Great Horned

The chickens were beautiful: copper feathers edged in snow, with mad blood-red eyes gazing at us in hopes of a treat. Jill and Toby jumped around me, and I said, ‘Go on, guys, you can throw the feed now. Give the chickens their lunch. It’ll be good luck – some people say chickens bring fortune.’

‘The chickens can give me my lunch,’ said Dad. ‘Let me rip a leg off right now. I don’t know why the hell you want to feed your kids this sentimental nonsense.’

‘Dad,’ I said, ‘city farms are educational.’ I didn’t say that they were also public. He’d called me a bitch for refusing to let him visit ‘his grandchildren’ in my own home, and I’d gone another year without speaking to him. 

He didn’t know this was his last chance. 

He hadn’t sworn yet, but I could see his foot starting to tap in irritation when Toby giggled, and my heart started to beat hard. 

Jill threw her feed in big handfuls and Toby scattered carefully. ‘That boy needs to stop tiptoeing,’ said Dad.

‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I need you to speak to the children kindly.’

‘Oh you need, do you?’ 

His face was growing red. Since Toby had finished, I said, ‘Guys, let’s go look at the pigs. Did you know that pigs are as clever as dogs? Some people even say they can think as well as young children.’

Dad snorted. ‘And you say I need to speak to them kindly.’

The pigs were Vietnamese pot-bellied, sooty black and puff-cheeked. Dad read the label on the pen and said, ‘Hey, we found your spirit animal.’

I didn’t say anything. My body was locked up.

‘I’m just saying what’s true,’ he said, giving me a poke in the stomach. ‘Never did get your figure back after those two. Maybe if you made more of an effort that husband of yours would have come along.’

‘If you want to see him, see him,’ Jack had said. ‘I’ll support whatever you decide. But I can’t be around him. It would take more powers than I’ve got. But I’ll cook dinner for when you get home, okay?’ 

‘Mummy?’ Jill tugged on my arm. ‘Mummy?’

I made myself move. I made myself smile at her. ‘Shall we go see the donkey?’ I said. ‘Christians say they’re the holy animal. Since they carried Jesus into Jerusalem, they have a cross on their backs.’ 

‘God, but you talk a lot of rubbish,’ Dad said. ‘They should have burned you as a witch by now.’

‘Mummy doesn’t talk rubbish!’ Jill turned on him, flushed, her angry little fists clenched. I tried to take her arm, pull her aside; she didn’t know you couldn’t do that with him.

Dad looked at her for a moment, his eyes going hard. ‘Let me tell you this,’ he said, ‘you fat little sow. You want to give me any back-talk, you can get in there with your friends the pigs, and if you want any help, I can throw you in this minute.’

Jill stared at him, her mouth falling open. Her eyes ran with tears, but the look on her face, more than anything else, was utter disbelief.

‘What’s the matter, Jilly?’ Toby said, running over to her. 

He put his arms around his sister, and Dad said, ‘You make a sissy of that boy, you’ll have two worthless brats on your hands.’ 

It was the disbelief in both of them that got me moving. I saw, in that moment, that they really hadn’t known anyone could talk to them like that.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s look over there.’

‘What’s over there?’ Dad said, irritated.

‘Sheep, I think.’ I walked faster, pulling at my children’s hands. When I was a little ahead of him, I said, ‘Did you know, guys, some people believe that goats can strike people dumb? It’s the slotted eyes, I think, and maybe the horns that made people think they were scary. They used to say that if the goat saw you before you saw the goat, you’d lose the power to speak.’

‘I – I don’t want that,’ Toby said. He sounded uncertain. Both of them were glancing towards their grandfather.

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Look, you see the goat now. I bet you can still speak, though. Let’s all say it together. Say . . . say helicopter.’ 

‘Why?’ Toby said.

‘Because it’s a fun word to say. One, two, three: HELICOPTER!’

Dad was looking up as he came over to what I’d told him was sheep. The goat, though? We made so much noise that it had to look straight at us: the mother holding her two children’s hands, and the old man looking crossly up in the air, not seeing the great horned creature in its pen.

He opened his mouth to say something. 

Not all folklore is sentimental nonsense. Not if you give it a little push. Jack was right he didn’t have my powers, but I was looking forward to our family dinner tonight, and Dad had used up his last chance. 

By the time the ambulance came to take away the silent, thrashing man, there was bit of a crowd gathered, but I didn’t make the children wait. I took them to feed the ducks. 

posted by Kit Whitfield  # 10:39 am