by KUBOA
If you were there, you’d describe the air in the barn as consuming. It drew water from skin, added weight to limbs, hunched the spine and laboured breathing. Flies would struggle as they flew through its intensity, the measured beats of their wings doing little to influence the mustiness of the hay. Hazel had bathed three times before the midday sun threw its weight upon all and sundry. She applied talc to the creases between her toes and perfume to the pale skin around her neck and chest. The shoes she wore were slight and open, her dress thin and light. In all her preparation, she never gave attention to her eyes, which remained as naked and pure as the day she was born. As if embarrassed by the inelegance that came from its application, Hazel would rub on the lubrication gel to her vagina in secret. Her reddened hands and slender fingers would later glisten when the sun slipped through the slats of that barn. No one ever noticed these details.
A crude pillory fashioned from disused railway sleepers dominated the clearing of the barn. Holes had been bore out of its hinged timber, large enough to accommodate the ankle, wrist, and neck. Its use that day would be to hold Hazel still, and allow the beast advantage without breaking her back with its weight. Hazel knew it was a crucial piece of apparatus, but its presence induced a chill, a feeling so foreign considering the climate. As she ran her finger along the grain of the crossbeam, a stray splinter pushed its way into the skin. She drew in breath and sucked away the first spill of blood that clung to her fingertip like a tired ladybird.
“Bet that’s the smallest prick you’ve ever had?” said a solemn voice from behind her. Hazel turned, a move hindered by the weight of the humidity. Before her stood Boxer Turin, an animal handler with soiled-looking skin, walrus moustache and catatonic expression. In his hand trailed a thick length of rope rising towards a grand and solid neck. Over two metres tall, the camel peered down, picket fence teeth jutting from its lower lip.
Hazel removed her finger and replied to Boxer, “I don’t appreciate comments like that, mister.”
Boxer Turin’s brow caved momentarily to express a look of bewilderment, though this was not immediately obvious to Hazel.
“You think it’s okay to be insensitive and disrespectful to a woman? I would imagine that camel has more civility in one of its humps than you have in your whole body,” she scorned. Again, Boxer appeared struck by uncertainty.
“Are you deaf?” asked Hazel.
“He is,” said the same solemn voice.
Hazel directed her gaze to the camel, who had remained fixed upon her since she had turned. The camel blinked its long blond eyelashes once, and then once more before bearing its teeth. A clumsy smile, you might say. “I meant no offence, miss,” said the camel. “When I’m nervous, I have a tendency to say stupid things.”
Hazel threw her attention back to Boxer, assuming he was a master of ventriloquism. “That’s quite a trick,” she said to him, but Boxer did not reply. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to one side like a dog receiving commands from its owner. The camel leaned his long neck forward, exhaling fusty breath upon Hazel’s face.
“Boxer here is dumb, too,” he replied quietly. “I’m probably the only camel in the history of the world to ever be able to speak with humans, and I get lumbered with a retard.”
Well accustomed to the peculiarities of certain animals, in particular their reticence towards intimacy, over the years Hazel had been privy to some strange sounds. To those pertaining to the equidae family, a large proportion of Hazel’s time could be spent sitting with the animal in its stable, not saying a word. To gain their trust, she would bring sugar lumps and raw carrots in small brown paper bags, but even then, she had known colts and yearlings to express a keen displeasure toward her company. In moments of distrust, a horse can become agitated and feral. They can strike a human with their hooves and depending upon where struck, kill a person dead on the spot.
One time, while advancing towards a coal-black stallion, Hazel was sure she heard that horse say no. From a faltering whinny that horse voiced its disapproval towards her advances, and to this day she remembers how clear that command was. No. She also once believed a sheep had bleated out her name mid-session too, but as it turned out it was the camera operator asking Hazel to force back her rear towards the animal. It would be strange to concede that maybe all those animals had the ability to converse, but remained dumb to avoid the awkwardness of the situation.
“Say something else,” said Hazel to the camel.
The camel withdrew its head so it was looking down upon her. “My name is Horace. I’m a ten-year old Batrican living here with my trainer, Boxer. Before that, I lived with other camels on a farm that overlooked a beautiful wooded estuary. People would come ride me and tickle my ears, but one day some little child stuck his finger in my eye. Hurt like hell. The people that owned the farm had to reassure the family that I was a placid camel and that I normally don’t bite. To avoid being put down, old Boxer here took me in. Now my life is pretty dull. I carry Boxer around his land while he collects wood before selling it to folks in the town. I’m what they call a beast of burden.”
Hazel ran the back of her hand across her mouth. The salt that had collected upon her skin glazed her lips, reminding her that this was no dream. She drew that same soft hand across her eyes, and in that fleeting moment of blackness, she feared the heat had dehydrated her, bringing on a delirium. As light crawled over the world before her again, the camel form came to life.
“So, what’s this for?” asked Horace, looking towards the pillory.
“It’ll be used to hold me still. I’m sorry,” Hazel said, snapping back into the room, “do you know you can speak?”
Horace’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?” he asked.
“Of course I do. But I’m a human and you’re an animal.”
“I’m a mammal, actually,” corrected Horace.
“But it’s impossible for a camel to talk; it’d be like, erm…” Hazel stumbled trying to find an appropriate analogy.
“Passing a camel through the eye of a needle?” suggested Horace. “It’s improbable, but not impossible.”
“You mean you’ve actually been through the eye of a needle?”
“No, that’s impossible. The perception that all animals and mammals that are not human have the inability to talk is improbable, but that’s not to say it can’t be done.”
“How?” asked Hazel.
“First, why do you need to remain still?”
Hazel glanced at the pillory again, then back to Horace. “To avoid you slipping out.”
“Slipping out of what?”
“Me.”
The revelation struck Horace like a whip to his rear, provoking a sudden jolt that tugged the rope on the end of Boxer’s hand. Assuming the camel had been spooked by a noise, one that he could not hear, Boxer ran his scabbed and damaged hand across Horace’s neck.
“That’s wrong,” said Horace. “Does Boxer know?” Horace turned to Boxer. “Do you know about this?” he asked the dumb expression looking up at him.
Hazel interjected, “He brought you here, didn’t he? I guess he failed to say that you and I are the main stars of a bestiality film called, The Whore that Broke the Camel’s Back?”
“He certainly did. Bad man,” said Horace to Boxer. “I thought we were going to feed the ducks in the park?”
Boxer smiled and exhaled a muted whisper of concern. From his pocket, he pulled out three dried strips of jerky and held them up to Horace. “No way. You’re not winning me over that way. I’d rather starve to death than sleep with that woman. No offence,” said Horace returning to Hazel.
“Am I that repulsive?” asked Hazel.
“No, it’s nothing like that. You’re very pretty.”
“Then what?”
“You’re just not my type.”
“Camel’s have types?”
“You’ll be surprised to know they do, and they’re mostly
other camels.”
“To be honest, I prefer horses, but they’re paying me double.”
“Prefer?” questioned Horace. “You mean you’ve done this before?”
“I find animals attractive. Don’t look at me like that.”
“I can’t look at you any other way. I have the inability to express emotion.”
“Then don’t look at me at all.”
“If anyone should be offended here, it should be me,” said Horace.
“And why would that be?”
“The only reason you’re here is because you’re getting paid extra. How do you think that makes me feel knowing that I’m not as good as a horse?”
“I said I prefer horses. I don’t really know many camels.”
“But clearly your predetermined idea of a camel was grotesque enough to warrant subsiding?”
“I assumed you were all unkempt and smelly.”
“I’ll have you know I bath twice weekly.”
“Maybe, but your breath smells.”
“That’s down to a poor diet of jerky and leaves. Boxer here isn’t made of money, you know. Plus, I’m also experiencing a little gingivitis that isn’t helping.”
“Horses are just prettier.”
“My great, great, great grandfather was horse. I bet you never knew that?”
“I didn’t. So you’re a half-breed?”
“No. A committee got hold of him and the rest is history.”
“But you said I wasn’t your type.”
“True. So let’s call it a draw then. Boxer and me will leave and go feed the ducks, and you can go to a stable and do whatever it is you do.”
“I don’t think the camera man is going to be happy about that, or the person who paid Boxer and me.”
“Boxer is getting paid?” Horace looked back to Boxer again and tugged on the rope to attract his attention. “And when were you going to tell me this, before or after I violated this young woman? Boxer, this whole day has me questioning your loyalty to me. I think once we’ve been to the park to feed the ducks, you and I need to sit down and get a few things straight.”
Boxer patted Horace on his nose and smiled.
Turning back to Hazel, Horace said, “We can’t do this.”
“I’m not happy about it either, but we’re here now, and to be honest, I was hoping to buy a puppy with the money. I’ve had my heart set on this little pug in the local pet store.”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t do this.”
Hazel glanced through Horace’s legs, as if beyond she would find a vacant patch of bald skin and scar tissue where an appendage once hung.
“You’ll be pleased to know I have all my bits,” said Horace, “but that’s not the reason I can’t go ahead with this. I’m gay.”
“You’re gay?” asked Hazel, more surprised at that revelation than when she first heard Horace speak.
“Yes. I came out three years ago. It was a surprise to a few camels that knew me, and well, it was a surprise to me. I never really gave it much thought before, you know, sexual attraction. When I lived at the camel farm, they never forced us to mate with the female camels. I knew a few who did, but that stuff never interested me. I preferred to walk in the woods and listen to the birdsong. Then one day, Demetrio arrived. He was a dromedary with wonderful golden hair like shifting desert sands. Long, slender legs and eyes you could swim in. He would run around the paddock every morning and bring in winds that perfumed the air. I would follow him and eat from the same haystacks, and when other camels would go near him, I felt an envy that was all-consuming.”
“You’re gay?” Hazel repeated.
“I’m opening up here and all you want is clarification?”
“Sorry… Did you ever tell Demetrio how you felt?”
“God no. I was in love. The thought that he didn’t feel the same way would have crushed me. No, it was better to live a happy moment within a dream then a life filled with sadness.”
“Very poetic. Where’s Demetrio now?”
“Still at the farm, I guess.”
“Does Boxer know?”
“About Demetrio? No. I think Boxer knowing I’m gay might make him feel uncomfortable.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to live the rest of your life carrying Boxer around his land and feeding ducks when all the while you’re hurting inside?”
“What’s it to you, anyway? A few minutes ago you weren’t bothered about my feelings.”
“I just think it’s sad.”
“Well maybe if I wouldn’t have bitten that kid, maybe…”
Horace’s voice waned under the weight of torment, and the barn around them creaked under the strain of rising heat. Within a few minutes, three men would arrive, soaked and weary by the same roasting sun. Each would have his own imperfections accrued by age. Fractures within the skin would divide from the corners of one man’s eyes to unite again at greying sideburns. Another, the tallest of the three, would carry a video camera in a bag upon his shoulder, his grand height producing a slight stoop, giving him the appearance of man with little self-confidence. The last of the three was swollen, sweaty with hair so fine that when the sun shone through it made it disappear. This same man walked as though a stone had found its way into his right shoe.
None of the three men had children, wives, or anyone who they could call their own. At night, they slept in double beds and remembered moments of their day when they met the eyes of a woman, one who may have taken their money for a sandwich or cool beer or one they passed in the street. The tall man would recall shoes of black leather with thin heels and the pallor of sinew expanding to a defined calf. The smallest man would bring to mind the colour of crimson fingernails as they worked the tense muscles of a willowy neck. The oldest of the three pictured the sharp edge of a protruding hipbone that peeked from a young girl’s waistline. And as they drifted into a bleak and dark slumber, each man was united in their desire to see the flesh of a woman, which is why, when they arrived in the barn to find no woman or camel, they turned angry and bitter.
Over the following few days Hazel attended the camel farm Horace spoke so fondly of. She paid admission at one of the two small kiosks that were fashioned into humps cut from sheets of chipboard painted yellow. She walked the three acres of meadowland while admiring the many different camels. From behind wired fencing, she met a camel called Dianna, who had reared three calves and whose wool was used to make yarn. She ran her fingers through the dense coat of Augustus and wondered if the darkness in his eyes was a sign of depression or just a passing cloud that dulled the life within. In the woodland area used for organised treks, Hazel sat under sycamores that overlooked the estuary, allowing her thoughts to meander to Horace and his sad little story of unreciprocated love. From behind her chest, a dull ache forced breaths to deepen whenever she pictured him loitering in the shadow of Demetrio, his hooves stepping gently into the impression left by the beautiful camel.
On her second visit, Hazel attended an organised tour and learnt that a camel’s faeces is so dry it can be used for fossil fuels, and that along with their long eyelashes, all camels have sealable noses to help protect themselves from sandstorms. From field to field Hazel ambled, reading the small name plaques that humanised each camel, but not once did she see Demetrio. When Hazel stumbled upon a young woman forking hay into a trough, good manners prevented her rushing in with questions of him.
For the most part conversation circled around the upkeep of the farm and dietary routine, and when Hazel finally asked about the camel who loved to run, the same one Horace had fallen in love with, she discovered misfortune had struck him in the form of myopathy. The young woman lent upon the handle of her fork and spoke with icy detachment about the muscle fibres in Demetrio’s legs, how they had weakened and wasted away. The keepers of the farm would find him collapsed in the paddock, the fall sometimes hard enough to break the skin and facture the bone.
Despite the fact that he underwent treatment in the earlier stages, Demetrio suffered horrible cramps as his kidneys failed, and so to avoid any further suffering he was put to sleep. As she drove home, Hazel felt tears running down her rounded cheeks, though she did not know if they fell for Demetrio’s demise or Horace’s heartbreak.
The private-care surgeons refused her request. It was not ethical nor did they see it humane or functional. Extreme modifications such as the ones Hazel had described required procedures that stretched beyond their professional remit. Their skills were there to enhance the body and face, not to disfigure it. With their quiet and dependable voices, they suggested counselling sessions, long walks and time. But Hazel needed only a scalpel and a steady hand, not advice.
While pleading her case to an Indian surgeon one afternoon, the pangs of desire to amend her simple beauty manifested in desperation, and within that small office with its grand oak table, Hazel opened her legs. Upon the cool, soft leather chair, she lifted the hem of her pale frock and gently ran her finger along the groove of her black underwear. No words were carried on her laboured breath, and no instructions to cease her unashamed exhibit came from the surgeon’s lips. His reserved eyes fell to her inner thighs and the thin slip of cotton that hugged the clammy flesh beneath. So pale were her legs under that austere light that the surgeon would later draw no better comparison to that of two ivory piano keys offset by the black.
To ease the process, Hazel descended into a reverie that skewered together images of animals she had known and briefly loved, and so vivid were these apparitions her fingers slipped behind the cotton, revealing to the surgeon the shinny cerise cleft between her legs. Her tongue accepted the polished swell of his penis moments later, absurd as it was, and if not for the rasp of its head against the rippled skin on the roof of her mouth, every part of Hazel would have been numb to the experience. Instead, she endured the disgrace and humiliation and the fetid taste of his semen, because in her mind she justified the act as a means to an end. The surgeon did not share her optimism, and as she wiped her chin with a small white handkerchief, he adopted the same detached tone as his many colleagues and asked her to leave.
Hazel later found through the Internet a private surgery that practiced the physical metamorphosis art of therianthropy. They specialised in turning humans into animals using subdermal and transdermal implants, splitting of tongue or lip, tooth filing and facial piercing to hold fake whiskers. Most of their cliental had been people who had progressed from furry fandom to the belief they were better suited in physical animal form.
The instructions Hazel gave the surgeon were precise and detailed. The humps would be fashioned from large silicone implants used for breast augmentation, placed respectively at the top and lumbar section of her spine. Hazel’s top lip would be bifurcated. The cartilage in her nose filed down to make it look flatter and wider. The toes of both feet would be fused together to make hooves and small implants placed around the eye to make them appear bulbous. The pale blue of each iris would later be dulled with russet coloured contact lenses. Thin plastic moulds wrapped in skin removed from her buttocks would be fashioned into triangular ears, and long, yellowed enamel veneers would conceal perfect white teeth. The femur of each leg would be severed to accommodate titanium rods that would allow five inches of extra length, the recovery time of this procedure being the most extensive. Hazel would need to learn to walk, eat and adapt to the outside weather, something she planned on doing with the full body hair transplant.
The money paid --which by all accounts had surpassed that spent by Jocelyn Wildenstein and “cat man,” Dennis Avner-- would never be paid back to the bank she had secured it from. As soon as the bandages were removed, and she could carry her weight once again, Hazel Beckett would not exist, but instead a wonderful bronze camel by the name of Carmel would hold the vestiges of her previous life.
Horace was shocked the day Boxer walked Carmel into the stable. What stood before him was a strange hybrid of camel and human. For one, Carmel had not taken to walking on her hands and feet, so instead staggered around like a kangaroo mastering stilts. Her eyes were constantly running due to the prolonged wear of the contact lenses and the long, fake eyelashes. Patches of pale skin were visible behind the golden pelt, and snot oozed from her nose, which she had long given up on ever breathing through again. She was how Dali would have drawn a camel, a surreal manifestation that belonged in another world.
“Remember me?” Carmel lisped between buckteeth.
“If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’d forget someone like you.”
“I looked a little different the first time me met.”
Horace paused for a moment to reflect.
“I know I’ve done some crazy things in the past,” he said with a hint of regret, “and that night I found old Boxer’s moonshine is a complete blank to me, but seriously, you’re not going to tell me we… you know.”
“No, we never slept together,” replied Carmel, “but we were supposed to.”
Horace approached the figure slowly, moving to one side to allow more sunlight to fall upon her bizarre appearance.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to help me here.”
“It was five months ago. One of the hottest days of the year. We were in a barn. Boxer had brought you to have sex with me, but we couldn’t because you were gay.”
While impossible to comprehend that the image before him was once human, was once anything, Horace finally realised he was speaking with Hazel.
“Were you in a car crash?”
“I could no longer live life as a human. From a child I had an affinity for animals, and it was after speaking with you and visiting the camel farm that I realised I had to change.”
“You went to the camel farm?”
“It was as wonderful as you described.”
“Did you see Demetrio? Did you speak with him?”
The death of Demetrio had channelled Hazel’s own regrets in life and born the idea of her transformation. Alone in her home, she had measured the impact the news would have on Horace and decided that his days thereafter would be tainted by the same regrets she held. Just as a person knows the wind is always there by how it feels upon their face, or how it moves the tall grass, a life without companionship influences you. It drags your eyes to the ground whenever you walk. Colours are washed away. Time turns torpid. Hazel had lived like this for so long she could not remember a time when she had a voice speak to her in the night. Of the four-set dinner service she owned, all but one set had a thin layer of dust. Only one-half of the bed sheet was ever discoloured by perspiration, as was only one pillowcase. A single toothbrush stood alone in its respective holder. A bar of soap would last twice as long. Birthdays were forgotten, holidays never planned.
Christmas was a better television listing, a means to drink more without judgment. Valentine’s was deemed a “corporate swindle.” The only joy in her existence came from animals. They were undemanding, modest creatures with innocent hearts. Their lives were uncomplicated and blissful in their simplicity. But most of all, they were never alone. And as Hazel sat within her kitchen sipping nettle tea from her one dust-free cup, she knew if she was going to share her life with anyone, it might as well be a talking camel who knew the pain of abandonment. As Boxer Turin retreated for the evening, leaving Horace and Carmel alone in the small stable, Carmel’s version of Demetrio’s death varied from the truth.
There was no muscle deterioration in her account, nor was there physical pain in his final moments. Demetrio died a different death, one born of loneliness and a broken heart, all of which commenced shortly after the camel they called Horace had left the farm. And in that moment Horace wept, not for the loss of Demetrio, but because he felt complete.
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