by Robert Power
I will fly between them, a small child, the perfect sacrifice. I will take the blows on my neck, my thighs, my back, my chest. I will put myself between he and she, the cowdog and the boar with his tusks and bristles.
The word sacrifice comes from the Latin: sacrificium, meaning something made sacred by giving to the Gods. Greeks sacrificed animals they were very fond of as they thought they would be the best gifts to the Gods and they would then get something in return. They would sacrifice things precious to them like birds and fish and sheep. They burnt the animals because the Greeks thought the flesh would turn to smoke and float up to the Gods. Sacrifices in the day were for friendly Gods. What was left over was eaten by the people making the sacrifice. Nighttime sacrifices were made so the Gods would stay friendly and so that nothing bad would happen to the Greeks. No one ate what was left. So, if you’re hungry, make sure to sacrifice during the day.
We are in the School Assembly Hall. Miss Cat-Eyes has put us into our groups to work on the plays. I like being with Perch and Carp, even if they treat me otherwise, even if they treat me separate. They, like me, are apart. I am in their universe. Jehovah. Sacrifice. Abel and Cain. The mystery of paradise. Ever since we met on the railway bridge, when we were spying on Mrs April and their father, I feel connected to them. I know I am the junior member, the little kid. They never really talk to me, they just tell me things. But that’s enough for me. For now, that’s enough.
We sit in our group in an alcove where the geranium cuttings are kept on the window ledge. Around us some children jump up and down in excitement; others look blank and confused. Miss Cat-Eyes moves between the groups, gesticulating, encouraging, enthusing, doing her best to draw ideas from them. But we need no coercion, nor cajoling. We are clear. Perch and Carp have written the scripts, the parts are allocated. The Twins whisper to each other. Perch scratches out and scribbles the alterations to her master copy of the play. I sit in silence waiting for instructions.
‘So, how about this group?’ says Miss Cat-Eyes, appearing behind us. She squats down on her haunches to be right-sized next to us, looking earnestly from one to the other.
‘How have you gotten on since the last lesson?’ she asks.
‘We will present the story of Abraham and Isaac,’ announces Perch, not looking at the teacher.
‘We have nearly finished the script,’ says Carp, looking at her sister. ‘We’ll begin proper rehearsals soon.’
‘And Oscar,’ she says, turning her cat-eye glasses to me, ‘who are you to be?’
‘I’m Abraham,’ I say. ‘I get to make the sacrifice.’
I glance over to the Twins. They seem satisfied with my answer.
‘Ah,’ replies Miss Cat-Eyes, ‘the father who is told to sacrifice his son. How do you think Abraham feels when he is told to do that? Abraham?’
‘Me?’ I say.
‘Yes, you, Abraham.’
‘The father is the head of the home and the family,’ interrupts Carp.
‘Like the Elders are the head of the congregation and Jehovah is the head of the Witnesses on earth,’ adds Perch.
‘Hmm,’ hums Miss Cat-Eyes, listening attentively, ignoring a nearby group who seem to be wrestling with their parts.
‘So the father must set an example in following the commandments of Jehovah. We must all make sacrifices for Jehovah,’ says Perch.
‘Very good. And Oscar, what does it mean to you to be the father?’ asks the teacher.
From somewhere comes a memory of being ill. Of having a raging fever. Of feeling so hot I thought my skin would melt. Of seeing images of snakes and eels, crocodiles and whales on the ceiling above my bed. Father sat the whole night through with me. His huge forearm across my chest as if to hold and weigh me down to the earth in case I should float away. On his arm the tattoo of a parrot. In this sudden moment, I conjure a memory of kindness and gentleness, not violence and neglect.
‘Sacrifice,’ I answer. ‘A father should make sacrifices and he should protect his children. Like pelicans pecking at the breast to feed blood to their hungry babies.’
She looks a bit shocked. This is obviously not the answer she was expecting.
‘Parents should do what they have to do for their children,’ I add.
‘Ah, there’s the dilemma,’ replies the teacher, as if she has struck upon something very profound.
‘The dilemma at the heart of it all,’ I say.
She nods her head sagely. ‘And who will play Isaac?’
The Twins exchange glances.
‘We have not decided yet,’ replies Perch. ‘Not yet.’
‘Well, jolly good,’ says Mrs Cat-Eyes. ‘It all seems to be progressing very well. Keep it up. No homework this week. Just keep rehearsing in your spare time. Practice makes perfect.’
Then off she goes to deal with the ghost stories and teenage romances being plotted elsewhere in the room.
‘We’ll find somewhere to rehearse, away from here,’ says Carp.
‘Somewhere else,’ echoes Perch.
In ancient Carthage there was a sacred area called Tophet where parents buried their children who had been sacrificed there. Parents got fed up with sacrificing their own children and began buying them or using servants’ children instead. But if things were terrible, like war or drought or famine, then the priests insisted children of powerful and rich families should be sacrificed to please the Gods. Once, during a political crisis in 310 BC, over 500 children were sacrificed to the Gods. After each child was killed, the body was placed on the arms of a huge statue of their God, where it rolled into the fire pit. Archaeologists have discovered evidence of child sacrifice also in Sardinia and Sicily. The ritual of burning was called ‘the act of laughing’, because when the flames consumed the body the limbs contracted and the open mouth seemed almost to be laughing. In Egypt, a ritual was performed on the dead called the ‘opening of the mouth’ by which it was thought the soul was finally freed of the body. This reminds me of Great Aunt Margaret, when she sleeps in front of the fire, though I never think of her laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her laugh.
‘How do you know when to make a sacrifice?’ I ask Mrs April, my black bishop pinning her white pawn in front of her king.
‘Ah …’ she ponders, her expression deepening, the lines around her eyes smiling.
‘Like we’ve discussed before, sacrifice is complex. You must be prepared to lose something to improve your position. To give, in the hope something better will evolve,’ she says, pointing at the chessboard. ‘If you sacrifice your bishop for a mere pawn, then you hope your position will improve. Sacrifice is all about taking a chance for a better future. It is a risk. Sacrifice is a risk born of hope.’
We are alone in the library. The door has been closed and I have stayed behind with Mrs April to help her shelve the returns. As a treat she suggested a game of chess. The set we are using comes from the children’s library; the pieces come from Alice in Wonderland. My bishop is the walrus; her pawns are Cheshire cats.
‘The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of other things, of ships and shoes and sealing wax and cabbages …’ she laughs as she recites the verse, ‘and whether Oscar sacrifices me for Cheshire cats and kings.’
‘What was Jehovah hoping for when he told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac?’ I ask.
Mrs April looks at me. She is getting used to the things I say. Like the walrus and his talk of cabbages.
She thinks for a minute, her finger stroking the head of the griffin who masquerades as her white knight.
‘God,’ she says in a measured tone, ‘wanted Abraham to show him how much he trusted, and to make life better for all his people.’
‘Trusted what?’ I ask.
‘Trusted that he was doing the right thing and that the world would turn out better as a result of his actions.’
‘So sometimes it’s right to sacrifice,’ I say, looking for an answer.
‘Yes, sometimes it’s right to sacrifice. At times we all
have to sacrifice something of ourselves. It’s part of growing up.’
Outside it’s getting dark. The church clock chimes the half-hour.
I lift my walrus from the sanctity of its square and take Mrs April’s smiling Cheshire cat from the board.
‘Now,’ says Mrs April, tapping her fingers on the table. ‘That opens up a whole new world of possibilities. Just like Alice through the looking glass.’
Maybe I can be part of two worlds, like a kindly type of were-person. One world with me, Stigir, Blue Monkey and Mrs April. And another with me, Perch, Carp and Jehovah. Maybe a blue were-tiger with Stigir and Blue Monkey and Mrs April; and a boy called Oscar with Perch and Carp and Jehovah.
SIXTEEN
TEA FOR PERCH AND CARP
‘Upon such sacrifices the gods themselves throw incense.’ Shakespeare
‘It just won’t do.’
‘It just won’t do.’
They sing to each other between mouthfuls of scrambled egg.
‘And what won’t do?’ says their stepmother, standing behind Perch, teapot in one hand, plate of toast in the other. She speaks lightly, with a lilt, trying to break in between them, trying, as always, to be a part of their world. The Twins, as always, pay her no heed. Mrs Fishcutter puts the hot toast on the plate in the middle of the table. The blue-and-white checks of the gingham tablecloth swim in front of her eyes. Her stepdaughters giggle.
‘The shoe,’ says Perch, as much to her twin as to Mrs Fishcutter.
‘The shoe won’t do,’ giggles Carp, a hand over her mouth.
Then they both laugh hysterically, remembering the incident from the English lesson. Mrs Fishcutter grips the handle of the brown teapot so hard she can feel the skin stretch over her knuckles. An image flashes through her mind of pouring the steaming tea onto their heads. To dampen their collusion, to wrench them apart, to get them to notice her. She puts the teapot next to the toast and goes back to the kitchen. There she sits by the window, listening to the laughter subside in the next room, watching the grey blanket of clouds smother the skyline. Not a glimpse of blue to be had.
‘This piece of toast looks like father,’ whispers Carp, biting and shaping the edge of the bread. She puts it back on her side plate. It has arms, legs, a torso and a raggedy head.
‘He’s running. The demon in him runs,’ says Carp.
‘The beast in our father makes him run,’ says Perch.
‘Where to?’
‘To the brook by the barn.’
‘Where the owl hoots at night.’
‘He turns his head, while he runs away in terror.’
Perch twists the head of the toast, so it looks over its bready shoulder.
‘He is pursued by his past.’
‘A banshee. A ghoul.’
‘A hobgoblin. An elf.’
‘A spectre. A sprite.’
‘He wades through the brook, stumbles on the rocks hidden below the water.’
Carp bends the legs, pushes forward the body.
Perch pours tea from on high onto the mangled toast.
‘He is wet and he is ragged.’
‘The owl winks an eye and hoots from high up in the rafters of the barn at the top of the hill.’
‘Hoot, hoot.’
‘Hoot, hoot.’
‘The demon scrambles up the bank, he slips, he is exhausted.’
‘He’ll not make it to the barn, not to safety.’
‘A rushing sound, a presence, from behind.’
‘He falls to his knees and looks back.’
‘And sees the spectre, the full weight of his sins.’
‘His sins of the past.’
Carp and Perch take their butter knives. They dig and stab and slash into the toast. It crumbles and breaks. A leg swimming in the tea; a shattered head dissolving in the grease from the butter.
‘It will not do.’
‘It will not do.’
They look deep into each other’s eyes, seeing themselves. Then they leap up from their chairs and scurry up the stairs to their bedroom, leaving their stepmother to clear away the mess.
People have always sacrificed animals, but they also sacrifice people. God wanted us to sacrifice his own son and told Abraham to sacrifice his. But if the Old Testament is a sign for the New, why didn’t God tell the Romans to let Jesus free and take a ram instead? In chess you can sacrifice a horse for a bishop, but never for a Queen.
It must be nearly morning. I hear murmurings of birdsong and see a milky light enter my bedroom. Turning my head on the pillow I realise there’s something in my mouth. I curl my tongue around it, sit up and dribble it onto my hand. It’s my baby molar tooth, finally given up trying to hold its big cousin at bay. Placing it carefully on the night table, I get up, slip on my clothes, then wrap the tooth in a clean white handkerchief and beckon Stigir to follow me downstairs.
The sunbeams peering through the small window light up the corner of the cellar as I take the photo from the trunk. Grandfather is still offering Grandmother some candy from the paper bag in his hand and still she looks down, her elegant hat covering her eyes. I place the photo on the pile of soft white shirts and reach to the ledge for the little posy of sweet williams that yesterday we plucked from the garden. Arranging the colourful petals around the photo I imagine the smell of the hedgerow where my grandparents stand and the feel of the gravel of the country lane under their Sunday-best leather shoes. What is it about this scene that makes me sad and happy at the same time? Does she take a sweet? Does she look up from under her hat and smile? Where do they walk to?
I unravel the handkerchief to reveal my snowy-white tooth. Holding it delicately between my finger and thumb I place it on Grandfather’s outstretched hand, take one last long look at the photo, and then close the lid of the trunk.
SEVENTEEN
MR FISHCUTTER JOINS THE CAST
‘The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.’ Shakespeare
They all sit at the dinner table. Perch opposite Carp, Mr across from Mrs.
Mr Fishcutter speaks, surprising and dispersing the steam with his sudden words.
‘How was school, girls?’
Glances are exchanged between sister and sister.
The Twins nod the secret nod.
Two nights previous they had spoken of this moment. It was shortly after the psalm singing and cat dressing-up ceremony. The adult’s bedroom light had long gone out and the two sisters breathed in the silence of the night-air. They had held hands across the narrow divide of bed between them, fingers intertwining like anemones under water.
‘He can be Isaac,’ whispered Carp across the divide. Her twin turned on her side to face her sister.
She could feel the cool breath on her face.
‘No ram in sight,’ replied Perch.
‘A gentle sacrifice.’
‘Only sleeping, Daddy dear.’
‘To be awakened for Jesus’ glorious new world.’
‘To join us and mother.’
‘Together again.’
‘Our real mother.’
‘Our one and only.’
‘A real family.’
‘Together again.’
‘Forever and ever, amen.’
Back at the dinner table, still awaiting a response, the father looks at his wife. He tries again, while helping himself to a mackerel. Its skin shines like a placenta.
‘So school, how was it?’
One more quick glance is passed between the girls.
‘Everyone has been asked to present a play,’ begins Perch.
‘In our English class,’ adds Carp.
‘We want to do the story of Abraham and Isaac.’
The adults exchange satisfied smiles.
‘What a lovely idea,’ says Mrs Fishcutter. ‘You’ll be able to Witness at the same time.’
‘Witness to the whole school,’ adds Mr Fishcutter. ‘A wonderful opportunity to pass on the Truth.’
The door is
pushed open and the cat sleeks into the room, attracted by the conversation and the smell of oily fish. She twines herself first around Perch’s leg, then Carp’s. A fellow conspirator.
‘Daddy’, says Perch, ‘we wondered if you would help us in the rehearsal.’
Both Twins and the cat stare at Mr Fishcutter, awaiting his reply.
‘Of course,’ he says, flabbergasted at being asked to take part in one of their activities.
‘I will be the voice of God,’ announces Perch.
‘And I’m scriptwriter and director,’ says Carp. ‘That’s everything on the production side. Props and casting, makeup and wardrobe. Anything but acting.’
‘Oscar Flowers, the boy we have high hopes for as a Bible study, will be Abraham. He has a dog. The dog will be the ram in the bush.’
‘We are still casting for Isaac,’ says Carp, stroking the upturned chin of the cat. Her stepmother looks on in quiet distress, what with it being dinner and all those germs.
‘We hoped you might be Isaac for our first rehearsal, until we find a child to play the part.’
‘Just to get us started. To help us on our way,’ adds Perch, joining her sister in petting the purring cat.
‘For my darling daughters, anything,’ he replies, forking the white meat of the fish into his mouth.
The cat’s ears prick up, its nose senses the turn of events in the air.
Were-wolves have existed in many countries and civilisations. Pliny the Elder was a Roman Historian who believed a certain member of a family in each generation becomes a wolf for nine years. Pliny the Elder knew about were-wolves (he also wrote that bees could be killed by echoes and believed that the sound of clashing cymbals caused bees to swarm).
It is late at night. There is a flood of moonlight spread on the fishmonger’s floor like a clean white sheet thrown onto a marriage bed. The salmon and trout, hake and swordfish have been packed away in boxes of shredded ice. Mrs Fishmonger wipes the back of her hand across her brow. It is deadly cold, but still she sweats from her labours. The rows of fish look up at her with sharp dead eyes, crystal clear. She wheels the boxes into the depths of the deepfreeze, the mortician of the undersea world. Back in the shop she sets about the nightly routine of sweeping and hosing the floors, washing down the large blocks of wood, locking all the doors and windows. More to keep out the town’s tomcats than any burglars.