Part 4 (1/2)

'I shall stay also. We shall follow presently.'

He grins at me as they depart.

'Just the two of us, eh? Best company a man could have.'

I set myself back to work, striking the carcase before me; but my hand trembles and I only split it halfway. I try again and strike untrue, jarring the bone so hard my shoulder numbs, and I drop the axe. The steel rings against stone, and Alfred calls out.

'Abel?'

'Yes,' I reply.

'What is it?'

'I have dropped my blade.'

'Dropped it?' His voice sounds with shock, and he pushes through the curtain of cadavers to my side. 'What ails you, Abel?'

His eyes search mine.

I shrug. 'It is nothing.'

'Well, then,' he says. 'Very well.'

He coughs, busying himself in picking up my blade and placing it into my hand.

'See,' I say. 'I am steady again.'

I make another stroke to prove my words, but it is a poor effort, shearing away and striking my forearm, and I am sliced to the bone. For an instant, all is peaceful as we stare at my arm, the dark crimson of muscle within. He speaks first.

'Christ, your arm.'

'Yes,' I say.

It is true. It is my arm. He, like me, can see the sick whiteness showing at the heart of the slit. I should be afraid, but I am not; I feel no panic as I watch the wound fill with sluggish blood. I wait for it to commence pumping, in the way that kine do when I cut their throats, but it does not. The liquid rises partway to the brim and then pauses, small bubbles winking on the surface. As I watch, I am aware of another sensation: my soul begins to beat sluggish wings, unfolding them after a long sleep. My body tingles, stirs.

'Christ,' says Alfred. 'Dear, sweet Christ.'

He sits upon the floor, not caring about the stickiness and filth.

'Sit down, man,' he croaks.

'Yes,' I say, lowering myself to sit next to him.

He is trembling.

'You are dying. You will die. What am I to do?' he stutters. 'You will bleed to death. You are slain. What can we do?' His hands patter all over his ap.r.o.n, wringing the corners. 'I must get help,' he says, but does not move.

'Yes,' I agree, and do not move either, for my eyes will not leave the sight of my inner workings revealed in this impossible fas.h.i.+on.

I am surprised, but not in that way of a new thing, a never-before-seen thing. It is the stillness of curiosity. I ache to dip my thumb into the dish of the wound to see if I am warm or cool; indeed, I lift my hand to do so, and only hesitate because Alfred is shaking violently, small sobs coming from deep within his chest.

'I must go. I must go and find a doctor,' he says, over and over, not stirring. 'I should not have spoken to you. I distracted you. This is my fault.'

I want to say, It is not, but I am lost in contemplation of this phenomenon.

'I am not bleeding,' I muse, and find I have spoken aloud.

Alfred is sitting quite still. 'Dear Christ,' he breathes. 'You are not.'

It is the truth. The injury is full of blood, but is not spilling over.

'I wonder why,' I say, for it holds me in a fascination.

I am a slaughter-man: I know well the fountaining of heart's-blood when an artery is severed.

'Sweet Jesus,' repeats Alfred. 'Look.'

I look. The blood is sinking, and as it subsides the edges of the wound begin to close together very slowly, but fast enough that it is possible to observe the motion. I am held in the grip of a terrific stillness, so entrancing is the sight of my body re-sealing itself. After minutes I forget to count all that can be seen is a red seam along my forearm. I flex my fingers, and they move: I can bend easily at the elbow. Nothing is damaged. Alfred gets to his feet, staggering backwards.

'You ...' he says, his eyes wild. 'When a man is cut, he should stay open. You close up. It is not right. You should be dead.'

His gaze darts up and down and from side to side; everywhere but at me.

'I am not,' I say simply.

His breathing is rough. 'I do not-' he begins, and stops. 'I do not know you.'

He walks away. I inspect my miraculous arm, twisting it about and watching the line where I cut myself grow smooth and pink. After a while I pick up my axe and continue with my labours. I am determined to concentrate, for I do not wish to slip into another bout of this dangerous half-sleep. The others come back in; Alfred also, but he says nothing, and will not look at me.

I set my teeth and apply myself to my labour. I am a slaughter-man, I say to myself. I cut open the bodies of beasts. They stay open. I was cut, and I closed up. I did not bleed. I shake the troubling thoughts away. I must have been mistaken: I cannot have cut myself so deeply. These things are not possible.

The remainder of the day is simpler. Each beast waits patiently in line, and the greatest noise we hear is the sigh of each giving up its spirit gladly. At the end of the day, I walk out of the gate to find Alfred waiting.

'Let's be walking home, then,' he says grudgingly.

He keeps half a pace ahead of me, and looks back every now and then, as though expecting something, eyes sliding to my forearm. I wince with the knowledge of my body and how it healed; and how he witnessed it happening.

'Alfred?'

'What?' he growls.

'You are my friend,' I mumble.

'Yes, yes,' he mutters. 'So you keep saying. Give it a rest.'

He thrusts his eyes ahead, walking faster so that I have to quicken my step to keep up with him. I chew the inside of my mouth until I taste iron. I hold out the package I have been given as my day's perk: I bear the prize of an entire head, brains and all, for the way I turned things round, the gaffer said.

'I like brains,' I say. 'Brains are tasty.'

He breathes out, slowing down so that I do not have to rush so.