Blood

I push another bale of hay off the loft, cursing slightly as it breaks. I hate it when they do that. I mean, I’ll just throw the flakes into the inside feeder, but it still feels like a waste of energy, even though I have to fill the feeder anyway.

It’s a bit annoying the way we do hay, since it involves a lot of square bales where a single large round bale would make a lot more sense, but there’s only one baler on the island that does round bales, being newer technology, and since the dairy farm that it belongs to is up by the Bay, no one but that dairy farm, owned by a Mr. O’Grady, really uses it.

And thus here I am, lugging around 50 lbs. square bales since that’s the size our baler makes.

But that sounds a bit snotty, doesn’t it? I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. I like my work. I like that I can do it alone and I like that I’m caring for my animals when I do it. Actually, I just like working on our farm in general. Well, except for when one of the cattle is sick, or when we’re giving the calves their shots. I’ve been kicked dozens of times doing that.

I toss down another couple of hay bales and then jump down.

It’s warm today, for December anyway, somewhere around zero. There’s light coming from all over in the barn, so I’m wearing my stupid sunglasses. My head hurts pretty bad from last night. Spirits, what a mess.

I pick up as many flakes as I can at once and throw them all in the feeder by the door. That’s there to try and avoid letting the cattle shit and step on the good hay.

Dust flies in my face as I do that, making me sneeze.

I grab the rest of the loose hay and the baler twine, shoving the latter in my pocket.

After that’s done with I get to carry the two square bales out to the feeder in the yard. I have it closed off right now so the calves can get in.

Since they need to fatten up, they’re in the closest field so they can get grain in few minutes. The cows are in the next field over, which I have closed off since they don’t need grain. After the calves are done, I’ll let the cows in the yard, too.

I’d had to spend quite a while talking to my father a little while back about our herd after I lost some time with injury and the like. As far as we can tell the calves are all pretty well weaned, so I don’t need to partition the barn any more or keep the cows out of the yard altogether. I just can’t let them in when the calves are eating since they’ll suck it all back too quickly.

There’s five or six heifers in with cows that we kept when Eddie took the others for slaughter in November. He took three cows as well. Two because they were bitches and one because her leg was twisted badly and it still hadn’t healed after more than a month. It’s hard, letting them go for meat. It makes me glad that we aren’t the ones doing the slaughtering.

I throw the bales into the feeder, taking their twines, too.

I shake my head at the thought of having a slaughterhouse. No, that wouldn’t be too good for me, would it?

For some reason, that brings Lorna to my mind, which gives me a bit of a sick feeling. I only vaguely remember being an ass to her, thanks to the amount of alcohol I’d drank, which actually makes me feel worse about it.

I tried to call yesterday, but no one had picked up.

I shake my head again, trying to get myself to stop thinking about Lorna since she distracts me and the cattle can tell when I’m upset, which makes them crazy.

I go around the barn, ducking in between the fence rails and then going to the shed that leans against the house. That’s where the grain is.

My boots crunch in the watery snow.

It’s quite nasty when it melts like this. I am not really a fan of snow to begin with, so when it starts to get slushy I just like it even less.

I grab the bucket that’s sitting beside the shed and open the door. My eyes are thankful for the dimness.

The freezer that we keep the grain in groans as I pull the lid open, filling the bucket to the same level I always do and letting the freezer lid slam closed once I’m done.

I make my back through the barn, closing and chaining the door as I go to ensure they can’t get out tonight, then head to the yard’s gate, opening it and calling to the calves.

They all start running, partially because they know that they’re going to get their treat and partially because animals seem to be drawn to my voice. I suppose that would be the fault of my mother.

The memory of my knife buried in Justin’s neck surfaces, which I quickly shove away because if I am continuously thinking about my brother then I’ll never be able to get anything done, and since my father has managed to convince me he needs me, if only for my help with the cattle, I need to be able to function.

One of the calves, a white-roan heifer that we are definitely going to keep for breeding, partially because she isn’t related in any way to the bull that we’ve been using the past couple years, partially because she has a good confirmation and partially because I really don’t want to send her to slaughter, runs around another in a circle before coming into the yard. She stops, sniffing at the bucket in my hand.

“Eh,” I say, swatting at her nose.

I walk back towards the barn itself, pouring the feed in the trough-type thing that’s situated right beside the barn door and stepping back towards the barn. I lean there, watching them eat when I feel a tug at my side.

I turn and see a red steer calf with a big white patch on his back pulling at one of the cords in my pocket.

“Don’t you eat that,” I say, pulling it away the second the calf drops it.

Another gift from my mother, the cattle somehow understand what I tell them most of the time.

I watch the calves shove each other as they all try to get to the feeder. It’s funny since there’s enough room for all of them, but they still like to fight over what they’re doing.

Pulling the rest of the baler twine from my pocket, I wrap it around my hand a few times then tie it in a knot before shoving the cords back into my pocket. I suppose I should have done that in the first place.

Seeing that the calves have made a good start at their snack, I start my walk to the gate that separates the two fields closest to the house.

Since all I’m doing is walking, I allow myself to think for a little bit, although my thoughts aren’t pleasant.

My first priority in my mental agenda is to find some way to remedy my brother’s death inside myself. And I have absolutely no clue how I’m supposed to do that.

I mean, it’s not possible for me to stop blaming myself. It is my fault. Just, maybe not 100% my fault.

Then I also have to figure out what the hell is going on with Lorna and me, since I’ve mucked that up pretty well.

And lastly I have to, you know, actually think about stuff like supper since I’m typically the one that cooks and other normal things.

But instead I find myself thinking about the Winter Solstice, after all, it’s only a week away, and the fact that the fey, Sro, have only taken one child. I don’t know why, but I’m sure that they’re going to take another. I hope for Lorna’s sake they don’t get her brother.

Which leads me to think about her stone. I don’t understand why my mother’s people have let her keep it for so long, unless they don’t realise that it’s her that has it, which I suppose is the best I could hope for. However, that seems unlikely.

I look at the burn scar on my hand, and then up at the Wood.

Spirits, I can hear it singing to me, as it always does, however the closer we get to a solstice, the louder it is.

For the first time in a while I let myself dwell on the well in Wanderer’s Wood. I still want to believe that it was some kind of dream, or at least a memory that I misremember, but I’m fairly certain it’s neither. What scares me is that I have no idea what a sea god can do if they wake up. Maybe that’s why I think the fey will take another child.

I reach the gate, unchaining it and then pulling it open. It’s not exactly easy to do so since it’s set so low to the ground that it doesn’t swing like most gates do, but I’ve done this hundreds of times in the snow, so I know how to open it.

Right away a couple cows come through, one of which stops for me to pet her. It’s one of the older girls, Ann. She has to be around 13.

When I turn around I see my father back by the barn, waiting there I think.

I jog back when I would normally walk since I don’t particularly like keeping my father waiting.

“Dad?” I ask when I reach him, relatively out of breath.

He doesn’t look overly happy.

“Come on,” he says, motioning for me to follow him.

I tilt my head. “What? I still have to—”

“Mallory.”

“Okay,” I say.

My heart feels like it’s dropped to the bottom of my stomach.

Something’s wrong.

Too many things have been wrong this December.