‘Tooth and Claw’ by Hannah Whiteoak

You wield the knife and bring it down on the sheep’s throat, as I hold its head back so it doesn’t struggle. It goes down easy, legs twitching as blood drains into the bowl.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘That’s a nice clean cut.’

You stare at the knife in your hand like you’ve never seen it before. There are tears in your eyes. The sheep continues to twitch, black eyes rolling in its head. You kneel on the dirty outhouse floor and put a hand on its back, stroking pink streaks into the wool.

‘Enough of that,’ I say. ‘Help me get her up.’

I attach a hook to the sheep’s tied back legs. Looping the rope over a beam, we hoist it up. My back wrenches as it always does these days. The sheep sways in the dark outhouse, smelling of wool and blood.

We step outside while the carcass drains. You go to where our collie is tied and fuss her ears. Jessie licks the blood from your hands and whines when you pull away. Beyond the farm, the woods are dark and quiet. I wonder if the creature that snatched a young sheep last week is watching, smelling the blood, waiting. The traps have caught nothing so far.

‘Mam?’ Your voice shakes. ‘I don’t think I can …’

‘Of course you can. You’re fifteen; you should know how to skin a sheep. You’ve watched me plenty of times. Besides, I won’t be around forever.’

You’re still the city girl I brought to the farmhouse last spring, scowling and rolling your eyes. But you’re also hardening up, fingers calloused from handling brooms and buckets, your back broadening. You no longer paint your lips that ridiculous shade of purple, or line your eyes with black. Now you dress in work boots and handle the shears so deftly you’d have made your grandmother proud.

‘But it was Clover.’

‘You ate Clover’s lambs last summer, lass. Besides, she’s lame. We’ll never get another lambing out of her.’

You nod, staring at the woods that crowd our smallholding. Wind ripples through the trees. Somewhere in there skulks the predator that made off with a yearling last week. If our thief is a fox, it must be a big one.

‘Nature is red in tooth and claw, my girl.’ I go back inside the outhouse. ‘Come on. Show me you know how to skin.’

I thought you’d botch your first attempt, but you turn out to be skilful at slicing the sheep’s skin from the fat and connective tissue below. You square your jaw and slice confidently, eyes focused on the task.

‘We can reline your winter coat with that,’ I say, proudly. 

We butcher the sheep as the sun settles low in the sky, casting long shadows through the grimy window. I tell you where to cut. Most teenage girls are stuck in classrooms learning algebra or Shakespeare or some other such rubbish. Either that or chasing after boys who will soon drink themselves into burdensome old men.

Even though you’ve done most of the work, my swollen knuckles ache. We must be due some rain. Sure enough, when we step outside, a few drops are falling. I raise my hands, but the drizzle isn’t enough to clean them, so I scrub them under the tap in the yard, watching blood swirl into the drain. My fingers throb in the cold water.

Soon, I’ll need your help more and more. ‘Progressive,’ the doctor said. When I explained I needed my hands for farm work, he laughed. He thought I was joking.

I don’t want to depend on you. Your dad hung on for years after his liver turned tumorous, grumbling and expecting us to wait on him hand and foot. He had you running up and down stairs all day and night with plates and glasses and bottles. It’s only now he’s gone I can get on with raising you right.

‘Let’s check the traps,’ I say. ‘Bring the dog.’

Jessie wags her tail as we make our way uphill. You hold her on a lead to stop her running into anything she shouldn’t. Along the edge of the woods, traps hide beneath dead leaves, waiting for whatever comes slinking out of the trees. The metal jaws can snap a man’s tibia in half.

‘Won’t it hurt?’ you asked when we set them.

‘Nature is cruel, lass.’

‘We’re not nature,’ you said. ‘We’re people.’

I laughed at that. People are blood and bone, same as sheep. Same as the clawed creatures that lurk in the dark and pick them off.

Our boots sink into the mud. After months of daily patrols, I know exactly where each trap is located: by the varicose knot of roots, next to the splintered fence post. All are empty.

‘Look, Mam.’

You point out a black smudge on the barbed wire. I stoop, back aching, and pull free a clump of coarse, black hair. Too high for a badger. Too dark for a fox. My hand spasms.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘We’ll have it soon.’

We spend the evening preserving mutton. You brine the bigger cuts and hang them from the rafters, then stoke the peat fire so the smoke wafts up. When we cut the meat down, the flavour will be strong enough to hold its own in any broth. The entrails we make into haggis, or rather you do. It’s another bad hand day for me. The joints are so stiff I can barely bend them.

‘Don’t worry, Mam,’ you say. ‘I can do it.’

Your strong hands grate the liver, dark red staining your nails like the polish you used to wear. 

‘Will we need to kill another?’ you ask.

‘Not yet.’ I glance up at the meat hanging from the roof. ‘We’ll get this batch sold first. If we make a profit, then of course. But not too many. We need good breeding stock.’

You dump the liver into a bowl. Once I couldn’t even get you to eat liver, let alone handle it.

‘None of the others are lame,’ you say.

‘They’re all getting older.’

You nod and pick up the mezzaluna. It rocks in your hands as you dice the sheep’s heart.

‘You mustn’t get attached.’ Clumsily, I mix the liver with onions. ‘No more names.’

You say nothing, simply stare at the blade as it flashes in the firelight.

#

The next week passes quietly. The traps turn up nothing, although a couple of times, late at night, I think I hear howling. Perhaps it’s just my ears. When I ask you whether you hear anything, you shake your head, not raising your eyes from your sewing.

One night, a shriek wakes me. The sheep are bleating in panic. I pull on jeans and boots and dash outside, pausing to grab a long knife from the outhouse. My hands shake in want of a gun.

Moonlight reveals sheep scattering. It takes me a few seconds to make out the shadow. It’s a black dog the size of a calf. My breath catches in my throat. I want to run back inside and bolt the door, but when I turn you’re watching from the doorway. I can’t stand to see you scared.

Gripping the knife, I stride away from the farmhouse, towards the sheep and the big black dog. ‘Hey,’ I shout. ‘Hey, now.’

The dog stops. It turns to stare at me, its eyes big and bright as pewter plates. 

‘Get away.’ My voice cracks.

The dog growls. I brandish the knife and it barks, sharper than a gunshot, teeth glinting in the moonlight, and bounds down the hill towards us.

I could have pushed you inside and drawn the bolt across. We could have held each other while it threw itself against the door, claws scrabbling at the paint, its breath heavy and loud. But that’s not how I raised you. I won’t teach you to cower.

‘Hey!’ I shout again, as I run towards the trees. ‘Ugly mutt.’

The hellhound bounds after me. I imagine its long canines sinking into my leg, dragging me down into the mud. I enter the woods, back spasming, and crouch down behind an old beech, clutching the knife and praying.

The dog is so close I can see the spittle on its yellow teeth. I shut my eyes.

SNAP.

When I open them, the dog is lying on the ground, right foreleg caught between the metal jaws of the trap. It’s whining like a puppy.

You appear, shining a torch in my eyes. ‘Jessie!’

I start to tell you not to be stupid. Can’t you see the size of this monster? But when I look again it’s Jessie, alright, her small brown eyes staring up at me like she’s got a thorn in her paw and expects me to take it out.

You place your hand on the dog’s back and say shush, shush, as if you’re trying to soothe a baby back to sleep. She licks your hand.

I get stiffly to my feet and offer you the knife.

You stare at me, unblinking. ‘It’s Jessie.’

‘She’s been taking our lambs.’

‘You don’t know that. It could have been anything. It could have been a wolf.’

‘She’s lame.’ I grab your wrist and put the knife in your hand. You look at it like you’ve never seen it before, never pushed it into a jugular vein.

‘It’s Jessie,’ you say again. ‘I can’t … she’s our dog.’

‘Dog or sheep: what’s the difference?’ I shrug. ‘She’s lame. Meat is meat.’

Fire flashes in your eyes and then goes out. You raise the knife.

#

The dog doesn’t go to waste. The meat we put to use over several weeks. I tan the skin and use it to make myself a pair of leather gloves. They keep out the cold so my fingers don’t throb so much, although they’re getting stiffer.

‘Tear the spinach, don’t cut,’ I call from my armchair.

‘I know, Mam.’

When the stew is ready, you help me to the table. You pull out my chair and fetch me a glass of wine. The haggis has been selling well, especially with the new recipe, so we can afford little treats.

The ladle shakes in my hand.

‘Let me, Mam.’ You serve me a generous helping.

I manage to feed myself. You eat slowly, as though not wanting to leave me behind. You’ve been quiet lately, replaying the stroppy teenager I’ve tried to work out of you, but tonight you chatter like we’re the best of friends.

My hands ache by the end of dinner, but I decide to be grateful. Perhaps I can take up reading, or listen to the radio on days they’re too bad to work. When I’m toothless, you will bring me mutton soup. I’ll repeat the stories my mother used to tell, of selkies and wulvers, and you’ll humour me because I’m old and prone to confusion.

After dinner, you stoke the fire and help me back to my chair. The farmhouse is warm and cosy. I rest my eyes on the fire flickering in the grate. Gradually, it lulls me towards sleep. An old woman snoozing in an armchair, I think, as I feel myself falling deeper.

When I open my eyes, you’re standing over me. I try to raise my hands to rub away the sleep, but my arms are stuck. My legs, too, are tied, the rope pulling against my ankles as I struggle.

You make a shushing noise, like I used to when you grizzled as a baby. You were a fussy child at first, but you soon settled. Tenderly, you put one hand on my forehead and tilt my neck back.

The knife glints in the firelight.

‘Shhhhh,’ you say. ‘Easy, now. Easy.’

From issue #9.5: spring/summer 2020

About the Author
Hannah Whiteoak lives in the UK and writes short stories and flash fiction. Her work has been published in Ellipsis Zine, TSS, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Asymmetry Fiction. Find her online at hannahwhiteoak.me or @hannahwhiteoak.