Swine

***

Light cutting across the courtyard

Squeamish

My mother went back inside. I held my hand out to Uncle Roland, who gave it a brief shake. His grip was limp and cold. He never took his eyes off the hog on top of the slaughtering table.

If she found his actions so objectionable, then why did she stand around without saying a word? Or was it that things had suddenly changed?

Swine

My Uncle Roland possessed a cruel streak that frightened me. Of the nine children that made up my mother's family, Roland was second from the youngest. According to my mother, he'd always been in trouble. Always. Just couldn't keep clear of it. A few years ago, long after this incident, he intentionally veered his vehicle out of the westbound lane of Highway 50 and smashed it head-on into an oncoming car. Fortunately, no one died. When asked why he would do such a stupid thing, Uncle Roland simply stated that he wanted to die.

Even when I was still a boy, the way Uncle Roland did things frightened me.

Like the day he slaughtered the hog.

It was early afternoon. We children had clustered on the dusty road outside of the Grandfather's fenced courtyard to watch two men from the wet market haul the celebratory hog to the grandfather's house. The hog was strung up by its feet and carried on a narrow bamboo rod on the shoulders of the two men.

All of us children, me and my cousins and siblings, cleared a path for the two men, allowing them to march through the swung-open iron gate. Then we scurried behind in our bare feet, following the two men cross the concrete courtyard. They went along the moss-covered pathway at the side of the house, and ended up in the Grandfather's huge back yard. Once past the roasting pit that has been lined with banana leaves, the men hefted the hog onto the rusted surface of a steel slaughtering table.

The hog was medium-sized. A male with stiff gray bristles covering its pinkish skin. Feet bound with hairy rope, it lay sidelong on the table. When we crowded close, I could see the hog's bulging eyes darting side-to-side in their wide orbits.

Uncle Roland backed us kids away. He stomped the concrete to scatter the bandy-legged chickens that roamed the yard. He pushed his shirt sleeves up, exposing the scars on his forearms, and slipped the cleaver out from under the slaughtering table. Smiling, Uncle Roland began to pass the blade back and forth over a leather strop.

The hog's eyes tracked the movement of the cleaver like a house gecko tracks a fly. To test the sharpness of the blade, Uncle Roland dragged the tip of his finger over it. A drop of blood bubbled up. He grinned and sliced the air in front of the hog with the cleaver.

The sunlight bouncing off the steel spoked the surrounding air like sparkling night stars and I was momentarily blinded.

I had never witnessed a hog being slaughtered. Although I didn't know if it stemmed from fear or excitement, gooseflesh rose on my arms and on the nape of my neck.

Still grinning, Uncle Roland told us to watch the hog cry.

Slowly, he moved the cleaver so that the broad side of the blade traveled close to the hog's eyes. When it spotted its own horrified reflection swelling on the steel surface of the blade, the hog, who hadn't yet been touched, began to scream painfully loud, the noise it made reminded me of the trumpeting of elephants.

Screamed. The hog had screamed. Not squealed. Not grunted. But screamed like my little sister screamed whenever she was inside a hospital and a smiling doctor or nurse approached carrying a needle.

Laughing now, Uncle Roland prodded the hog with the tip of the cleaver to make it squeal louder. Sweat formed on my temples, then dripped down the side of my face. The Cousins laughed, but I was too busy trying to slow the quickening thumps in my chest to laugh with them.

Uncle Roland told us all to back away, back away. Give him room to slit the hog's throat. He swung the cleaver, slicing the air in front of him to demonstrate.

Uncle Roland stepped toward the hog with his raised, tightly gripped cleaver.

I turned my head away just as the hog screamed again. This time, though, the scream was nothing like the scream my sister made when she caught sight of the doctor coming. It was more like the horrified screams that escapeed my sister's throat the moment the needle was plunged into the flesh of her arm.

When the warm spray from the hog's throat splattered me, I headed for the house, fast. Racing across the yard, I covered my ears with my palms, desperately trying, but unable to drown out the hog's childlike screams.

The screams. After I was safely inside the Grandfather's house, the terrified screams slowly faded, but not completely. In fact, more horrifying than the screams were the gurgling noises that followed.