The Tax

The cleaver hit bone and jammed fast. It was smeared with juices from the meat. His grip slid down the handle, the blade nicking his index finger. He winced. The boy looked up.

“It’s nothing,” he said and smiled.

The boy fidgeted and looked to his sister. She was sewing up the hole in the sack.

“It’s nothing,” said the man again. He was tired. They hadn’t much time. “Get back to work.”

The boy picked up his stick. He had whittled it down to a fine point. A little sharper and it would be ready for curing. He held it up and pricked his finger. A small point of blood appeared, lit by the light of the stove. He licked at the blood. The taste was salty.

His sister was concentrating hard, needle in hand, twine between her lips. He jabbed her with the stick, below the ribs. She yelped, dropping the needle and twine, darting forward with hand raised. The boy scrambled backwards, laughing, dodging his sister.

“Stop it,” said the man. They froze, looking at him, the boy cowering.

“We haven’t much time,” his voice was low with anger and exhaustion. “Stop; if you want to eat tonight.”

It had been days since he had slept more than a couple of hours. He put the cleaver down and leaned back in his wheelchair, resting a moment. Sometimes he struggled, more often now than in the beginning.

He rubbed his eyes and set his grip back firm on the handle. With a thud he brought the blade down, opening up a deep fissure above the thigh. Juices spattered onto his shirt. It had been dirty longer than he could remember.

The boy and the girl were still looking at him. The boy was close to tears.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” he said. He had never had children of his own. Even after seventeen months the boy was still scared of him.

“We haven’t much time,” he said. “Let’s get back to work.” He smiled and the girl smiled back. The boy tentatively picked up his stick and began whittling away again.

The man had never been a butcher and the practise hadn’t improved him. Whenever he came up against something hard he hacked around and levered it out. The soft stuff went in the sack. He kept the bones and scraps for soup. It was all they had eaten for months now.

A little while later he took a break. He wheeled himself over to the curtain that hid the window. He had cut it from a carpet. It hung heavy from five large nails he had hammered in. He pulled it back a few inches.

Out in the gloom were the silhouettes of the trees beyond. Behind them the last of the light was dying. They would be here soon.

He let the curtain fall back. It slapped heavily against the wall. The man looked to the children sat by the stove. The boy was watching the girl sewing. She was a year older. The man felt sorry for the boy. He still hadn’t learnt enough. In a year maybe they’d both be ready.

A shrill blast came from outside.

The girl shot him a glance. He wheeled himself over to the table.
“Get the sack,” he said in a low urgent voice.

The girl clambered up. She still had the needle and twine in her teeth. “It’s not ready. The hole’s not closed,” she said.

“Bring it here.”

“But it’s not…”

“Open it up, bring it here,” said the man.

The girl came over, holding it open. “Look, here, it’s still…”

“No, that’s not going to…” the man said, running his fingers over the gap, “come here,” he said to the boy. The boy shuffled over, chewing his lip. The man held the sack open. “You, hold it here, like this,” showing the boy how. The boy placed his hands where the man showed him, “now hold it open, tight. Really strong. You can be strong, right?”

The boy nodded, eyes full of fear.

“It’s important. Hold it tight. You can do that, yes?” said the man.

“Yes,” said the boy quietly.

The girl was sewing up the sides, concentrating hard on the hole she had to close.

“Good. Now you keep on. I’ll fill it up,” he said to the girl. She nodded.

Another shrill blast.

They all looked to the door. From outside came the crunch of snow on the path.

The girl’s voice broke. “Come on,” she said, “they’re almost here.”

The meat glistened on the table top, lit by the fire of the stove. He hurriedly scraped big clumps into his arms, sweeping it into the bag. It hit the bottom of the sack with a thud. The boy held firm. The man swept another armful into the bag. A few scraps spilt over. One clung to the boy’s face. The man flicked it off. It left a stain. The man piled more into the bag.

The crunches came louder and louder up the path. Then, just outside the door, they stopped.

He frantically swept in the last. He held the sides of the gap. She sewed it up tight.

A knock came at the door, deliberate and hard.

“Go on, go on, get it over, go on, be quick…” said the man.

Two more knocks came, loud and quick.

The girl heaved the sack up onto her back. It was soaked through and slipped down.

The boy rammed his shoulder up underneath and they staggered over to the low door.

“Quick, get on with it, quick, before they come in…” said the man, leaning half out of his chair.

They were by the door. The girl’s grasp slipped.

The handle turned. The door opened a crack.

The sack slid out of the girl’s clutch and flopped to the floor. Meat spilled out.

The door opened a little further and a burst of cold air swept in.

“Now. Go. Go. Get it out. Now…”

The boy snatched up the meat that had spilled out and thrust it back into the sack.

Four long fingers with old, purpled, veiny skin clasped the edge of the door. The nails were black.

With a heave the boy shoved the sack up against the opening.

The fingers snatched down. The boy gave a shout. Part of his shirt had been caught.

The girl screamed and darted forward. The sack slipped out through, the boy following. The girl lunged after, grabbed his feet and pulled. With a heave the boy came hurtling back in to the room.

The girl rammed the door home and turned to her brother. He was shivering and crying. The man wheeled over.

“Are you OK?” he said to the boy.

The boy didn’t answer him.

“Leave us alone,” said the girl.

The man looked down, unsure of what to say.

The girl held the boy tight and looked at the man. “Leave us alone,” she said.

The man wheeled himself back over to the table. He picked up the cleaver, examined the handle and brought it down hard, cracking one of the ribs.