The Lost Salt Gift of Blood Read Free

move.
    “I think he’s going to the barn,” says my mother then with surprising softness in her voice, and telling me with her eyes that I should go with him. By the time MacRae and I are outside he is already half-way to the barn; he has no hat nor coat and is walking sideways and leaning and knifing himself into the wind which blows his trousers taut against the outlines of his legs.
    As MacRae and I pass the truck I cannot help but look at the bull. He is huge and old and is an Ayrshire. He is mostly white except for the almost cherry-red markings of his massive shoulders and on his neck and jowls. His heavy head is forced down almost to the truck’s floor by a reinforced chain halter and by a rope that has been doubled through his nose ring and fastened to an iron bar bolted to the floor. He has tried to turn his back into the lashing wind and rain and his bulk is pressed against the truck’s slatted side at an unnatural angle to his grotesquely fastened head. The floor of the truck is greasy and slippery with a mixture of the rain and his own excrement, and each time he attempts to move, his feet slide and threaten to slip from under him. He is trembling with the strain, and the muscles in his shoulders give involuntary little twitches and his eyes roll upward in their sockets. The rain mingles with his sweat and courses down his flanks in rivulets of grey.
    “How’d you like to have a pecker on you like that fella,” shouts MacRae into the wind. “Bet he’s had his share and driven it into them little heifers a good many times. Boy you get hung like that, you’ll have all them horny little girls squealen’ for you to take ’em behind the bushes. No time like it with them little girls, just when the juice starts runnin’ in ’em and they’re finding out what it’s for.” He runs his tongue over his lips appreciatively and thwacks his whip against the sodden wetness of his boot.
    Inside the barn it is still and sheltered from the storm. Scott is in the first stall and then there is a vacant one and then those of the cattle. My father has gone up beside Scott and is stroking his nose but saying nothing. Scottrubs his head up and down against my father’s chest. Although he is old he is still strong and the force of his neck as he rubs almost lifts my father off his feet and pushes him against the wall.
    “Well, no time like the present,” says MacRae, as he unzips his fly and begins to urinate in the alleyway behind the stalls.
    The barn is warm and close and silent, and the odour from the animals and from the hay is almost sweet. Only the sound of MacRae’s urine and the faint steam that rises from it disturb the silence and the scene. “Ah sweet relief,” he says rezipping his trousers and giving his knees a little bend for adjustment as he turns toward us. “Now let’s see what we’ve got here.”
    He puts his back against Scott’s haunches and almost heaves him across the stall before walking up beside him to where my father stands. The inspection does not take long; I suppose because not much is expected of future mink-feed. “You’ve got a good halter on him there,” says MacRae, “I’ll throw in a dollar for it, you won’t be needing it anyway.” My father looks at him for what seems a very long time and then almost imperceptibly nods his head. “Okay,” says MacRae, “twenty-one dollars, a deal’s a deal.” My father takes the money, still without saying anything, opens the barn door and without looking backward walks through the rain toward his house. And I follow him because I do not know what else to do.
    Within the house it is almost soundless. My mother goes to the stove and begins rinsing her teapot and moving her kettle about. Outside we hear MacRae starting the engine of his truck and we know he is going to back it against the little hill beside the barn. It will be easier to load his purchase from there. Then it is silent again, except for the hissing of the kettle