The boy continued on without even turning his head.
"He's a right steady lad," Mason said. "I cannot see the problem you're having with him."
Mr. Parsons turned from the window and faced Mason. The caretaker, tall and lean, stood at the door, not wanting to enter further into the elegant room with his muddy boots. His hands, never idle, clenched and twisted his ratty brown flat-cap as he waited for the interview to play out.
"Not a problem," Mr. Parsons replied. "Not necessarily. I'm just not sure he's right for the job of butcher."
"Oh aye? Well and you told me to take Harrison off that work. Now Barrett. I canno' do everything around here, sir."
Mr. Parsons patted the air with his hand. "Of course not, Mason," he said. "But - I do wish you'd sit down."
"All the same sir, I'd rather not have to take your carpets up again." Mason lifted one foot to show the condition of his boots.
"Yes, okay." Mr. Parsons said. "Here now - the gist of it is, I saw that Barrett boy preparing a hog the other day and something about the way he.... Well, something about the.... Damnit, Mason, it gave me the heebies the way that boy killed the poor beast!"
"Aye?" Mason almost dropped his hat. "I've never seen him be anything but proper and respectful around the tools and animals. What are you on about?"
"Just that - proper and respectful and absolutely without emotion! Why, he didn't hesitate or flinch.... He was like a bloody machine that boy. Like a heartless robot. We'd do just as well to send our stock to the slaughterhouse and have that pneumatic hammer device do our work for us."
Mason did take a step into the room then, putting a moist size eleven print on the oriental rug. "Oh come now Prissy, if that's not the living end!"
In using Mr. Parsons' old nickname from their school-boy days, Mason had stripped away all veneer of employer/employee and the two men were once again chums swapping stories in the yard.
"Ah but, Ziggy, have you watched his eyes when he delivers the killing strike?" Mr. Parsons put both hands on his desk and leaned forward, whispering for effect. "Absolutely cold. Like a winter's blow."
Mason counted off on his fingers; "First you tell me to take Harrison off because you say he liked killing too much; now you want me to put off Barrett because he doesn't shed a tear over the wee beasties? Maybe you would like a little orphan Lord Byron around the place for these chores, what?"
"Oh you yourself called Harrison a psychopath," Mr. Parsons countered. "And I'm not saying I want a queen in the shed, but.... I just didn't like Barrett's eyes. His eyes, Ziggy, gave me such a chill."
Mason sighed and rocked back on his heels. "Well then, what have you? None of the other older boys volunteered. Should I force them one by one? You can stand there and watch their peepers in turn?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Look here, I've summoned the Barrett boy this morning for a chat - might be I can sound him out and see if I'm just being an old lady about the whole thing."
"Right you are. I'm telling you, the boy is sound as houses."
"But I want you here during."
"Oh for...," Mason stomped across the carpet, aggressively spattering mud, took a chair and dragged it around the desk to Mr. Parsons' side. Once seated, he motioned for Mr. Parsons to 'get on with it' and the headmaster used the intercom to direct his secretary to show the boy in.
***
Fifteen years old with brown hair, brown eyes, and a trim physique, Barrett entered the room, respectfully took off his cap, and closed the door softly behind him. He remained standing and silent until spoken to.
"Mr. Barrett," Mr. Parsons greeted him. "Do come in. Have a seat."
Barrett nodded, hesitated a moment before stepping on the carpet, but quickly decided against making a scene and stepped lightly to the chair.
"Will you take some tea then?" Mr. Parsons asked.
"Thank you, no sir," Barrett replied. "I've already had my cup for the day."
"Very good." Mr. Parsons leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. He hemmed and hawed for a while, searching for the right words.
"You like the butcher work then?" an exasperated Mason took over. "Killing the chicks and pigs and whatnot?"
Barrett looked from one man to another then tilted his head in confusion. "Sir?"
"Killing the animals? You like it then? The blood and guts and all the...," Mason made circles with his hands. "Killing?"
"Well, no sir. I don't necessarily like it or dis-like it," Barrett answered. "It's me job. Have I made a mistake?"
Mason looked at Mr. Parsons who gave him a quick, disapproving scowl then turned his attention to the boy. "No, Mr. Barrett. No mistake was made," Mr. Parsons said in a calming voice. "We just like to check up on our boys - make sure everything is coming along nicely. So you enjoy being the class butcher, then?"
"Sir, it's like I told Mason - Mr. Mason - here. It's me job. I guess I'm not sure if I should like it or not - are you supposed to like work? I mean, isn't it mostly for necessity?"
Mason made an approving sound and again shot Mr. Parsons' a look.
"Indeed," Mr. Parsons said. "That is unfortunately how it does turn out for many people. Some, however, do like their jobs, don't they Mr. Mason?"
Now the groundskeeper openly laughed. Barrett's lips twitched, uncertain how to react.
"So you would like to be a butcher, perhaps?" Mr. Parsons continued. "When you grow up?"
Barrett shook his head. "It wouldn't be me first choice sir. No disrespect."
"None taken. So why did you volunteer for the job, if I may ask?"
"Well sir," Barrett looked at his shoes and rubbed the back of his neck. "The other boys weren't at all keen on it, and Harrison...."
"The less about him the better," Mason interrupted, "But go on."
"Yes sir. So since none of the other boys were stepping up, I thought it to be my duty - as the oldest - to set the example. Besides, Mr. Mason, it's like as you always tell us, they can take everything away - our parents, our homes - but they can't take away what we learn. I may not want to be a butcher when I grow up, but at least now I can be if I have to."
That was enough for Mason who came out of his chair, applauding. "Very true, Lord Master Barrett! Walk with me back to the quarters and we'll see if we can't find some iron to mend those gates, what? If, of course, Master Parsons is quite done?"
Mr. Parsons rose slightly from his chair, "Indeed, yes. Thank you Mr. Barrett. It was a lovely chat."
Mason put his hand on the boy's shoulder as they left Mr. Parsons' office.
***
Barrett watched the pig from the bench where he sat pulling on mud-boots. Nothing special, this one. Rather ordinary. Barrett caught the animal's eyes and continued to be unimpressed. Not much there.
Still, you never know until the kill.
It was the cock that first turned him on - Barrett repressed a smile thinking about it, even at the language it called up in his mind (clever that, cock turned him on. Heh.) But so true - the rooster Mason had told him to prepare when he first volunteered for the butcher work.
"That ruddy ol' cock's done for this time," Mason had said, rubbing the blood away from his knee where the bird had attacked him, using sharp claws to tear pants and skin. "You take that bloody fowl out back and have his bloody head off now. Well suffer through his tough ol' meat for one night's stew, I imagine."
And that was the first time Barrett felt the transfer through death. As soon as he'd successfully corralled, caught, and snapped that rooster's neck, Barrett's legs responded with a surge of power. It was all he could do to restrain himself from leaping over the fences and kicking the sun out of the sky.
However, later that day, on the soccer field, Barrett scored ten points without passing the ball once. At the conclusion of the game, he celebrated by kicking the ball so hard it sailed right over the hedges and so far into the woods it took an hour just to find it.
See, he'd gained the cock's legs when he'd taken that cock's life. It didn't last forever, only a few days, but it clued him into the transfer through death: the best trait of any living animal - speed, strength, cunning - could be Barrett's as long as that animal died by his hand.
It was a unique gift, an unprecedented power, and he'd almost blown it by running his mouth. Barrett had been trying to find a way to explain what had happened to the other boys at the home when Mason called him back to the shed.
It was time to prove himself, Mason had said. It was time to bring down a hog.
The beast was a grand old Mister. Fat and indolent. Formerly a stud, now waning in energy and prone to illness. Mason had decide it was time use the animal for its ultimate purpose.
Barrett listened to Mason's instructions, nodded as the caretaker pantomimed the act, but all the while kept his eyes locked with the massive pig's.
Those eyes, the pig's eyes, were fathomless. Deep and brown. You could get lost in them, and Barrett did. He imagined the pig had a voice; he heard it in his head.
"Use it wisely," the pig said.
Then, when Barrett brought the hammer down just so at the just right place at the back of the pig's head, a sudden surge of awareness washed over him like a waterfall.
It had been an exceedingly clever animal; that pig.
Barrett knew then that he had to keep his secret. He mustn't ever again show off around the other boys. He must be patient. Eventually he would be free from this orphanage and, once out, he would be loose in a world of animals with much more to offer than strong thighs and keen eyes.
You watch the telly and see the man who knows all about money. Three minutes with your fingers around his fat throat and that knowledge becomes yours. Here's a bloke with two gorgeous ladies; one on each arm. He whispers in their ears at turns and they laugh and hug him closer. A quick hammer blow to his head and now you have those whispered words in your own mouth. What's this? Some dandy with a guitar preening about a stage singing while the entire world falls at his feet in adoration and supplication. A quick blade across his neck and those fingers, that voice, are yours.
Clever and patient, was the pig. Use it wisely.
And so Barrett did; particularly the patience. That morning, for instance, with those geezers going on about him being a butcher. A quick assessment of the situation and Barrett knew he was in jeopardy; they were thinking of taking him off the job. At that point, Barrett had two choices - kill them both take their powers and escape, or shine them on and leave very soon on solid footing.
Well now what powers then? As far as Barrett could see the headmaster's best trait was being a mincing toad and whereas he wouldn't have minded taking Mason's expert craftsmanship, that certainly wasn't worth risking even more imprisonment than he'd already suffered at this Goddamned orphanage.
So he'd been clever. He'd said what they wanted to hear. And now he was back in the shed, ready to swing the hammer again.
Swing the hammer and see what happens.
Mr. Parsons rose slightly from his chair, "Indeed, yes. Thank you Mr. Barrett. It was a lovely chat."
Mason put his hand on the boy's shoulder as they left Mr. Parsons' office.
***
Barrett watched the pig from the bench where he sat pulling on mud-boots. Nothing special, this one. Rather ordinary. Barrett caught the animal's eyes and continued to be unimpressed. Not much there.
Still, you never know until the kill.
It was the cock that first turned him on - Barrett repressed a smile thinking about it, even at the language it called up in his mind (clever that, cock turned him on. Heh.) But so true - the rooster Mason had told him to prepare when he first volunteered for the butcher work.
"That ruddy ol' cock's done for this time," Mason had said, rubbing the blood away from his knee where the bird had attacked him, using sharp claws to tear pants and skin. "You take that bloody fowl out back and have his bloody head off now. Well suffer through his tough ol' meat for one night's stew, I imagine."
And that was the first time Barrett felt the transfer through death. As soon as he'd successfully corralled, caught, and snapped that rooster's neck, Barrett's legs responded with a surge of power. It was all he could do to restrain himself from leaping over the fences and kicking the sun out of the sky.
However, later that day, on the soccer field, Barrett scored ten points without passing the ball once. At the conclusion of the game, he celebrated by kicking the ball so hard it sailed right over the hedges and so far into the woods it took an hour just to find it.
See, he'd gained the cock's legs when he'd taken that cock's life. It didn't last forever, only a few days, but it clued him into the transfer through death: the best trait of any living animal - speed, strength, cunning - could be Barrett's as long as that animal died by his hand.
It was a unique gift, an unprecedented power, and he'd almost blown it by running his mouth. Barrett had been trying to find a way to explain what had happened to the other boys at the home when Mason called him back to the shed.
It was time to prove himself, Mason had said. It was time to bring down a hog.
The beast was a grand old Mister. Fat and indolent. Formerly a stud, now waning in energy and prone to illness. Mason had decide it was time use the animal for its ultimate purpose.
Barrett listened to Mason's instructions, nodded as the caretaker pantomimed the act, but all the while kept his eyes locked with the massive pig's.
Those eyes, the pig's eyes, were fathomless. Deep and brown. You could get lost in them, and Barrett did. He imagined the pig had a voice; he heard it in his head.
"Use it wisely," the pig said.
Then, when Barrett brought the hammer down just so at the just right place at the back of the pig's head, a sudden surge of awareness washed over him like a waterfall.
It had been an exceedingly clever animal; that pig.
Barrett knew then that he had to keep his secret. He mustn't ever again show off around the other boys. He must be patient. Eventually he would be free from this orphanage and, once out, he would be loose in a world of animals with much more to offer than strong thighs and keen eyes.
You watch the telly and see the man who knows all about money. Three minutes with your fingers around his fat throat and that knowledge becomes yours. Here's a bloke with two gorgeous ladies; one on each arm. He whispers in their ears at turns and they laugh and hug him closer. A quick hammer blow to his head and now you have those whispered words in your own mouth. What's this? Some dandy with a guitar preening about a stage singing while the entire world falls at his feet in adoration and supplication. A quick blade across his neck and those fingers, that voice, are yours.
Clever and patient, was the pig. Use it wisely.
And so Barrett did; particularly the patience. That morning, for instance, with those geezers going on about him being a butcher. A quick assessment of the situation and Barrett knew he was in jeopardy; they were thinking of taking him off the job. At that point, Barrett had two choices - kill them both take their powers and escape, or shine them on and leave very soon on solid footing.
Well now what powers then? As far as Barrett could see the headmaster's best trait was being a mincing toad and whereas he wouldn't have minded taking Mason's expert craftsmanship, that certainly wasn't worth risking even more imprisonment than he'd already suffered at this Goddamned orphanage.
So he'd been clever. He'd said what they wanted to hear. And now he was back in the shed, ready to swing the hammer again.
Swing the hammer and see what happens.
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