The Butchers

by Ruth Gilligan

  ___________

  When he opened his eyes, he rolled on to his left only to discover his shoulders were in knots and Eileen was gone. He swallowed. The back of his throat was pure scratch. He would need a rake of honey to stave off the worst of last night’s chill. He wondered what hour it was, then heard the footsteps and saw Eileen appear, fully dressed.

  ‘Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes!’ She hugged a pile of fresh laundry to the bones of her chest. ‘The dead arose and appeared to many.’

  ‘Eileen, you shouldn’t—’ Fionn coughed before he went again. ‘Leave that, would you? Davey can—’

  ‘Davey has enough to be getting on with at the moment.’ Eileen opened the drawer and slammed it a little too hard. ‘I’m fine.’

  He swallowed again and tried a different tack. ‘How did you sleep?’

  She yanked the curtains. ‘Not bad.’ But then she stopped where she stood as if something in the view had caught her attention. ‘Although I had that strange dream again – you remember me telling you? The one about the Butchers?’

  Fionn closed his eyes. Jesus, his shoulders really were fucked.

  Eileen was right – it wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks she had told him about her strange dream. For Fionn, its recurrence – its presence at all – was one of the strongest signs that her brain still wasn’t quite right. He had considered telling the doctors about it, but ultimately he had decided against. It would have required far too much in the way of explanation.

  Because before she got ill, those words hadn’t been uttered between them for almost twenty-five years. The Butchers. Not since the day they were married and she left her old life behind; not since the day she announced she didn’t want to be called Lena any more.

  Fionn stared at her now, her frail body angled away to soak up the morning light. Even through her cardigan, her shoulder blades jutted out. He thought of a milk-dry heifer being led off to the slaughterhouse.

  ‘Mam – breakfast!’

  When she was gone, Fionn buried his head into the goodness of the pillow. He would sleep another hour, get up and milk the girls. Then he would call that Dublin clinic and get the appointment booked in. For his sins, he would pay the very highest price.

  Davey

  County Monaghan, April 1996

  Davey held his face an inch from the book as if he were drying the ink with his breath. Or as if by peering close enough he would be able to catch a glimpse of the beast the words described. The Minotaur. ‘Part-man part-bull,’ Ovid said, though the poet was never explicit as to exactly how much of each part there was.

  Davey thought of the animals down in the byre. He thought of the bullish man doing their milk.

  It was King Minos who had hired Daedalus to construct a labyrinth for the Minotaur, a maze of such complex twists and turns the creature would never manage to escape. In the margin, Davey saw he had once doodled a sketch – a higgledy swirl encased by a circle. In the middle there was a dot with a tiny pair of horns.

  But despite its captivity, still the savage Minotaur was sustained on Athenian blood. Every seven years, lots were drawn to select seven men and seven women to be sent into the maze to feed the beast. Davey could remember the numbers, though he saw now that one of the sevens was underlined. Mr Fitz had said in some accounts it was every nine years instead. Davey paused, committing the fact to memory. It was the kind of thing that might come up on the exam.

  Until one year, the mighty Theseus declared that he would be the one to enter the maze, whereupon he would kill the Minotaur. They all thought him crazy – nobody who had gone in there had ever survived – but Minos’s daughter, Ariadne, gave him a spool of thread to unravel as he sought out the beast. Then, after he had slaughtered the thing with suitable classical quantities of blood and guts and gore, he had traced the thread back into the light; back to freedom.

  Theseus, against the odds, had managed to escape.

  Davey felt the usual surge of triumph as he reached the climax of the tale. He sat up straight, away from the book, a nagging protest in his lower back. Out the window, the late-afternoon sky had started to turn pink. He listened. There was no sound of life from his mother’s room.

  All around him on the desk, the books were piled high in perfect columns, even if only one of them had been opened all day. It was eight weeks until his Leaving Cert – the six exams that would decide his future plans. He could have sat Classical Studies in the morning, full marks. Mr Fitz had nurtured Davey’s unlikely love of the ancients, loaning him books and awarding him As. He had even offered to read some of Davey’s own poetry (that was, if Davey ever wanted to share). The other teachers, though, didn’t really approve.

  Why in God’s name are you reading all that?

  Sure, we’ve plenty of legends of our own.

  Never mind your man Oedipus – what about Táin Bó Cúlainge?

  Meanwhile, his classmates only took it as yet another reason to rip the piss. They already thought Davey was a weirdo with his notebook and his highfalutin notions.

  A poet you want to be, is it?

  Here, I’ve a poem for you – what rhymes with ‘massive hunt’?

  But for all their teasing, Davey couldn’t help his infatuation. Maybe it was the imagery, maybe it was just the pure strangeness, but something about the foreign tales stirred him far more than anything in this place ever had.

  He glanced again out the window. Already the pink was a deeper hue, leaving bloodshot rims around the black trees on the hill.

  After defeating the Minotaur, the story of Theseus’s bravery had spread far and wide. The people of Calydon came calling – a wild boar had been slaying their children and animals so they needed a hero to come and save the day. Some legends said the boar embodied the spirit of Diana, Goddess of the Moon, while others said—

  ‘Ah, the poet’s lair. I thought I would find you here, all right.’

  Davey’s spirit dropped down on to the page. The slam of the bedroom door shuddered through the rafters. If his mother had been asleep, she certainly wasn’t any more.

  He took a moment, then straightened up just in time for Faela to slump upon him. She kissed his neck and squeezed his shoulders, the knots of his muscles ever tied.

  ‘I was getting a bit worried.’ His girlfriend hoisted herself on to the desk in her miniskirt and battered Nike runners. ‘You weren’t even at Mass yesterday?’

  Davey wondered if the wood would hold. ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Heathen!’ she cried. ‘And on Good Friday and everything? Father Devlin will be raging. You’d better have at least fasted and abstained?’ Here she paused, eyes glinting. ‘I assumed that’s why you were avoiding me. Abstinence, hey? Do not lead me into—’

  ‘I was studying.’

  ‘Oh, bollocks to that.’ Faela swatted his words like a fly. ‘Haven’t you heard the news – no need for college any more. Thanks to the Bull and the eejit Brits, we’re going to be rolling in it soon.’ Her laugh was as bright as her ginger hair while she produced today’s newspaper and slapped it down on the desk. Her nails had ‘J-E-S-U-S’ Tippexed across, the only expression of vanity the nuns were willing to overlook. ‘Do you want to go to the pictures tonight?’ The newspaper was folded in four, but half the cover photograph was still visible. ‘Apparently that Trainspotting one’s supposed to be deadly. I reckon the Scots are just a more knackery version of us.’

  Even from this angle, Davey could recognise the Bull pinned in his three-piece suit. Next to him was the Minister for Agriculture, the pair of them grinning like it had been a very good Friday indeed.

  Faela followed his gaze. ‘Oh, him? They say he’s got all sorts of sneaky wee moneymaking schemes on the go. Speaking of which, have you noticed your old man acting unusual at all?’

  Davey ignored her. He didn’t want to talk about his father – he never did. Instead, he unfolded the newspaper, leaned in close and scanned the headlines.

  McDonald’s rejects British Beef!r />
  Irish Farmers Kill Fatted Calves!

  The Bull’s face had the look of pure mischief. The brown hair had the unmistakable look of a comb. And this time it wasn’t an ancient tale on Davey’s tongue, but an ancient word. Hubris. The arrogance of the invincible; the confidence that nothing could possibly go wrong. He thought of Daedalus again, fashioning a pair of wings so his son Icarus might fly away from prison, only for the lad to get greedy and soar too close to the sun.

  Davey closed his eyes. The failed escape. It had always been his least favourite of the myths.

  ‘So this is where the magic happens, eh?’

  When he opened them again, he saw that Faela had found his black-leather notebook. It had an elastic band wound tight around as if to hold the poems in. ‘Give me that.’ He reached for her, but she was nimbler than she looked, slinking off the desk and knocking a piece of paper with her – a white feather slowly floating to the floor.

  Faela tossed the notebook on to the bed and picked up the fallen page instead. ‘What’s this?’ She held it as close to her face as he did his books – it was one of the few traits they had in common. It was one of the few things Davey knew that he would miss.

  ‘Your CAO.’ She answered her own question as she began to read. His Central Applications Office form; his college choices listed in order of preference and ready to submit. ‘You’ve put Dublin first and second.’

  Instead of answering, Davey returned to the window. The beech tree stood with its coil of rope hanging down. Davey could never see it and not consider a noose. Behind it, the pink had begun to recede like a shoreline when the tide is out. Davey itched for his notebook on the bed – it would be a decent enough start for a poem. ‘I have.’

  Faela snatched at his words. ‘But I thought we discussed—’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘So what, you just lied to me? Davey, we had a whole plan. You and me over at the Tech. Together.’

  Eventually he had no choices at all but to look at her. Her anger burned even brighter than her hair. Yet Davey soon saw it fade; saw her eyebrows wilt and her face soften in understanding. ‘Davey, I know you want to get away, but I’ve told you – you won’t need to be near him any more. We can stay in halls. I’ve heard they even do double rooms, so we—’

  ‘It’s not just him.’

  At this, the softening stopped. She was still holding the CAO form. As always, the Tippex on her right nails was much more smudged than on her left.

  ‘It’s everything.’ He tried his best to keep it simple – he hadn’t expected this conversation so soon, but he had known it was coming all the same. So now he searched for a way to explain what had been mounting for months or maybe even years; to translate it into words they might both understand. ‘I don’t belong here.’

  Faela’s brows stiffened, reversing any mercy. ‘And what about me? Do you belong with me?’

  Davey tried – he could have sworn he did – to hold her stare. But soon he was looking at the books instead; the window; the rope; the newspaper folded over. He had never really noticed the chisel of the Bull’s jaw.

  When the bedroom door slammed for a second time, the front page lifted up in the draught. Faela’s footsteps stomped down the stairs and across the yard until they had disappeared. Both the regret and the relief settled over him at once. Behind her, there was no thread spooled out for Davey to find his way back.

  ___________

  For the next half an hour he tried to read on, but his concentration was broken. He closed the book and stuck it on top of one of the piles. His needed some air. He had to yank the door extra hard to free it from its frame after Faela’s dramatic departure. He made for the stairs, then paused outside his mum’s room. She had been up for the morning, but had gone back to bed at lunch, her face an ashy grey. Very softly, he opened the door.

  Her form was barely a blip beneath the piles of tartan blankets. It seemed they were all worried about her getting cold – the things we can control; the very very least. Davey noticed the various mugs and empty pill bottles scattered across her bedside table. He would tidy them up when she woke; would peel off a layer or two to let her breathe.

  It was hard to believe it was only a couple of years since she had been rushing about on the farm. Davey used to love watching her feed the newborn calves from the giant tubs with the plastic tits. He knew that, without her, his father had had to do away with the calving altogether this year. He knew that, without her, his father was struggling to cope.

  The good news was that the treatment was finally finished – the hospital visits which left her vomiting into plastic bowls for days. Davey had offered to take her along since she wasn’t allowed drive herself any more, but she had always refused, insisting there was no way he could be missing school at a time like this. He supposed it really was the least his father could do.

  ‘I take it that’s things finished with Faela Quin, so?’ Her words appeared over the crest of the blanket pile, even though her body didn’t move. Davey was as surprised by their arrival as by what they seemed to intuit. He walked around the bed so that he could see her face. Sure enough, her eyes were pure green and clear.

  ‘It is,’ he said.

  ‘I’d say you won’t be long over that.’

  Davey smiled. ‘I’d say you might be right.’

  He felt the knots in him loosen a bit, guilty always of assuming the worst. Just because her body was ill, didn’t mean her mind hadn’t as much of a handle on the place as ever. But Davey suddenly tightened again, because did that mean she could also glean about the CAO? About his escape plan, counting off four more months and then away? ‘How much did you …? I thought you were asleep.’

  With only a trace of a wince, she sat herself up. Her chest was a xylophone of bones. ‘Ach, I was,’ she said, then she paused. A frown passed across her face like a cloud. ‘But I keep having this mad dream which wakes me. Have I mentioned it before – the one about the Butchers?’

  Davey felt the cloud pass across him too.

  His mother had first told him about the Butchers when he was only a little lad, explaining about the mythical curse; about the eight men with their eight touches who used to visit her parents’ home. But she had also told him her parents were dead now and she had become a Catholic like his daddy, so it was important not mention any of that again.

  Since then, the only time Davey heard mention of the Butchers was when the lads at school were spreading nasty rumours, usually around June when the group came to visit the handful of believers who were said to live nearby.

  I heard they ride the cow before they kill it.

  I heard they suck it off.

  My da told me they slaughter a human every five years too.

  But even despite these sordid versions, there was something about the whole thing that had always appealed a bit to Davey – more akin to Ovid or Sophocles than anything else this country had to offer. He thought of the Minotaur, ‘part-man part-bull’. He thought of Zeus turning Io into a cow. Maybe when he got to Dublin he would write a book of poetry that linked it all up.

  ‘And it’s not just the dream.’ His mother’s voice pulled him back now. ‘The Butchers have been on my mind quite a lot recently. I think – you’ll call me daft – but I have the strangest urge to see them one last time—’

  ‘Were your family always believers?’ Davey cut her off sharply. He knew the answer, of course, but he couldn’t listen to the phrase ‘one last time’. Anything but that.

  ‘Both my parents were raised in strict households, so ours was the very same. Not that, between you and me, I was ever totally convinced. My father claimed he could trace his ancestors back to the widow who made the original curse.’ Here she smiled; half-rolled her eyes. ‘Trust me, if you had met my father, that would come as no surprise.’

  She had explained these things to Davey many times over the years, but it was still nice to hear them again – how her parents would count down to the annual visit; how she a
nd her sister would be made to get all dressed up.

  ‘But then you just left?’ Davey looked at his mother. The newly grown wisps of hair were held in place by a thin film of sweat. He would draw a bath for her this evening. She used to be a great woman for the baths.

  But when she sighed, it didn’t sound great at all. ‘I thought leaving my family would set me free. Give me the chance to really find myself, you know?’ She paused. ‘Now look at me.’ She glanced down as if taking her own advice.

  Davey turned away. He would fill the tub with bubbles and all.

  ___________

  Through the darkness, the outline of the trees loomed up either side of the road. Most of them wore a suck of ivy right up to their necks, covering their modesty. Davey paused. He felt the corners of his notebook digging sharp into his pocket. Truth be told, he hadn’t written in the thing for weeks.

  He set off again, thinking of Faela and her absolute fury this afternoon. Despite everything, he knew he would miss her more than a bit. There had been something so calming about the constant noise of her while he could just sit there and safely go unnoticed. He had joined her and her friends a couple of weekends drinking in the furthest of Hogan’s fields, but mostly the girls just got scuttered on cider and squealed things like, He’s so fecking polite! He imagined Faela up there with them now, spitting venom between sugary gulps. And to think, I was even going to give him the ride. Not that he ever asked for it, mind you …

  Davey went rambling along the roads most nights, strolling the land for want of writing it. It was the only time he could allow his mind to unfurl the full extent of itself. Out here, there was no risk of bumping into anyone from school; no risk of people reading bits of paper they weren’t supposed to read.

  He would walk for hours sometimes, nothing but the elegant stare of horses for company. Or the full beams of a distant souped-up car going ninety an hour, the little boy racers blaring ‘Born Slippy’ on brand-new subs. But apart from the neighs and the techno blips, the only sound was the echo of the ancient myths in his head. Sometimes it was Euripides and other times it was Aeschylus. Like the one where Prince Thyestes slept with his brother’s wife, so in return his brother cooked him an almighty feast. It was only after Thyestes guzzled it down that he discovered the flesh he had eaten was that of his sons. In the end, it was the cannibalism more than the grief that turned him mad.