Samuel reached inside his jacket and got the knife.
“It’s okay,” he said softly as he straddled the deer’s torso, making sure to fully secure him underneath his legs. The buck’s muscles twitched, but the creature could do nothing. How had the girl felt when she’d been caught in the bear trap, iron teeth snapping into her leg? Like the buck? Did she think she’d be free? Somehow, he couldn’t picture her as a deer. She was more like a scrappy wolf cub.
Or a demon.
Most of his life, Samuel never questioned the teachings of Azhuel. He knew the doctrine firmly, the scriptural explanations of creation through the roots. For a long time, it made sense to him. Life had to come from something, he supposed. But did it mean that Azhuel was really Azhuel, or that the roots were real, or that prayer actually worked, or that there was such a thing as demons? He was beginning to have his doubts. How come every time he prayed, he heard nothing? Was there something wrong with him? He knew he’d make a horrid cleric.
The buck gave one last effort to escape, but it failed to get its hoof on the ground. Samuel patted its shaking torso.
“It’s okay,” he reassured.
Samuel hated this part, but he was so hungry for red meat. Fresh meat. He aligned the blade over the buck’s neck, closed his eyes tight, and slit the animal’s throat. The buck dropped, convulsing as warm blood came rushing out. Samuel waited a bit before opening his eyes, making sure it was over. He cleaned the blade with snow.
“Thank you.”
Samuel was seven the first time he killed his own deer. He’d watched his father put down ensnared animals many times before, but when it was his turn to cut the creature’s throat, he forgot all the instructions. His slice was crooked and shallow, and he missed the artery. He cried after that, and his father had to come over and do it right. Samuel was humiliated. Even as his bastard, Samuel continually felt like a disappointment to his father. He wouldn’t only make a poor cleric, but a poor man. He was weak, his branch-like arms and legs too dainty to overpower much of anything, and he cried way more than a boy should. He wanted to be strong, to be resilient and do whatever was necessary to survive, but did he have it in him? It was one thing for him to watch his father put a deer down, and another when he was the one holding the knife.
I know it’s hard, his father had told him. But this is something that one day you’ll have to do on your own. A man must learn to provide for himself in this world. The scriptures tell us this.
I’m sorry.
This animal is a gift. We honor it with our eating, and we honor it by returning its body to the roots.
But it’s in pain.
I know. His father had wiped his blade across the snow, cleaning off the blood. Everything on earth is subject to pain, including us. Azhuel has given man dominion over the beasts, which makes us stewards of this world. We should strive to live in harmony with the living, no matter their size or disposition. But humans need meat. This is why you must learn to put a trapped animal down. Sometimes, a quick death is the most merciful thing to give. We thank the creature for the nourishment it will provide us, and we thank the roots. It is Azhuel’s gift to us. We are but dirt. To dirt we return.
We are all dirt. The idea brought Samuel no comfort.
Samuel said a prayer of thanks, mostly out of habit. The blackberry bush was in full bloom. He popped more berries into his mouth before turning back to the dead buck. It would be hard work dragging the deer back to the cabin all on his own, but he couldn’t leave it unguarded. Not after he’d spilled all that blood. With his luck, the wolves would pick up the scent and have picked it clean before he could return with his father.
He decided to field dress the kill. He cut into the buck’s body cavity and scooped out the organs, tossing the steaming entrails away. But he made sure to save the heart and liver. The liver was his father’s favorite part. He grabbed the rope from the snare and undid the knots. For once in his life, he hoped he was strong enough to do this on his own.
Samuel dumped the heart and liver into the sink. He wiped his damp glasses, his breathing heavy, arms shaking. He took off his jacket and ran his hands through his shaggy hair, feeling the sweat. His father was perched by the fireplace, lost in the scriptures and his scribbled notes.
“Father?”
His father kept his sight on the holy words, mumbling to himself as he jotted down more words. The circles underneath his father’s eyes had grown darker. The mayor had given him a week to thoroughly research the scriptures, learning all he could about the dark spirits and their powers of manifestation. He would then need to report every detail he could gather on demons directly to the mayor, and together, they would devise a plan to commune with the girl.
“What is it?” his father asked.
“We caught a deer with the ground snare. I put him down.”
“Get the rope,” his father said levelly. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
“No need.” Samuel motioned to the window. “It’s in the shed. I couldn’t mount it, my arms are dead, but I brought him here.”
His father’s response was delayed. “By yourself? How big?”
As much physical labor as he did on a daily basis, Samuel somehow managed to remain weak. Truth be told, he didn’t think he’d really be able to pull it off on his own.
“Three points.”
“That’s impressive,” his father said with a yawn. He rose, carefully placing the scriptures on the desk. “Did you say a prayer?”
“Yes,” Samuel murmured. He guzzled down a cup of water. He wished adulthood was the only thing he would grow into. In a few months, he knew he’d be standing before the high council to take his oath of servitude. In the presence of the seven high-ranking clerics, known as bishops, Samuel would have to adequately explain and defend the doctrines of their faith. Afterward, when the blood was shed and the prayers given, he would have black ink needled into his right arm.
Samuel retrieved a fresh pan as his father diced the liver.
“Did you find anything new?”
His father sliced the meat rhythmically. “There isn’t much to gather. So much is open to theological speculation. I know of Azhuel and His goodness. I know of the truth that can be found in this life and the next. I know of darkness as well, but I don’t care to know more of it.”
Samuel held out the pan as his father tossed in the cut pieces, the juices lathering. They’d not once spoken about the girl in the jailhouse, and since then it was nearly all he thought about. Her thick red hair, her chains, her missing arm, her bloodstained skin, her near-glowing eyes.
“Is she a demon?” Samuel asked. “I mean, do you think she’s a demon?”
His father wiped his forehead, palming the edge of the counter.
“I don’t know. Demons do not have material bodies. But that child? She’s not like anything I’ve seen before. I don’t know what she is.”
“What do you think happened to her arm?”
“I don’t know.”
Samuel looked to his feet. “What will the mayor do to her?”