Slaughter

"I want to talk to you," Rick said, and he slowly stood up from his chair, "one of the chickens is sick."

Everyone was quiet. The animals were our family.

The early morning sunlight washed over the dining room table. Breakfast plates were getting cold as we sat staring into Rick's solemn face.

Honey, the young girl from the Bay Area stared. Tyrone from Brooklyn stared and chewed a last bite of banana. Sally and Mac, the owners of the farm, they stared but tried not to stare. And lastly there was myself, new to the farm, fresh from down South in the city, took the bus up last week to start the summer job -- I stared because I didn't know what else to do.

Rick, the bearer of sad news was the previous owner of the farm. He sold it to Sally and Mac not long ago. He was ushering in the property for Sally and Mac, showing them the ropes of the farm before fully handing it over and moving on with his life. Farms - just like the creatures that populate it - are living organisms, they need to be handled with care and expertise.

Rick spoke again through the silence, his old voice scratching and not yet fully lubricated by daybreak coffee, "We will have to slaughter her tomorrow. Can't let a sick chicken run around. Could infect the other chickens. And that's...bad."

Still quiet. Eyes wide.

The breakfasts getting colder. The oatmeal turning to concrete in my bowl. Eggs going gelatinous. Cream creating films on top of coffees.

"Slaughter?" Sally said, holding her husband Mac's elbow, "The most we've done with the animals are take the eggs from the chickens and the milk from the goats."

I saw everyone's faces flinch at the word 'slaughter'. I felt like an outsider in a way. I hadn't been on the farm long enough to really know everybody's personal intricacies and psychology. I couldn't find any kind of hierarchy, although one thing was for sure, if anybody needed to know how to do something, Rick was the one to ask.

"How do we do it?" Tyrone said, finally swallowing the banana.

"Well...we slit its throat," Rick answered calmly.

"Slit its throat???" Honey asked, leaning forward, her blue eyes big and shaky.

I didn't really understand the nervousness that exuded from everybody. Was it nervousness? Was it eagerness? This was a farm after all. Isn't slaughter part of the game?

Is picking blueberries different than slitting a chicken's throat? Is ripping a horse radish up and out of thick soil different than slitting a chicken's throat? Of course it's different, but isn't it all part of the game?

"Who would like to do it?" Rick asked.

Quiet again. Everybody. Quiet.

The sunlight from outside moved across the table. The dew frost on the windows melting, turning into liquid and crawling down the windows.

I could see birds landing in the distance. Sunflowers swaying. I could see the dogs leaping outside, sprinting across the field. I could see the onion flower fence we put up sectioning off the lettuces when I first arrived last week.

Other than that it was quiet. Sunlight and dew frost and bird symphonies and quiet.

Nobody answered after a time, Rick continued, "Come on now, I've slaughtered enough chickens in my day and I don't really feel like doing it."

Then, to my surprise, hands begun to be raised. Tyrone raised his hand. Sally and Mac raised their hands.

The only hands not raised belonged to Honey and I. Honey was obviously not killing a chicken - she was a vegan from Berkeley. And as for me, I hardly knew how to milk a goat, let alone slaughter a chicken. Maybe in the future, but not right now.

The hands stayed raised. I guess they were more eager than nervous.

Rick smiled, not a smile of any sort of glee but more of appreciation. He was happy to not have to play the executioner one more time.

Rick was old. I looked at his hands. The sunlight now danced across his knuckles. They were gnarled. He had definitely seen heavy farm road and heavy farm slaughter. He had definitely paid his dues.

"I will see you all tomorrow," Rick said, forgetting breakfast, except pouring more hot coffee into his cup, "I will see you all tomorrow," he echoed, "for the slaughter."

____

We stepped inside the old barn. Twilight now. Hard days work in our shadows. Sweat on our faces and dirt in our hair.

The chickens lived there. Lots of them. Big chickens and little chickens and the rooster. The rooster was cranky and everybody stayed away from him.

Rick was already there. He had a long silver blade in his hand. He was sharpening it with a stone hooked up to a table. It made a particular sound as he sharpened. Ominous twang.

Tyrone from Brooklyn stared at the blade and ate some peanut butter. Honey stared with big blue eyes, wet near tears. Sally and Mac stared but tried to look prepared.

In Rick's other hand was the chicken. He held it upside down by its feet. The chicken was flailing when we walked in but it had now stopped and merely jolted from time to time.

Light shined through the roof of the barn. Purple rays shined through clouds and created shafts of green through the Douglas Fir trees. Purple. Green. Playing on our faces.

I could hear the creek in the distance. Soft water. The crayfish sleeping.

The other chickens circled around our feet pecking the floor for scraps, oblivious to their kin's fate.

"Which one of you wanted to do this?" Rick asked, holding out the blade.

Honey and I looked at the other people. They were the ones that raised their hands. They wanted to do it.

Tyrone from Brooklyn spoke up, "How do we slaughter it again?"

Honey shuddered, "Ugh, I hate that word."

That word. I thought about that word: Slaughter. It's a vicious word. Not the easiest to swallow.

On farms you use different words. Different than city words. On farms the word 'slaughter' is used. In the city we don't use the word 'slaughter', except maybe in some action movie or crime story. On farms the word 'slaughter' is normal. It is what it is.

Slaughter and harvest. Harvest is the effect of slaughter. The cause is slaughter and the effect is harvest.

"We slaughter then we harvest," Rick said.

"Harvest?" Tyrone asked, swallowing peanut butter.

"The chicken may be sick but we can still eat it. I don't ever like things to go to waste on the farm," Rick said, then, holding it out, the slaughter instrument, shining, purple, green, silver, "who wants the blade?"

Everyone looked at one another.

Nobody stepped forward.

Quiet. Again. Very quiet. The only sound was our collective breathing and soft creek water below down the hill.

I was surprised. I thought they all wanted to slaughter the chicken. They all raised their hands high. What happened?

Push came to shove. Life came to death.

It is what it is.

And it wasn't so easy.

We could see the chicken's eyes. We could feel the chicken's energy. We breathed and watched the chicken held tightly yet conscientously in Rick's hand.

I thought of the city in that moment. I thought of how much meat we eat in the city. How much we don't see in the city. We never see this in the city. In the same way we don't use the word 'slaughter' in the city we also never see this. We never really kill in the city. Someone else does that for us.

But not here.

This is it.

Push came to shove. Life came to death.

It is what it is. And it wasn't so easy.

"Well?" Rick asked. Silence. Again, "Well?" And he held the long blade out. I could sense he knew the score. He knew nobody wanted to really do it.

Then Mac slowly stepped forward. Sally let go of his elbow as he did. He was the new owner of the farm so it seemed like it was only right.

"I guess I will..." Mac said trepidatiously.

"You can't guess you gotta do. If you guess it will be more painful for the chicken," Rick declared.

"Ok. I will. I won't guess," Mac said, and he stood next to Rick. He took the blade.

Rick grabbed a little silver bowl and held it in front of him underneath the chicken's neck, "for draining the blood," Rick said.

Everyone watched.

Quiet.

Push came to shove.

Life came to death.

The people had raised their hands high before this moment. But when it came time they weren't so sure.

It is what it is.

Mac gestured to Rick as to how he was supposed to hold the blade. Rick showed him.

Up like that. Tight like that. Don't guess. Do.

The chicken flailed. It seemed to know.

I watched. We don't do this in the city.

No.

We don't.

Slaughter. Harvest.

Mac pressed the blade up to the chicken's neck.

"Now slice," Rick ordered, "Slice hard and true."

Mac nodded and he sliced hard and true. The chicken bounced and flailed and Rick expertly held it tight.

Blood poured.

Down.

Floating.

Blood poured.

Down.

The chicken flailed.

The bowl filled with the bright red ink.

The other chickens seemingly totally oblivious of their kin.

Honey watched and cried softly out of her blue eyes. Everyone else was quiet. Eyes open.

Blood poured.

Rick's face grimaced. Mac tightened his face and dropped the red blade on the hay floor. He sliced hard and true all the way.

I held my neck. I held my neck with my hand for the chicken. I imagined my neck. I imagined. Hard and true through my neck.

The chicken slowed down. Blood poured heavily and the little silver bowl was now full.

The chicken stopped. Its soul or its energy or its life force or its vibration left. Down. Left to somewhere else.

Rick's hand loosened up on the chicken's feet, "I hate having to do that," he said.

We watched. Everyone quiet.

Light pouring in. No more blood.

Slaughter. Harvest. Push. Shove. The cause. The effect.

Life came to death.

We don't do this in the city.

Very quiet. The creek down below softly flowing. What color is that creek?

Life came to death.

We don't do this in the city.

The farm is different.

Slaughter. Harvest.

Hard and true.

Slice hard and true.

The chicken was silent. We were silent.

We slowly exited the old barn.