Prologue
Seinn dhom an duan,
mun tè a chaidh air thìr,
saoil am bu mise i.
Oiteag is stuagh, atadh is cuan,
beanntan an uisge is na grèine.
Gach nì a bha dhom math,
gach nì a bha gun smàl,
gach nì a bha gu math,
anis air falbh bhuam .
Rabbits don’t have vocal cords. But they still scream when they are butchered.
Like every animal does.
Sorcha found out on her first hare hunt. Sitting crouched behind some bramble with her two friends, Mary and Johnny, they waited. It was still chilled from the morning dew. In her position, mud had dampened her skirt through planted knees. With each exhale, puffs on crystallins filled their space. Mary consistently shifted in her shawl.
“Stop the squirmin’,” Johnny mumbled, “You be makin’ too much noise.”
“Aren’t ye cold?”
“O’ course I am. But bare wit’ it.”
“C’mon Under ‘ere," Sorcha moved to allow access to warmth came from her earasaid. The old wool was too big to be worn as a proper garment but Sorcha always liked the warmth it provided.
“Ay, go raibh maith agat. Feels good,” Mary wriggled into place, “A bit scratchy and heavy. But warm.”
“Ain’t dat just like a Scott?”
“Bein’ original now, Murphy? Mor ya. At least I-”
Johnny held a hand for silence.
A snap of a twig could be heard to the south. A gray tuff hopped out from the tall grass. Mary’s hands covered her mouth to stifle her breathing. The rabbit, coinín by the locals, was sniffing at the radish now laying in the loop. The loop that was connected to a rope held firm in Johnny's grip.
Sorcha saw his lips move, mouthing out, “C’mon. C’mon. Little closer…”
Sorcha’s eyes fixated on coinín. Everything about it was twitchy; nose to whiskers and flickered ears. All motion ceased when locking target on the radish. Poor things looked hungry. All of them were hungry. Maybe that’s why Sorcha didn’t feel remorse as she should.
Hunger makes people selfish and stupid. Same must be true for animals. Because if the coinín had been only a bit more cautious, it would have seen the trap for what it was. Ameteur and hasty.
But it didn’t. The rope tightened around the legs and sprung right up into the air. The weight caused the creature to bob for a minute then twist in its restraints.
“It..it worked,” Mary gasped, “Truely Worked.”
“It did- O’ course it worked!” Johnny, “Me ol’ man ‘unted wolves in ‘is day.”
“Wolves ‘ave been gone far hundreds o’ years. We learned in class a week ago. Paid attention? You would, ay. ”
Johnny glared at Sorcha, “Can’t a b’y have ‘is moment? Happy after doing a successful catch?”
Sorcha shrugged, picking the mud outta her skirt, “Aye. Only took three tries.”
“No one asked yor’ opinion.”
“Not an opinion. Pure true,” Sorcha continued her stretch while Mary slipped away and held Johnny back from giving her a good smack. Even if it may have been well deserved.
“Well, not anymore,” Johnny pulled out his hunting knife. He had to use two hands to hold the steel still, “I’m goin’ to gut it like iasc .”
“You gut iasc now ?”
“Christ Almighty, would ye shut it, O’Hare! You aren’t ” Johnny whirled to the coinín . Black eyes swerved between the three of them, “Stand back, colleens. This is a man’s job.”
Johnny stepped forward and gripped its feet. It flailed in response, “Quit it, little guy. It’ll be over in a minute. After I figure out where…where to…”
Sorcha rolled her eyes.
Like his previous actions, he was all talk. Johnny couldn’t kill it. His family never killed shited. They were healers. Sorcha had nothing against healers but Johnny’s no good knowing when to houl his whisht at the best of times.
Mary, on the over side, was sound.
“ Coinín’s spinning too much,” Mary suggested, “Let’s hold it still.”
They cut just about the knot holding it’s feet then place the creature on the ground. Sorcha could feel it’s heart jack away like mad and it continued to flail like mad. Sorcha eyed up at Johnny and waited. For a minute. Supper was needed, “Need to switch out, b’y?”
“No!” His voice cracked, then coughed, “No. Hold it better.”
They did and Johnny did hit. But not fatal. Poor aim caused the knife to miss the throat and hit the back of the neck. The creature’s shriek was so sudden and deafening, Sorcha and Mary almost lost grip. Johnny lost his nerve.
“ Tá brón orm !” Johnny cried, “ Tá brón orm , coinín beag! Tá a fhios agam go gortaíonn sé. We have to. ”
Johnny looked like he was going to pass out. Sorcha knew finishing was on her. She didn’t really want to but it needed to be done. Sorcha knew how to get it out of its misery, “Johnny,” She wasn’t asked, hand outreached, “Hand it here.”
Sorcha took the knife from fumble fingers and let her earasaid drop from her shoulders. No sense getting it messy.
The knife was too heavy and Sorcha wished she wasn’t so clumsy. She pulled the hare’s ears back and covered it’s face. A small mercy. Michael had shown her once where the artery was. Instead of striking, she sliced it. Another scream and frantic movements but still soon enough. Dead.
Sorcha had tried to make it clean but deaths were always messy. Very messy. Mary looked sick and Johnny was still crying, “It was screaming!” he stepped back, “Pa said nothing about screaming. A coinín can’t scream.”
Mary was the one to wrap their friend in a hug. Sorcha stood to the side, not the best at comfort, “All animals scream at the end.” But she kept that to herself.
This became more true than Sorcha would know as a youth. Though thankfully not for many a year. For now, the only concern was supper. Best leave the skinning to her brothers.