by John Klima
Nettie, however, only offered distraction from the day-to-day. She didn’t improve our lot in life; she entertained. Saccharine plays, sonnets, sestinas, Sunday carolling—our Nettie was a regular nightingale, and just as useless. What good were songs when the dark season came? Show me a poem that could stave off starvation. By nineteen, parleys had won me three boxers, including Thom, the butcher’s son—southpaw, welterweight, ugliest harelip you ever saw—who I’d picked for champion on account of his know-how, his scars. Nettie’s talents had earned her nothing but fans.
Words are the Chanticleer’s greatest power, Mother always said, so much like Nan, if I closed my eyes I couldn’t tell them apart. Words spoken, I’m sure she meant, not warbled. Unlike Nettie, I’d paid attention when our dams shared their wisdom. I’d worked hard. I’d listened. I’d learned.
But as Mother slurped down my tonics, I knew it wouldn’t be enough. My crown will never fit you, Regina, she’d said, as if reading my thoughts. From birth, my head had been shaven, like hers, and bound in strips of silk—Mother’s fondest caress was a razor blade rasping my stubble. I had her wits and, yes, her sharp tongue. But mine was a brawler’s build, stocky as the bull that killed Argent last spring. Firstborn I may have been, older than Nettie by a full hour, but I was ungainly for a Chanticleer.
And I couldn’t negotiate myself smaller.
#
For three days and two nights Mother’s body stayed in the smokehouse.
The roof was sound, slatted with a single vent, and the door had a sturdy lock. Every family in town had a key, of course, but they respected our privacy, entering only when we gave the say-so. Small and dry, the space was infused with scents of peat and salt, cod and winter herring. Whenever I could, I’d pop in to remind Mother she wasn’t alone.
She wore the cotton nightie I’d scrubbed for the occasion. Tansy dust still stained the ruffles, though I’d bleached the fabric as best I could. In our house the fatal herb’s leaves and petals were everywhere. It kept pests at bay, Mother had said, clustering the weeds to hang from the rafters. As they dried, seeds rained from the bunches and she’d sweep them up for replanting; wild thatches now grew all over town, easy to find even after the snows. On my way across the boxing green, I’d plucked several of their snap-frozen stalks. Fingers clumsy with cold, I’d plaited them into a circlet to slip over Mother’s head, an offering and a reminder. But when I ducked inside, she was so tranquil, so composed, I changed my mind. No point in riling her yet.
Palms yellow, I trudged down the lane to the fox pens. Wire mesh enclosed an area five times the length of a horse trailer; nowhere near big enough for the number of skulks Old One-Shot had crammed into cardboard dens. The vixens sniffed me coming a ways off. Nose-first, they hurdled the reynards, brush-tails flailing. Red fur flew as they snapped and snarled. I picked up a pail of feed, scattered a handful of the rancid meat through the fence, saw the gobbets devoured in an instant. Another few chunks through the gaps and the bucket was empty.
‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘Greedy guts.’
The foxes licked their chops. Kits yipped, appetites scythe-sharp. Scrubbing my hands in the snow, I kept an eye on them through the links. They could smell the blood on my fingers and wanted a second helping.
‘Too slow,’ I said to the pups. ‘Got to be faster off the mark, else you’ll be left wanting.’
They barked as I scoured my flesh deep pink, unable to get the stink out.
#
Twilight at the smokehouse, the third of our vigil. Once more the room was packed, but tonight there were no gourds filled, no canons sung, no tears shed. Avarice made everyone serious as they filed past the bier, saying final farewells, grabbing mementos of the Chanticleer. The young and ambitious had lined up from midday, hoping a wasted afternoon would nab them the most potent keepsakes. At sundown, Nettie and I’d gone to make sure Mother was ready. Once we got the nod, we let the rest of the town in with their scissors and knives.
No one dared touch Nan’s crown; it belonged to Mother, and would be cremated with her remains. Next, the Chanticleer’s tongue was most prized—but my sister got there first, greedy as a fox, and pried it out with the blacksmith’s tongs. After that, any detachables were fair game. Teeth, ears, nipples, fingers, toes. One by one, they were snipped and snapped and stuffed into reliquaries, tucked inside censers and jewel-boxes and lockets. Latecomers settled for leftover moles, birthmarks, a sizeable wart on the back of Claude’s neck. Curls were yanked from nostrils, underarms, cleft. Tradition kept the mismatched eyes in their sockets, but brows and lashes were plucked bare. Finally, Jade Pilvery took pinking shears to the nightgown we’d peeled off earlier, clipping it into postage-stamp squares for children too short to reach something better.
Mother didn’t resent these pilferings.
‘It’s a real honour, hens. A real gift,’ she’d said, when we’d gone to Nan’s picking-over. ‘You should be so lucky.’
Now, skin greyed and slack as lard, body stripped thin, Claude waited patiently for the scavenging to cease. She’d never looked more regal.
‘Go on, Net,’ I said to my sister, after the vultures had gone. ‘I’ll meet you down at the Bingo.’
For a moment, she feigned deafness. Stringing Mother’s tongue on a cord, she averted her eyes and tied it round her neck. Runes appeared and disappeared in the tastebud florets; Nettie froze, reading Claude’s last words.
‘Regina,’ she breathed at me, startled-deer. ‘What—’
‘Go on,’ I repeated. ‘Get the banquet rolling.’
Hell, Nettie was a good actress. Clutching the talisman, she sniffled and pecked Mother once on each cheek. Shaking like a tambourine, her sorrow almost believable.
‘You think I can eat? Now?’
‘Have a cup of tea then,’ I said, talking over Nettie’s yelp. ‘It’s the least you can do.’
‘You’re a real piece of work,’ she mumbled, and I laughed to take the edge off her jealousy. My sister could fight me for the crown all she wanted, but she’d have no part in this. As eldest, it was my duty—mine alone—to escort the Chanticleer to her unravelling.
Without a second glance, Nettie lifted her grey hood and hightailed it out of there, boots squeaking across fresh-fallen snow.
‘Watch your step,’ I called, repeating the warning as I eased Mother off the table. Elbows linked, we shared the burden of balance while crossing the icy threshold. I guided her along the dark lane outside, a slow careful shuffle. In no time I was huffing and Claude was purpling to black, her corpse growing heavier by the foot.
‘Nearly there,’ I panted. ‘Don’t give up on me now.’
I blinked fat flakes from my lashes and peered at Mother sidelong. Wan moonlight strobed through flurries, glinting off the powder on her skinny shoulders. Oh, what a sight. Gouges and gashes rimed with frozen lace, she hobbled like a troll. A rising snow-cap made her seem taller and taller.
Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there . . .
I didn’t realise I was smiling until Mother started to chuckle.
‘I’ve earned this,’ I said, face falling. ‘You of all people should know that.’
She patted my arm, condescending even without fingers. Save yourself the headaches, her touch said. Give Nettie the crown.
‘And what would you have done,’ I snapped, ‘if Nan’d said the same to you?’
Mother raised her chin, defiant. A true Chanticleer.
I snorted. ‘Exactly.’
She smirked, but held me tighter.
As we approached the pens I signalled for One-Shot, who’d long ago hot-footed out of the ring and into the gamekeeper’s racket. Orange flared at waist height on the yard’s far side, guttering until he put flame to wick. The lantern bobbed towards us. Iron jangled on his leather belt.
‘Evening, Claude,’ One-Shot said, rattling a cough, singling out the rustiest key. ‘Reg.’
Mother mimed an uppercut, gently clocking him on the jaw. Then she palmed his
jowl, punch turned pat. Gave him a look that said, Guard up.
We opened and closed the gate in one swift movement so the foxes couldn’t skip out with Mother’s entrance. Undaunted by their excited, ethereal barking, she turned and faced me through the fence.
Arms crooked in position, she smiled. Guard up.
#
‘Nettie stopped in on her way past.’
Lamp held near his chest, One-Shot’s face was lit ghoulish. His cauliflower ears and truffle nose cast weird shadows, obscuring his expression.
‘Is that so,’ I said. My thick legs kept pace with his nimble ones as we traipsed down the road to the Bingo. The double-peaked hall was decked out in streamers and paper lanterns; golden light spilled into the parking lot, turning slush to lemonade. Later on, Jet and the boys would sing Mother’s soul to the hereafter, but for now, cutlery clinking against crocks was music enough. It seemed One-Shot agreed; his belly growled louder than mine.
‘She had some thoughts on the Chant’s sudden passing,’ he continued. ‘And on the outcome of tomorrow’s bout.’ He picked at his teeth with a sprig of rosemary then chomped the needles. His breath was no less rank for it.
‘Nettie’s a singer,’ I said. ‘She makes all kinds of empty noise, just to keep her vocal chords limber.’
One-Shot shrugged, never one to engage in a fight he wasn’t sure to win. ‘Guess we’ll see, won’t we?’
‘Guess so.’
Behind us, the foxes’ howling reached a crescendo. Wincing, I hunched into my coat and kicked my boots against the Bingo’s scuffed steps. Before climbing up, I stomped and thudded until every skerrick of snow was knocked loose. It did little to muffle the caterwauling.
‘They’ll make quick work of it, Reg,’ the gamekeeper said. He snuffed the lamp and hooked it on the railing beside the others. ‘Vicious fuckers. Winter brings out the worst in them.’
At the door, I waited. Warm scents and sour wafted from within. Spit-roasted lamb, onions, yams. Gallant’s ale, unwashed bodies, lavender perfume. Smoke from a hundred Zig-Zags.
‘They’re just famished,’ I said, peals of laughter inside blending with feral yowls. ‘They’ve been waiting on this feast a long time.’
#
At cock’s crow, Nan’s cauldron was simmering on the hearth. I skimmed dross from the surface—old shreds of bryony, tansy, belladonna—and tapped it onto the grate. When the water was boiling pure, I replaced the lid and went outside to fetch pail and barrow.
Wheeling deep ruts across the boxing green, I dodged corner-posts that wanted padding and ropes that needed slinging before this evening’s event. Yesterday’s clouds had fallen overnight; I trod on their fluffy corpses, the pale sky so barren I knew we were in for a cold one.
By now, I thought, repressing a whistle as I approached the pens, the starvelings will have gnawed her to sinew and bone. A couple hours in Nan’s kettle and she’ll be rendered clean for chopping and burning. Plenty of time for the square-circle to be cleared, stools for the cutmen to be found, the announcer’s table to be set up proper. Plenty of time to tighten my skin with witch hazel and cucumber. Plenty of time to practise my lines.
Everyone still talked about Mother’s coronation speech. How clever it was. How innovative. Instead of boring the town with platitudes, she’d dolled-up in hot bathers, scribbled her ideas on placards, and paraded them round the ring between bells. With Nan’s crown and Argent’s swagger, Claude was pure class. A real hard act to follow.
For weeks, I’d planned my own debut. I didn’t have the strut for Mother’s brand of show-ponying, but my voice . . . Well, she’d said it was honest. Reassuring. Trustworthy. A voice to smooth all manner of ills.
But also unyielding, I remembered, clanking to a halt outside the gate. And nowhere near as sweet as Nettie’s.
The foxes were sedate, dark copper patches curled around the carcass. Gluttons. Must’ve gorged themselves into a coma. To be safe, I slopped some meat from the bucket, made kissing noises to get the beasts’ attention. Fat and full, they didn’t move a muscle.
The body, however, sat up.
‘Mother,’ I said, heart spasming. ‘You’re still here.’
Every last giblet had been nibbled off; the flesh around them was slashed but not bleeding. Chunks were missing from her limbs, a wound yawned in her side. Her mouth was a coagulant mess. Otherwise, she was whole. Undevoured.
She crossed her arms as if to say, Obviously. Glowered like it was my fault she hadn’t gone yet. Like I had kept her waiting, shrivelling in the cold. Like I hadn’t done all I could to see her off. She held my gaze and, gradually, started to hunch.
‘Stop it,’ I said. She pulled her knees in close, flaunting how compact she could make herself. How small. ‘Just hold right there.’
I ran for One-Shot, who was supposed to help shovel the bones. He was snoring on an armchair by his cabin’s woodstove, shirt unbuttoned, pants puddled round his feet. The room reeked of stale goon and the old man was heavy with it, his legs deadweight as I rummaged for the keys. By the time I got back to the pens, Claude had huddled herself so tiny, even Nettie would seem huge beside her. ‘Mother, please.’
While she pretzelled herself, I snagged entrails from the bucket and launched them over the fence. Never trust a fox, I figured. Sure, they looked placid enough with their bellies bloated, but offer them a chance to bite and they’d gobble it. I raced in to wrangle Claude before the animals snapped—but they didn’t stir. Not even the vixen who usually had such a mouth on her. They just laid there in packs, thin veils of snow blowing over their russet fur. Not a breath among them. ‘What happened?’
Mother shrugged, impish. Seems I wasn’t to their taste.
‘Probably too tough,’ I said.
#
‘Mamma!’ Nettie ran to the front door when we came home, stopped just shy of hugging. She ushered Claude onto a blanket box, well away from the fire. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Let me get you some tea.’
Mother shook her head, pursed what was left of her lips.
‘Oh,’ Nettie said. Last night, she’d pegged her new necklace by the mantle; now she retrieved it. Slow-traced a finger along the runes. Reading, the sunshine in her right eye darkened to match the gloom in her left. ‘So it’s true.’
‘We’ve got less than eight hours,’ I said, snatching the tongue, tossing it into the pot. It sank into the boiling water with a squeal. ‘We have to get Mother ready.’
‘You can’t—’ Tears spilled over Nettie’s delicate cheeks as she studied the flames. Her skin drank in the firelight, softly burnishing. She glowed with a veneer of warmth; but when I patted her arm it was more frigid than Mother’s.
Selfish Nettie. Taking everything in, giving nothing in return. Can’t even bring yourself to exude heat.
After a minute, she cleared her throat and gestured at the cauldron. The jars of bryony, tansy, belladonna. The truths blistering off Mother’s tongue. ‘You can’t expect me to keep this a secret.’
‘Grab her ankles.’
‘No, Regina,’ she said. ‘Enough.’
Mother once joked that Nettie must’ve been an out-fighter in a past life—always standing back, side-stepping, forcing her opponent to take the first jab. Whereas I, apparently, was a brawler. I got in close. I loomed.
And I jabbed, quick and hard.
My sister dropped on the third punch, still moaning. She had the figure all right, but not the gumption to be Chanticleer. On the sidelines, Claude rolled her eyes—You’re no One-Shot—but cowered when I reached for the tansy. Two handfuls stuffed into Nettie’s little mouth should keep her well-gagged, but to be sure I jammed in a hankie and tied the lot in place with another. Four more served as makeshift fetters, wrists and ankles hogtied with tatting and lace. I pushed Mother off the blanket box and shoved Nettie inside.
‘She’ll be fine,’ I said in my honest voice, lowering the lid. ‘Look: she can practically stretch out in there.’
Mother laughed as I dra
gged her to the fireplace. A few prods, a few twists and the corpse climbed into Nan’s huge iron pot, conceding defeat. Instantly, the reek of her was atrocious; offal with an undertone of bitter greens. It didn’t trouble Mother in the least.
Until tonight, hen, she winked, splashing me as she submerged.
#
Ringside at dusk. The town gathered to put Mother to rest, and celebrate her with a few black eyes and cut lips.
To my left, the announcer tapped his bullhorn, flinching as the thing screeched. ‘Lights,’ he boomed, sending the lampboys shimmying up skinned pines. They squirrelled from bulb to bulb, sky-high, weightless, fearless. Flashes of brilliance at their fingertips conjured an almighty glare. Half-blinded, I watched until tears blinked me back to the brazier on my right, to Jet stoking the embers blue-white. Cast-iron, three feet tall, the firebowl slicked the blacksmith with sweat while the rest of us were left shivering. The evening air was icebox. Folks folded hands beneath armpits, snuggled into scarves, tightened hoods. Fighters were puffed in down jackets, high-tops laced to the shins. Thom’s knees were blueing beneath his red satin shorts; he jogged on the spot beside me to keep the blood pumping before his bout. Behind him, everyone—everyone—was staring.
Where’s Nettie? they asked.
Mother was unrecognisable, just a pile of yellowed sticks on the announcer’s table, empty sockets gaping.
Where’s Nettie?
With the blacksmith’s tongs, I moved Nan’s orange-hot crown then stacked Claude’s bones on the coals beside it, making a tepee out of the ribs. Old One-Shot sidled up to pay his final respects.
Where’s Nettie?
‘Withdrawn,’ I said at last, throat seizing as I met those stares, saw the brown and gold badges on so many hatbands and lapels. My sister’s colours, ale and sunshine, in overwhelming majority. Murmurings and restlessness sifted through the crowd, separating red rosettes from the mottled. The crown is mine to try first, I wanted to shout, but tremors shook the words from my mouth.