The Onion Eaters (16 page)

Household pillows plopping into the courtyard. Voices shouting get them on to his horns. Toro boring into the white fluffiness. By hoof and horn ripping them asunder. Dismantling embroidered crests in a whirlwind of feathers. Some sucked up Toro’s nose. Bloodmourn ramrod stiff, cape held out. Toro bewildered by the floating whiteness. A throbbing organ dirge from the castle. Putlog gone from the audience. Everyone doing their bit. And a voice now inside the armour.

‘God fuck them and keep them down always.’

Bloodmourn running through a repertoire of passes.
Furling
jacket. Spinning umbrella. Now still. Waiting. The snow of feathers settling. A mazurka from the organ. Rose
waving
a red handkerchief. The Baron taking a swig from a flask. On this almighty day. A vine grown up a rake leaning against the wall. Start me out farming. In some peaceful little field. Dig over a sod. Pop in the onion seed. Get cows grazing. So the milk as Percival says can leap up at you out of the tall green grass and buttercups while you stand there with your mouth open and your teeth enjoying a bit of sunshine. He suggested as well I ought to marry. That great wine and good food add confidence to life and a good woman adds everything else. And would stop two wifeless chaps getting down on the same straw together of an
evening
and feeling around in the dark. Only natural to tug on anything that might come to hand.

Bloodmourn, his shirt tails fluttering in the breeze. Toro backing up a few hoof paces. Feathers blasting out his nose
holes. Ears twitching. Bloodmourn with chin raised turning to face Toro over a left shoulder. A stamp of his right foot. A flutter of coat. And comes the onslaught of rippling steel tendons of beef. Hoofs clattering over the stones. Six inmates should be enough to carry Bloodmourn to the cemetery. Choose a coffin to fit from the household supply.

Bloodmourn passing the horn high up across the breast. Shirt torn from his back. Motionless he stands, every inch a sportsman. Again Toro descending. Bloodmourn taking him round and round, closer and closer with the cape. The great beast hobbling down to its knees. Macfugger slowly taking cigar out of his mouth.

‘By jove man, that’s deft. Exquisite. Courageous.’

Bloodmourn smiling. Bowing. Toro rising befuddled,
wobbling
centre yard. Pushing his head into the black gleaming remains of the coach. Just to make sure it was there. Time for me to make for these half open doors. To get inside. And up on this stack of turf. While Toro’s standing staring, giant ribs heaving in and out. And blood dripping from Bloodmourn’s chest as he advances.

‘Tut tut, Toro.’

Toro backing up two paces. Great pink scrotum wagging between back legs. This matador advancing closer.
Tiptoeing
now over the horns. A finger pressing down on the curly flat surface between Toro’s eyes and giving him a prod on his moist nose. As the massive head slowly lowers. Bloodmourn dropping his cape, casting aside his umbrella. And raising his hand for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. I would like to dedicate this brave but confused bull to my host Mr Clementine. If someone will throw me a sword I will dispatch him.’

‘Impostor. Backslider.’

L K L shouting out of his metal casing. As he encounters a lonely area of wall. Punching his mailed fist against the grey blocks of granite. Rose sporting bald patches across her head throwing a hanky fluttering down. The clink of coins on the cobbles. Bloodmourn stepping back from this quietened beast. Picking up Rose’s red cloth and wiping
blood from his breast. To tie the fluttering rag around his throat. Standing baring a slender concave chest, nobbly shoulders and thin white arms. Macfugger leans out over the parapet.

‘I’ll fetch the proper blade to you my good man.’

Toro making wee wee. Big splash out of his big hose. Toro moving. Low slung balls trembling from his
undercarriage.
It did not take him long to reach Bloodmourn. At the height of his popularity. Attended now by gasps. At the overt staggering horror. Bloodmourn caught neatly mid arse mid horn. Lobbed upwards. Blocking a momentary ray of sunshine. And landing with a clatter of broken slates flat faced on the roof above me. Down which he slides. To thump into my mound of turf fallen out the door. The man called Bligh strutting obesely into the arena, bellowing at the crumpled Bloodmourn.

‘For the love of God man the least you should do is let the picadors weaken the throwing muscle with a few pikes before you try a cup der grace.’

Toro pausing. Head swinging. Moaning out low tremorous growls. Bligh heading for an open shed. Nips in and out again with a hay fork. Toro surveying the ring. As this new nuisance approaches menacing two rusty prongs, sleeves rolled up and a sneer across the face.

‘Now how would you like this fork a foot deep in your carcass.’

Toro stretching out legs and twisting his neck back to lick a rear haunch. Bligh advancing. Macfugger in riding breeches and boots at the kitchen entrance with a sword. Bloodmourn rising unsteadily on the turf pile. A dirge thundering from the organ deep inside the castle. Putlog must be watching through a periscope. Toro’s tail standing out stiffly. A plop plop on the cobbles from his rear. The horned head lowering. Bligh throwing the fork. Hitting Toro mid shoulder.

‘That’ll teach you.’

The beast rearing up with a roar. Bligh crouching, bulging legs astride and arms held out. Hay fork shaken with a shrug from Toro’s shoulder. As he gathers his thousands of
muscles together and commences them towards Bligh. Who abandons the wrestlers stance, turns and runs, fists
churning
and knees pumping high. Lickety split over the stones. Toro gaining. Breathing down on the Bligh arse bouncing ahead. Now caught and elevated between Toro’s long white lashed brown eyes.

Bligh aloft travelling towards the rust coloured kitchen door just closing. As this pair of combatants come hurtling towards it. Laughter erupting inside. The impact of Bligh shuddering through the castle. A wasp’s nest falls from under the eaves. Toro rounding on Macfugger who dips a sword tip into Toro’s hide. Bligh struggling up holding his head between hands. Bellowing as he slowly turns in a circle of rage.

‘Who did that. Closed that door. Could have killed me. I’ll find out. If it takes till I’m lying waiting for him in heaven he’ll have the shit kicked out of him soon as he strolls in the gates.’

Macfugger backing nimbly away poking his sword at Toro’s nose. Bligh beating his fists against the kitchen door. L K L half sitting propped against the well pump. Sunlight bright. A lark rising singing into the sky. On the rampart a black hunting hat, Lady Macfugger yellow gloved peering down into the arena. Wind blowing back her long hair. Her finely knuckled hands when she poured tea. Dreamt of her smiling. Taking off her coat. The pin out of her silk white scarf at her throat. Her shirt off. Her lips and teeth coming near me. Her breasts. Her belly. Her husband. Is out there. Making a declaration to the audience.

‘You chaps simply don’t have the poise for this kind of thing. Must keep high on the toes. Belly tucked in. Balls too. Easy Toro. Ha Toro. Of course you ruddy must make sure he knows he’s dominated.’

Macfugger zigzagging backwards. Toro’s snarls of high pitched rage. The beast’s beige nose lowered to the cobbles hooking left and right pricked by Nails’ sword point. Lady Macfugger blowing her nose with a white hanky. We met in my dream by accident at a lonely airport. She stepped out of a small yellow airplane on the pale green grass.
Strode up to me as I stood in a draughty shed. She said, I think we have something to talk about. At an inn in a brightly coloured suit she ordered lunch. Of asparagus,
lobster,
salad, hock, raspberries and cream. Across a lawn and roadway there was a row of clipped round poplar trees lining entrance gates to a castle with turrets peeking up behind greenery. After lunch her hand touched mine as we went down the flower carpeted stairs. To a dark back bar of the hotel. My heart thumping we sat on stools sipping port. She ordered four one after the other. Her teeth in the darkness. Gently slapping her riding crop against her thigh. Under the black of her jacket the white of her shirt and lace of an undergarment, her breasts. She said I would enjoy to get to know you better, I like your mind. I smiled she smiled. Her husband out there now where he might get killed. She said she liked men to assert themselves. My God Macfugger is cornered. Toro backing him up against the bars of a cellar window.

Erconwald from a rampart lowering a small black ball suspended from the end of a long bamboo pole. Holding it swaying between Macfugger and Toro. The beast lifting it’s head sniffing, opening it’s sneering mouth and breathing in and out between its teeth and nosing after the bobbing sphere. As Macfugger looks up the castle wall.

‘My God, damn sporting of you to save my life like that.’

Toro mute and lightly lacerated. His massive waddling walk as he follows Erconwald descending from the
battlements.
Out the yard gates beneath the archway and down the bramble path. Beyond somewhere to calm pastures. Charnel Castle inhabitants chewing the last of lunch
watching
after this magic display. Nails snatched from death by the hole making horns. Lady Macfugger might have
become
a widow. Playful and free.

Southwestwards from the octagonal room I watched on clear days the distant dark cycling dot of the postman approaching on the road. In sight on the hills, out of sight down dales. Spring bringing faint green to the wind stunted hawthorne trees. Sit over my tray of breakfast of coffee brewed from beans left each morning by the train at the crossroads. Dispatched with six loaves of bread and
succulent
barmbracks from an oriental café back in the capital. And charged by Percival to my staggering account.

Midmorning’s activity stirred in the castle corridors with inhabitants groping in search of cigarettes. Franz raged back and forth across the great hall for two hours when Charlene threw away his jam jar of butts carefully collected from ash trays and grates from which he rolled new cigarettes of narcotic richness. Puffed while Erconwald awaited shipment of their usual asiatic herb. Charlene standing laughing as she told me the tale.

‘Sir he has the holy pictures gone and charts tacked up with writings and scribblings all over the walls. Gauges you wouldn’t know what they were to measure and ould lumps of rocks and hammers. When I found the jars of fag ends for decency’s sake I got rid of them. They had a smell that would knock you over. He’s in bed there of a morning and you couldn’t see him for the smoke with big maps propped up on his knees. I had to tell him what he could do with himself when he suggested a familiarity.’

Mrs L K L’s concussion received fainting upon the
ramparts
gave her attacks of nightmare. During one of which she recovered sufficiently to cover her husband’s arse with weals from a malacca cane. But now lain for weeks abed corresponding with her solicitors. Who in turn addressed
me concerning the spiritual disfigurement and moral maim resulting from her fall. Each morning waiting through the desperation. The slow approach of letters heading across the countryside. Agony creeping up the bowel. Just as spring is bringing breezes balmy.

And one noontime a blue and red blanket over my lap and legs facing the fire as I nibbled cold lobster caught by Percival and sat uneasily over a castle account book, when he handed me a brown envelope from which I took a piece of wrapping paper scrawled with black crayon.

‘Now sir I wouldn’t want to be impertinent but there’s alarm all over your face.’

‘This letter Percival.’

‘Let us have a scrutiny. Ah now. What’s this. It do be a touch of the poison pen. There’s one writing in the area. Wellwisher is it. In the name of the Holy Purity is it. Take no notice sir. Miss Ovary and Charlene are ladies of the highest credentials. But now there is a lout loose beyond of the name of Padrick, to whom I’d say the P.S. refers. Saw him crouched not a minute ago under the willows near the cloisters there by the stream. In between the weeds he is waiting to take a slice off you with a hook. Carve up his granny by moonlight he would. Kick a beast to death. Or laugh shoving a crowbar in the eye of a wren. He keeps in trim smashing butterflies with a sledge. Didn’t he drive a team of horses up on an altar of a church smashing every type and shape of ecclesiastical object in sight. Ah but God sir he’s afraid of dogs. Sure you get one ankle high that
would make him run for his life. And he’s an awful man for the women. Now sir I wouldn’t mention this save for the airing of it in the letter from the wellwisher. But it’s a fact that if he can’t have a ewe or a heifer he’ll have at a chicken. Sure everyone knows it for miles around. Now if you’ve a second I could show him to you in the flesh.’

Down through stairwells and out a back passage to the cloisters. Percival leading a way through clumps of brambles and over black watery earth sprouting dock and nettles. That’s Clarence’s head bobbing high up along the stone wall. And dancing from tree to tree through the orchard. A misty rain falling. Glistening moistures on leaves and grass. Puffy light clouds cruising in from sea.

‘We should be in luck sir. If Padrick’s about Clarence is never far away. Adding I’d say first hand to his sexual knowledge.’

Percival staying Clementine on the arm. A little incline and grassy mound surrounded by hawthorne, brambles and fuchsia. The sound of water. The boulder strewn brook. Percival crouching low beckoning. Pointing with a finger. A man big eared and dark haired leaning against a birch tree. Bushy brows over small glittering dark eyes. Sound of a female voice. Percival touching my arm.

‘Ah God sir I never thought I’d live to see this day. That’s Imelda. Poor unfortunate innocence. Having to do with the scurrilous likes of that impudence. Trespassing right into the castle. Be extra quiet now. Just over here we can get a good look without being seen or there’d be wild ructions and I’d be forced to give your man there a taste of me shod foot.’

Imelda seated on a rock. Hob nailed boots peeking from under a long brown skirt. Percival and Clementine crouched hushed. Padrick legs crossed a long stalk of grass curving down from his smiling mouth. Battered hat pushed back on his head. A crescent of whiteness below his black hair above a weather tanned face. Imelda wrapped in a black shawl, teeth flashing as she giggled. Padrick pursing lips and frowning.

‘Ah now Imelda sure you know what a revelation is.’

‘I do.’

‘And is it now you think I can’t give you one.’

‘That’s what I think. Sure that’s God’s business.’

‘Ah then suppose now instead of a revelation we call it a bit of hocus pocus.’

‘All tall talk.’

‘I will make an unveiling to you Imelda that you’ve never seen the likes of before. I have a tool upon me as can do tricks.’

‘Sure I know them fake tricks you see at the fair.’

‘Ah but it is a tool put upon me by the holy ghost.’

‘Sure what have the likes of you Padrick got to show me that the holy ghost wouldn’t show me if I asked in me prayers.’

‘Praying would get you no where now I’m telling you to see the likes of this thing on me as can change it’s size.’

‘Go on.’

‘Tis true enough.’

‘More of your tall stories while the damp’s coming up through me from this rock.’

‘Wait till I show you now. Look away out there at the willow.’

Imelda turning her head away. Her reddened cheeks and long black hair. Padrick unbuttoning his trousers. Putting in a big hand and taking out a long rigid white penis. A squawk of rooks flying low overhead and chatter of a pheasant away in the bush. Percival adjusting his monocle and staying Clementine on the arm.

Imelda frowning. Staring back at Padrick hands on hips his tool twitching up and down. Sudden sunlight flashing pale across the grass.

‘What’s that thing atall coming out of you there.’

‘This is the thing Imelda as can do tricks and change its size.’

‘Is it.’

‘It is.’

‘I am waiting then.’

‘It has got big now like this from being very small.’

‘You could tell me next now if I’d listen that you could grow the likes of that out of your ears.’

‘I haven’t shown it to you soon enough.’

‘You’re showing it to me now, isn’t that soon enough and where now are you changing the size. It looks the same size to me for the last minute.’

‘Put your hand there to it now for awhile and then it will change its size.’

‘Why would I put my hand to it, weren’t you changing its size yourself.’

‘Have you ever seen one of these before me Imelda.’

‘I have not.’

‘Then it is news to you.’

‘Sure it’s not news to me at all. What news would it be if I saw a pole sticking out of a hay cock.’

‘I can make it spit.’

‘Can you now. And maybe you can make it say the rosary too.’

‘Mind now don’t mention religion.’

‘Where’s its tricks. I’ve got to be back inside the kitchen or they’ll wonder where I’m gone.’

‘Ah now Imelda come here. Give it a pet. Coax it along and it will be spitting a white salty milk.’

‘What would I be wanting to pet it for. Can’t you make it spit. Wasn’t it you who said it could do tricks and me watching. It’s the same size now as it was when it was first staring at me.’

‘Sure as God will strike me dead if you give it a little pull like as you would a cow’s teat and there will come milk out of it.’

‘Next you will ask me to pull the handle of a shovel to get gold.’

‘Here now come closer. A bit more. So’s you can see the little shawl it’s got. Pulled over its head like a glove. Pull the shawl back like so and there now it is with its little pink head smooth as an eyeball. I could put it into you.’

‘Where would you be putting it into me. What kind of talk is that. Where would I have a thing like that put into me.’

‘Ah Imelda you have seven holes on you.’

‘And haven’t you got eight then yourself counting the one the holy ghost made in the top of your head to take your brains out.’

‘Put your hand to it.’

‘Why should I now. Is that all the trick you can show me.’

Percival holding his finger across his lips for silence. Pulling Clementine back down as he tries to stand up. Moisture drops dripping from leaves and branches. Padrick with thumbs stuck under armpits swaggering forward tool wagging. A donkey braying. Across barren bog lands and muddy ditches. Imelda reaching out giggling touching the tip end of Padrick’s tool.

‘It’s rubber is it.’

‘The nature is confidential till you give this magician a chance and grab holt with a wrap around of your fingers there.’

‘It has veins.’

‘Hair at the roots as well. Take a good solid grip of it there now.’

‘How did you get that on you like the feel of warm flesh and blood.’

‘It would fool you wouldn’t it.’

‘Next you’ll be asking me to put a bit of salt on it and have it for me dinner.’

‘It’d do you no harm nicely nestled now between a couple of spuds. Would you eat it with salt Imelda. Would you be hungry enough to do that now. It’s a long time till tea. Go on there now. That’s your man. Pull away now.’

‘It’s a funny enough yoke all right. You’re not codding me now, will it spit.’

‘Will it spit. Ah God. Will it spit. The faster you pull there now the faster it will spit.’

‘Why don’t you pull.’

‘It wouldn’t be the same as a fair hand such as you’ve got nicely at it. Leaving me free to give full heed to the trick. Ah now. God. Pull. There. Pull. The trick is coming. Ah God Imelda don’t let go.’

‘It’s spitting. Messy white stuff.’

‘Keep holt.’

‘I will not. Sure it smells of something from down there by the sea.’

‘O bejabbers. Bejabbers.’

‘What’s wrong with you going on like you were fainting in a fit.’

‘Ah God Imelda to do a trick like that takes a lot of strength. I’m dizzy with it. Same as a man leaving you tottering after giving you a blow of a hammer in the back of the kneecaps.’

‘I think you’re a mental case. I’ve got some of it on me shawl.’

‘You’ll not breathe a word of the trick to a living soul now will you Imelda.’

‘Sure if it was so special wouldn’t the likes of a layabout like you be showing off in a circus for prize money.’

‘Now if I tell you the trick was revealed to me by the holy ghost appearing from right there up out of the mound. He said by God keep it to yourself Padrick. He was a fine build of a feller. In a vision of disturbing beauty.’

‘That was no vision I was pulling and it was no holy water coming out of it either.’

‘O God you’ll have me ruined. Ruined.’

‘Will you stop dancing now like you were barefoot in purgatory. What’s wrong with you. And the size of your trick has shrunk.’