Bone Harvest

by James Brogden

  And all of a sudden the deserter knew he couldn’t do this. It was all too big. He had no place amongst such people and he’d been a fool to ever think so. He turned to leave.

  He heard Gar bellowing and crashing through the trees a moment before the huge man exploded onto the path, grabbed his shoulders and slammed him up against a tree. Gar roared in his face, spittle flying, his breath rank.

  ‘It’s me… you idiot…’ Everett gasped.

  ‘Yes!’ Gar’s mouth was split in a grin like a boulder-filled crevasse. ‘YES!’

  ‘Pleased to see you too, chum, but would you mind putting me down?’

  Gar dropped him, and while Everett brushed himself down and picked up his kit bag, demonstrated his glee at seeing his old friend again by whacking a nearby tree-trunk with a log and whooping. ‘Drink!’ he shouted.

  ‘Sorry, chum, but I don’t actually have—’

  Gar shook his head and stabbed a thick forefinger at his own chest. ‘Drink! My drink!’ He tugged at Everett’s arm.

  ‘Your drink? You have drink? You’re offering it to me? Well, that’s very generous but I really can’t stay. I’ve just remembered that—’

  But Gar was insistent, a twenty-stone toddler. It seemed that desertion was no longer an option. Gar dragged Everett along the narrow lanes of Swinley – away from Mother’s cottage and towards the half-derelict barn where he lived, except that it too had changed with the years. The window holes had proper shutters and there were tubs of flowers by the door, which was decorated with animal skulls. The deserter didn’t have time to remark on Gar’s house-husbandry or his carpentry skills, because the big man led him inside to proudly display the thing that he’d built inside. Everett saw a copper vat, rubber tubes, and a glass demijohn, and smelled a familiar sweet reek.

  ‘Is that…’ he breathed. ‘My God, Gar, is that a still?’

  Gar nodded wildly, and even jumped up and down a little. He picked up the demijohn in one hand as easily as if it were a hip flask and poured a little clear liquid into a tin cup and passed it to Everett. ‘Drink! I make!’

  ‘Well, you certainly are a clever old stick and no mistake.’ But then he supposed twenty-six years was a long time for someone even like Gar to learn a few new things. He took the cup of moonshine, sniffed the contents, and tried a wary sip.

  When he’d finished coughing and his eyes had stopped watering enough to be able to see again, he handed the cup back. ‘That is brutal,’ he gasped. ‘You’re an evil man and you must be stopped.’

  Gar topped up his cup and handed it back. ‘Drink!’ he insisted, and swigged from the bottle to demonstrate. He shuddered, and howled.

  ‘Oh, all right, just a quick one, then,’ Everett replied, swallowed a mouthful and howled right back at him.

  * * *

  The hangover that followed was almost as brutal as the moonshine itself, but the equinox still wasn’t for a few more days so he had time to pull himself together and make a proper approach to Mother. She interrogated him long and hard about his adventures over the years before she was satisfied that his spirit was strong enough to cope with sacrificing Moccus.

  ‘He is an ancient thing,’ Mother told him. ‘One of the very last of an elder race who shaped the world when humanity was hunting aurochs with flint spears. But that which shapes creation is inevitably shaped by that creation. The begetter is begotten. We take Moccus into our bodies and souls, and something of us is taken into him. With each replenishment sacrifice it is not just the life of the vessel which goes into him but something of the man wielding the knife, the way that a great work of art will carry some flavour of the artist’s soul. And with each rebirth, Moccus’ spirit is shaped by that man’s character.’

  ‘In that case I think you’ve made a huge mistake,’ he replied, ‘because my “character”, as you call it, is atrocious.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what makes you perfect! Not the fiddling details of what you’ve done, but the fact that you know exactly what you are, and are unapologetic about it. It’s that purity which we need. You must hold on to that when it comes time to kill him. Even as aged as he will be now, he’s a potent force and though he may not mean to, in death he’ll try to take you with him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘Just try to maintain a clear sense of your own self. There are certain prayers and meditations that I can teach you—’

  ‘No,’ the deserter cut her off. ‘None of that. If I need my head to be clear I won’t want to be filling it with that sort of nonsense.’

  ‘Well, don’t go filling your belly with Gar’s moonshine, either,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to choose four men to help you. The god might need restraining. Choose from the unwedded men. It’ll be a great honour for them.’

  * * *

  As he’d expected, Ardwyn had left Swinley long ago, barely a year after himself, taken the married name of Melhuish and become Mother of her own small congregation in Cirencester, supported by her husband’s money. He looked for her as the Farrow began to arrive from all over the country during the following days, imagining how she might have changed and whether, God forbid, Gus had spawned his limp-chinned progeny on her. It was a relief, then, when they finally arrived, to see that she was virtually unchanged from the autumn of 1916, and unencumbered by brats. Maybe the planes of her face were a little more defined, or maybe that was just the combination of make-up, a more modern hairstyle, and his own faulty memory insisting that she must have looked younger because so much time had passed. Her clothes were smarter – the kind of wasp-waisted suit he’d seen in American films – but her spirit, to use Mother’s terms, was just as bright and scornful, if her laughter at Gus and his scowl in response was anything to go by. They arrived in a burgundy MG VA Saloon, a beast of a car, so fuel rationing obviously wasn’t a concern, and the moment she saw Everett she gave a shriek of delight and rushed to embrace him, mashing his lips with her own.

  ‘You look appalling,’ she said, when she pulled away and properly took in his lean and scruffy appearance. ‘What have you been doing all these years?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ he said airily. ‘Bloodying my soul with as much death as possible to prepare myself for killing a god.’

  ‘Still, it can’t have been all fun, surely.’

  By this time Gus had marched over, but Everett noticed that as angry as he obviously was, he didn’t try to pull Ardwyn away or touch her at all. ‘That’ll do,’ he snapped. ‘Winnie, we have a thousand things to do before tomorrow…’

  Everett choked. ‘Winnie?!’

  Ardwyn winced apologetically. ‘He thinks it’s endearing.’ To her husband she said, ‘Given what we’re all going to be doing the day after tomorrow, you can hardly complain about me showing a bit of affection for an old friend.’

  ‘Friend, is it?’ Gus looked him up and down. The same contempt was there but it was better hidden now. More controlled. Augustus Melhuish had grown up, it seemed, and the deserter began to think that he had the makings of a dangerous man. ‘Well, since you are my wife and what is yours is mine I suppose that means he is my friend also. Let me shake your hand, friend. Let’s let bygones be bygones.’ He put out his hand to be shaken, and Everett saw that his tusk bracelet had gold finials. Obviously.

  Amused, Everett obliged. Gus didn’t attempt anything so obvious or adolescent – or futile – as to test his strength against Everett’s grip, but held it just a little too long, turning his wrist over and inspecting it in mock surprise.

  ‘What, no tusk? That’s funny. I thought you were one of the Farrow. I must have been mistaken. And yet I hear that you are to perform the sacrament. Possibly I’m mistaken about that too.’

  ‘Darling,’ said Ardwyn, somewhat frostily, ‘you’re mistaken about quite a few things.’

  ‘May I have my hand back?’ asked the deserter. ‘Or do you intend to propose? Your wife might not like that.’

  ‘My wife is more than capable of deciding what sh
e likes, as I’m sure we both know. That being the case.’ Gus stepped back a pace and bowed. ‘Darling, please accept my apologies for interrupting your reunion. I will see you later, at your convenience. I need to talk to some people to clarify my understanding of Saturday’s celebration.’

  Ardwyn and Everett watched him go.

  ‘He’s going to try to turn the other Farrow against you,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You don’t seem especially worried about it.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m Mother’s choice. At the end of the day there’s nothing he can do about that. Plus, he won’t cause a fuss on an important occasion like this. It’s more likely that he’ll wait until all of this is over and try to have me quietly killed.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, you boys! You know I almost want to see you two fucking each other on Saturday just so that I can see you fighting to be the one on top.’

  It was his turn to laugh, then. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Really? Care to take me to your cottage and show me how much?’

  So he did.

  10

  THE SACRAMENT OF THE FIRST FLESH, 1942

  IN CONTRAST, TWO NIGHTS LATER WHEN HE STOOD BY Moccus’ column with the knife in his hand, naked in the firelight and surrounded by rutting figures, it stirred no heat in him. He was not witnessing a display of desire. Their grunts and squeals, their sweat and spit – it was all a part of the summoning, like Mother blowing the bone carnyx, but there was something desperate about their frenzy, like a child throwing a tantrum to get its parent’s attention.

  When the aged figure of Moccus emerged through the veils of smoke and shadow, he gripped the knife tighter in a fist that was suddenly sweating, and found that he’d involuntarily stepped back a pace. None of that, he chided himself. Deserter he might be, but he’d stand firm here at least. He laughed aloud at the paradox, and maybe it was the sight of him laughing, but the god stopped and shuffled warily. It couldn’t see him, of that he was sure, with its milky blind eyes, but its sense of smell was just as sharp, judging from the way its snout wrinkled around its tusks, huffing as it scented him out. How could so few years age it so much, especially when the Farrow aged barely at all?

  ‘Now then,’ he said, trying to sound the way he’d heard sergeant majors cajoling their belligerent or terrified men. ‘Let’s have this nice and easy, shall we? I mean to make this as quick as I can, if you’ll let me.’ He could feel the four men he’d chosen as back-up tensing behind him, and the weight of Mother’s attention.

  Moccus came right up to him, still tall despite his stooped age so that the deserter’s face barely reached his chest. The god reached out a hand towards his face; he shifted stance and flexed his fingers around the knife haft but Mother said, ‘Steady, Butcher. Be still. The god seeks only to know you,’ so he forced himself to stand immobile as it took him by the jaw with arthritic fingers and turned his face this way and that. Its snout was only an inch away, its thick tongue rolling, nostrils quivering, its breath hot and wet. He could see the hairs in the ridges of its skin and the cracks in the yellowed ivory of its tusks – they looked razor sharp, even with age. It could bite the face off his skull like an apple if it wished. It was insane that he was just standing here without defending himself. He was in a perfect position to disembowel the beast.

  He angled the knife slightly and prepared to strike.

  To his surprise, Moccus released him. It stepped back, dropped to its knees and bared its throat. There was a collective sigh of relief from all around.

  ‘The god accepts you as his deliverer,’ said Mother. ‘Do your duty before he changes his mind.’

  ‘First flesh, first fruit,’ he said, and did his duty, opening the creature’s throat in a single swift sweep, and as he did so he saw the German boy’s face and remembered the taste of his flesh. The memory was so vivid that it blotted out everything else – he was back in the shell crater with the dying boy, only this time he was drowning in mud. It closed over his feet, then his knees, thighs, and hips, and he struggled against it but he was pulling against the sucking weight of the earth itself. As it reached his chest he felt arms slip beneath his from behind, elbows curling around his armpits, holding, steadying. Mother’s voice was in his ear: ‘I can’t pull you out on my own. You have to help me. You have to push. Come on, Butcher, push!’ So he pushed as hard as he could, until the sinews in his knees and back screamed, and the sucking weight relented a bit, then a little bit more, and then relinquished its hold all of a sudden and he flew backwards and found himself back in the clearing. He was sprawled in Mother’s arms and the other men were catching Moccus’ cruor in those great bronze basins.

  He lay back against Mother’s breast, panting, exhausted. ‘That is what the death of a god feels like,’ she said, stroking his brow, and she kissed the top of his head. When he had caught his breath, she patted him on the shoulder and gave him a helping shove upright. ‘Please, Butcher,’ she said. ‘Will you prepare the first flesh for us?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ He retrieved his knife and set to work.

  * * *

  As far as everyone else seemed to be concerned it was all a tremendous success, but when Ardwyn came to him in his cottage afterwards he couldn’t bring himself to touch her.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked, re-buttoning her blouse and making no attempt to hide the fact that she was upset and irritated.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Really? Are you going to tell me that you’re “just a bit tired” or that you’ve “got a headache”? Because if I want that rubbish I’ll go to my husband.’ When she saw that her anger didn’t move him she softened her approach. ‘My darling, you achieved something awe-inspiring today. You should be proud of yourself! We should be celebrating!’

  ‘I find it hard to celebrate when…’

  ‘When what?’

  He flailed, trying to find words to express something that he was struggling to understand. ‘Mother keeps calling me Butcher, but I’m still just a deserter,’ he said. ‘When things get too big, I run. I almost didn’t come back here at all. I wouldn’t have, if Gar hadn’t waylaid me on the road and got me drunk. I’m glad you’re married because it means I don’t have to try too hard with you; if you were after something permanent from me I’d run a mile.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘That’s why I’m with you, you dolt, don’t you understand? You have no idea how wearisome it is being surrounded by men who are always trying. I find them so, well, trying.’

  He smiled at that, but it faded as quickly as it appeared. ‘Moccus, he submitted to me. Something that powerful, bigger than wars or history, that I have no right to approach – it knelt to me and let me kill it. What do I do with that?’

  She scrutinised him, her lips pursed.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m trying to make up my mind whether you’re aiming for false humility or just melodrama.’

  ‘Ha. Maybe I should be humble. If he – it – is really a god, then no god should kneel to a man. It feels wrong.’

  She laid her hands on his chest. ‘How does it feel here, in this heart that hasn’t aged for nearly thirty years?’

  ‘To be honest with you? It feels like theft.’

  She laughed, her scorn bitter in his face, like smelling salts. ‘As if you care! Murderer? Cannibal? Why, even your name is stolen! Yes, you’re a deserter. Things too big, you say? Then run from death, because there’s nothing bigger than that. Even gods must die. None of us can escape it completely but you and I can run a while longer and further than most. Let me run with you! Or at the very least…’ She snuggled closer and slipped her hand under his shirt. Her fingers were cool and sure where they stroked his nipple. ‘At least let me enjoy a bit of light jogging.’

  As always, he found it impossible to refuse her.

  All the same, when it came to the replenishment sacrifices he couldn’t bring himself to stay for the whole
six months. Something about sitting comfortably in his cottage drinking whisky and reading the newspapers felt like an insult to the god who was dragging himself slowly back from death once again. So Everett took himself off into the world in the meantime, returning at each tusk moon to slaughter one of Mother’s pigs, and when Moccus birthed himself from the earth that September, the deserter didn’t have to be ordered to leave this time. His satchel was already packed.

  11

  ATTENUATION

  HE WAS ALMOST LATE FOR THE SACRAMENT IN THE spring following the Summer of Love, having discovered that psychotropic substances were an ideal method for deserting from reality altogether. But he got his shit together, as the saying went, and arrived in time to perform his duties. The sacrament and replenishment sacrifices went smoothly, and there were no signs that anything was going wrong – or if they were, his senses were still too battered to notice. It was during the sixth and final replenishment on the autumnal equinox in September of ’68 that the catastrophe became evident.

  Moccus was too weak to arise.

  As the blood of the sixth and final swine soaked into the earth and the earth began to heave, the assembled Farrow readied themselves for Moccus to break free and be reborn, but it just continued to heave, and nothing emerged – no reaching fingers, no gleaming tusks. The tumult in the earth was even diminishing, as if the god was weakening from his exertions.

  Murmurs of unease and disbelief gave way to exclamations of dismay, until Mother ordered several of the congregation to run back to the village for shovels. When they returned with the tools, they set about digging their deity out of the ground, and were able to remove enough weight of earth such that Moccus was finally able to grasp the edges of the hole and haul himself into the world. He stood there, soil-streaked and panting, glaring around at his worshippers in the way a man caught in the act of some foolishness might seek to disguise his embarrassment, before staggering off into the woods.