskin gloves and hunt coat, looked like an appendage of the great beast while she sat atop him, a tumor sticking from its back as it cantered and leapt like Arion.

  Tonight Gabino would take that horse and sell it, likely kill it with his own hands, if that is what Fat Ted wanted. Sometimes Gabino would bring men with him, and they’d take the horse to a nearby field, strike a tent with work lights hooked to truck batteries, kill it, butcher it, then burn the remains. Or bury them if there was time, especially if a fire might attract attention. The horses stank when they burned, thick and rancid, hundreds of pounds of skin and blood boiling to ash, innards crackling, the fire petrifying the bones in black chalk for the authorities to find days later.

  All but the heads.

  The heads, for reasons he did not understand or want to think about, never fully burned. The eyes liquefied, popping and spitting like firecrackers, and the fat tongue, the long mane, all burned away, every time. But the great flesh and skull of the head, the giant teeth, always remained. A blessing of the gods, perhaps a warning to those who dared defile the creatures. Gabino rubbed his mouth, huffed away the thought, felt a chill despite the night’s smothering warmth. No, he did not like to think about it.

  He gripped the cutters in one hand, the worn halter in the other. He waited a moment before continuing toward the barn, heard no sound save the horses inside. He looked at the sagging blood moon, which made him think of a witch’s orange-tinted tit slipping through a black lace gown. He winced from the sting of sweat running into his eyes, said a prayer of St. Michael to protect him from devils.

  Finally he approached the large main door, his bad knee aching. There was a job to do, and tonight would pay very well. Perhaps he would buy a new knee if he did not drink it all away with that pinche Jose and the boys.

  Reaching the barn, he was able to relax, let down his guard. He found his humor, thinking of his friends, the good things he still had in his life. He smiled as he studied the old lock on the door. Strong white teeth glinted beneath the heavy moustache and the shadowy curve of the thief’s wide-brimmed hat.

  He put the bolt-cutters to the lock and squeezed, his hands rough and strong as the tool itself. There was a satisfying snip, and the lock fell away. Gabino smiled more widely, his dark thoughts exorcised for the moment, and pulled open the large door, its rusted hinges squealing with minimal protest.

  Widowmaker waited for him inside, in the dark, only minutes away from freedom and death.

  The interior of the barn was darker than the night, the horses each a blurred shadow, hovering on either side of the wide dirt path splitting the barn’s interior.

  Gabino dug into his back pocket, pulled out a palm-sized Maglite, twisted it alive. With the aid of the light and steady adjustment of his own eyes, he was able to make out the individual stalls. They were large, enough room for three horses nose-to-tail, and each chest-high door carried a stenciled white plaque bearing the animal’s name.

  He walked past Jubilee and Kenya—a broodmare and a stallion—two former champions Mr. Marshall kept for breeding, although those requests had been coming few and far-between lately, Gabino knew. He supposed the man kept them for sentimental reasons, and he owned the barn, owned the land, so why not?

  Gabino turned to his left, let the light’s beam slide across Far North, a beautiful speckled mare that was the lady’s pride and joy. He went over, patted her on the neck, whispered into her ear. She stamped a foot, playfully nudged his hat, nearly knocking it off his head. He tutted, rubbed her muzzle and moved on.

  As he continued further inside, he closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in deeply. He had always loved the smell of a horse barn, even as a child. The mustiness of the trodden hay, the old worn wood of the barn itself, the well-used stall doors and pock-marked walls, the sickly sweet stink of horse dung, and the rich aroma of the horses, so intoxicating. There was such depth of life in the scent of a horse.

  His boy, Luis, had not lived long enough to ride, but had visited a few ranches with his father, playing in the hay or going stall-to-stall, talking to the horses, pointing up at them while their great heads looked down quizzically, snorting blasts of hot air from their nostrils into his small face, passing their strength, their spirit. When Luis was gone, Gabino often thought of him when working the horses; he would look into their large glassy eyes and see a reflection of his boy in another world, a world filled with running and nobility. He’d see him, a distant shadow, waving, searching for his papa, running with spirits.

  But deep down, he knew such a world did not exist. He knew those glassy eyes were dumb and helpless, like his own.
When he cut off their heads, he relished the moment their eyes went dead and those fabricated worlds disappeared. All that remained was the blood and the shit and the meat.

  A loud whinny came from a few yards ahead, deep within the last stall. Gabino moved the light over the sign, read WIDOWMAKER in square black letters, and clucked his tongue. It was time to get it done. Fat Ted would be waiting at the farm, a good forty-minute drive, and that was after he led the mare all the way back to his truck, which sat a mile down the road, out of sight, shadowed by a copse of over-ripe Guava trees.

  He unlatched the stable door, kept the light’s beam aimed low so as not to frighten the horse. Widowmaker stood at the far end of the stall. She was ink spilled on a black canvas, shining dark. Strength came off her in waves, as if she could buck and destroy the world. He stepped cautiously closer and she turned her great neck, rolled one eye at him, then lifted her head high in profile, making damn sure he knew whose presence he stood in.

  Gabino slung the halter over his shoulder and tutted at the massive horse, lifting one hand, palm up, as he walked toward her. His boots squelched through a large pile of dung, but he didn’t notice, or care. His eyes were on the beauty now, he entreated her welcome, silently requested her complete supplication. The horse whinnied, blew out a breath, and stomped her hooves. Not a warning, but not a welcome, either.

  “Relájate, relájate, lady,” he cooed gently, his fingers now inches from her black, flaring nostrils. “Relájate...”

  He reached into his pocket with his other hand, pulled out a handful of clumpy, broken oat treats, held them up to her mouth. She snorted again, one great black eye rolling down to him in stately fear, the look a queen might give the executioner as she was pushed into the guillotine.

  Then Widowmaker’s lids lowered as she smelled the treats. Hesitantly, she dipped her mouth to his hand, her thick lips flapped noisily, the crumbled oats sticking to his palm, the horse chomping and licking and snorting as she devoured the rest. He had to stand on his tiptoes, even with her head bent, to reach the crest of her mane, which he scratched roughly, letting the horse relax.

  “Good. Good, lady,” he said soothingly, rubbing his hand between her eyes, stroking her long nose. He tucked the flashlight into his pocket. He would need both hands now.

  Smoothly, he flexed open the halter and pushed it up over her head. He adjusted her large pointed ears so they slid through the slots, then secured the buckle beneath the mare’s muscular neck, letting the lead dangle for now. He whispered to her the whole time, soothing her as she huffed and stamped.

  After waiting a few quiet moments to let her acclimate to the gear, he clenched the lead and pulled her gently toward the open stable door. He prayed she would not startle when he put her into the unfamiliar trailer hitched to his truck, but he kept a large sack of feed waiting to distract her. She’d settle, and eat, and together they would drive back to Fat Ted, and to the farm where she would die.

  PART TWO

  The Dark Road

  The F150 slid down the dark two-lane highway, cloisters of oak and mangroves edging each shoulder like children pushing to be first in line to see a fight. The headlights flared from the shining truck, two wide yellow eyes staring down the passing pavement, a chrome grimace for a bumper, the dented Florida plate tapping lightly against its bolts. The truck was dotted with running lights along its fender and bed, a wavering CB antenna whistling through the wind, and custom fog lights hard-used due to the state’s moist climate. Behind, hooked up and humming along in tow, was the two-horse trailer housing Widowmaker. The wind curved around the horseshoe-shaped carriage, the oblivious beast inside nose-deep in a hanging basket of oats, unbothered by the midnight transport to destinations unknown.

  Inside the air-conditioned cab, Gabino sat hatless. He was tired from the miles of walking, from leading the damned horse along the road toward his truck. His muscles and guts were tight from nerves, his eyes jumped up and down the road as he paced it with the black mare, praying no cars would come. He knew it was almost an impossibility, as the road was essentially private, shared by just three ranches, the only three properties for miles around. But still, he was happy to be on his way, the hardest part of the night’s business behind him.

  He took a deep breath, tried to relax. Once he was on the highway, it was a short drive to Fat Ted’s farm, and then he would collect his money and be done. That dumb lard-ass would likely make Gabino slaughter the beast, which was fine. Part of the job.

  It was rare to bring them in alive, all the years he had been thieving he had done it only one other time. The buyer had wanted to see the beast slaughtered, see the flesh cut from the corpse, assured he was getting the most prime cuts, the freshest meat. Gabino could certainly understand the scrutiny. Swindlers ran rampant in the meat market. They’d sell you meat that had turned, or would turn before you could prepare it. So he didn’t blame the man, but he charged extra for the risk.

  Still, it was all the same to him. Once he had the horse off the land, it didn’t matter where the butchering occurred. In many ways he preferred doing it outside, tented off in some field somewhere. The night breezes kept the air clean while they cut and bagged. What was not kept for the buyer would be thrown in a pile, gasoline-drenched and burned. There was something very sacred about it, Gabino thought, crossing himself. Sacrificial.

  The thief turned on the radio, found a Mexican station playing norteña, hummed along. The trees dissipated as he drew nearer to the highway. Soon, he travelled through a vast open plain, the tires gripping the single black strand of road slithering through its broad grass belly as he curved his way north.

  A fog bank fell upon him, and the road disappeared. He cursed, reached for the fog lights, but the cloud lifted before he could even toggle the switch, the road once more filling his moisture-specked windshield. He grunted in surprise to be clear of it so quickly. Not unusual, he figured, with the amount of moisture in the air. But not common, either, and he muttered a quick prayer.

  The radio hissed static, the sounds of singing strained and gasped for coherency. Gabino frowned at the radio’s glowing green face, pressed a button to switch to another station, and heard only more static. White noise, faint strands of voices filtering through. He tried another station, then another. He clicked it off, looked back to the road, keeping a close eye.

  The fog was gone, but the darkness surrounding his truck was complete, the headlights only barely illuminating the pavement and white dashes of the black road, the fringes of tough earth on the shoulder, and nothing else. He looked to the horizon but could make out only blurry geographies, the moon hidden behind charcoal-smear clouds.

  Gabino strained to spot signs for the upcoming highway, desperate now to be off this road and on his way to the farm. Some part of him was becoming alarmed with the night, with this road. The way the darkness crowded in seemed… unnatural. Frustrated, he clicked on his high beams.

  Perched along the side of the road, far ahead, was a tall, slightly bent, black shaft. It stuck upward from the shoulder, weighted at its peak. It was slightly misshapen, like the branchless trunk of a burnt-up tree with a clustered nest at the top. Gabino let off the accelerator, squinting to see what the hell it could be. He remembered nothing like it when travelling this road before, and he had done so many, many times.

  The truck slowed and the headlight beams brushed up against the bizarre marker, a ten-foot stake in the earth, its shadow jetting along the barely-visible plain, a pointer to nowhere. Gabino brought the truck to a crawl, holding his breath.

  He pulled within ten feet of the thing, and stopped.

  His heart accelerated and his mouth went dry. He sat still a moment, staring, listening to the muffled rumble of the idling engine, sweating inside the ominous quiet of the cab, trying to decide what to do. He could see it clearly now, probed his mind for what it might be. Something tickled at his memory, stories of a curse, mythical warnings.

  He opened his door and stepped do
wn, left the engine running. For a quick exit, perhaps. He looked nervously into the dark, beyond the stretched rectangle of light, watchful of anything else that seemed off. As he neared the strange totem he realized, with growing dismay, that it was much taller than he’d first thought.

  The thief stood, gawking upward, the headlights from his truck flooding the scene, the stars winking, the fat red hunter’s moon leaking into view slowly from behind ashen clouds, ready to drip from the sky.

  It was the head of a horse. It was mounted, ten-feet high, spiked upon a thick, charred pole which had been driven fast into the hard ground. The horse’s head was badly burned, the remaining coat dusted and coarse as coal. The large teeth flexed, as if biting, reaching. The eyes were blackened hollows, the ears pointed and blistered, crisp and still. What remained of the mane slid down the back of its neck, dangled in the night air in wispy burnt strands. The charred muzzle was tilted slightly downward, the blind, black pools that were once eyes looked directly into Gabino’s.

  Breathing fast, he again searched the opaque night, as if expecting pranksters, or some other explanation as to why this cursed thing was here. He walked forward uneasily, put a hand around the hard post, looked up at the bottom of the head, grateful it did not tilt down to follow his approach. He pushed his weight against the post, thinking to knock the vile thing to the earth, but it would not budge. It was hard as concrete, petrified to the spot as if rooted. He wrapped both hands around it, tried to shake it, dislodge the head at least, but it was immovable. The perched head quavered only slightly, a tremor, despite his most aggressive throttling.