Graeme Burnet - His Bloody Project

As the roar of the water subsided, I heard the sound of a sheep. Sheep are naturally in the habit of conversing among themselves, but this was the pained bleating of a single animal, akin to that of a ewe that has lost her lamb. I stood on a hummock and surveyed the hillside, but I could not see the animal in question. A hundred yards or so up a steep incline, the hillside yielded to a boggy plateau, invisible from below, where our peat is cut. I clambered towards it, the bleating growing ever more intense. When I emerged over the ridge, I found a distressed ram, lying on its side, half submerged in the mire. Even in summer the bog remained gluey and treacherous. Older folk in the village were wont to warn children that if they strayed into the bog they would be sucked into the bowels of the earth where they would be devoured by trolls. As a child I had accepted this as fact and although I no longer believed in trolls, I remained wary of the bog. The animal flailed its free limbs uselessly, succeeding only in working itself further into the slough. As I neared the stricken beast, keeping to the heathery outcrops upon which it was safe to stand, I whispered soothing sounds in an attempt to calm it. The sheep turned in my direction, like a sick old woman too weak to raise her head from the pillow. I felt no pity for the beast, only a kind of loathing for its stupidity. A large crow landed on a nearby hummock and studied us with interest. I assessed my possible courses of action. The first of these was to return to the village to fetch a rope and someone to assist me in pulling the beast from the quagmire. I dismissed this idea as, even if the sheep had not been drowned by the time I returned, the crow and his brethren would certainly have set about it. This course of action would also entail disclosing that the ram had strayed into the bog while under my supervision, an eventuality I preferred to avoid. There was thus no alternative to rescuing the sheep unaided.

Without further delay, I knelt on the edge of the bog and, spreading my weight as widely as possible, reached out towards the sheep’s haunch. The mud smelt sour. Clouds of flies flew up in a haze from the fetid surface water. I managed to grasp the sheep’s hoof, but not firmly enough to gain proper purchase. I tested the ground between us and tentatively manoeuvred myself onto my backside, mud seeping into my breeches. The crow observed my progress with interest. I was now able to take hold of the curled horn on the beast’s head. I levered myself backwards and heaved, feeling the muscles at the back of my thighs tauten. The sheep kicked its legs with renewed vigour and emitted a fearful bleating. Then the bog gave a slabbery belch and released its grip on the animal. I collapsed backwards onto the heather, spattered in black mud. In my relief, I laughed out loud. The freed beast struggled in vain to get to its feet and I saw that the hind leg which had been submerged in the bog was dislocated and protruding from the ram’s body at a wholly unnatural angle. The animal collapsed onto its side, its uninjured legs scrabbling in the air. Its bleating continued unabated. The crow emitted a sharp caw, as if in mockery of my efforts. I formed a handful of mud into a ball and threw it in the direction of the evil bird, but it merely watched it plop into the bog, before fixing me again with a haughty stare. I had no choice but to swiftly deliver the sheep from its suffering. It may be a simple matter for a gentleman to dispatch a deer or a grouse by squeezing the trigger of a gun, but to do to death an animal with one’s own hands or with a manual tool, no matter how well adapted to the purpose, is an entirely different matter. I have always shrunk from killing so much as a hen, and do not understand why educated men regard the killing of living creatures as sport. Nevertheless, in these circumstances, it was my duty to end the life of the stricken beast. I considered straddling it and by gripping the horns, twisting back its head to break its neck, but I did not know whether I would have the strength for such an act. I then spied a peat iron protruding from the opposite side of the bog. I fetched the tool and used it, on my return, to shoo away the crow, which flapped a few feet into the air before hopping back to its former vantage point.

‘Are you quite comfortable?’ I asked.

The crow replied with a cackle that I should hasten to the job in hand as he was impatient for his repast.

The head of the iron had a good heft. The sheep looked at me. I scanned the hillside, but there was no one to be seen. Without further delay, I raised the iron above my head and brought it down with as much force as I could muster. The beast must have moved or I may have misjudged the trajectory as my blow only succeeded in catching the beast on the snout, the blade of the iron splintering the bone. The animal snorted, choking on blood and bone, and made renewed and pitiful efforts to get to its feet. I took aim for a second time and brought the iron down on the top of the beast’s head with such force that my feet left the ground. Blood sprayed into the air, spattering my face. The iron was embedded in the sheep’s skull and it took a considerable effort to extricate it. This done I turned away and brought up the contents of my stomach, steadying myself on the handle of the tool. By the time I recovered myself the crow had taken up residence of the dead beast’s skull and was making short work of its eyes. Two of his fellows had joined him and were strutting around making a methodical inspection of the carcass.

The marking on the fleece revealed to whom the sheep belonged, and it was with a strong sense of dread that I returned to the village.

That same evening a meeting was held at the home of Kenneth Murchison. Mr Murchison was known to everyone as Kenny Smoke, on account of the fact that he was never seen without a pipe between his lips. He was a burly man, who had to stoop to pass through a door. He had a wide handsome face with a black moustache as thick as a broom-head. He had a bellowing voice and addressed women in a loud cheerful way, just as if he was speaking to a man. I never saw my mother so lively as when Kenny Smoke called. He was a great teller of tales and was able to recite long passages of poetry from memory, and during the black months it was in his house that the people gathered for a ceilidh. As a boy I was enthralled by his stories of ghosts and unchancy beings. My father was wary of Kenny Smoke, as he was of all men whose minds he said were filled with worldly things. His wife, Carmina, was a striking woman, with fine features, large dark eyes and a slender figure. Her father was a merchant in Kyle of Lochalsh and Kenny Smoke had met her at market there. It was unheard of for such a woman to marry into a village like Culduie, and it was often said (although I did not understand what was meant by it) that Kenny Smoke must have been endowed with a great gift in order to tempt her from such a metropolis.

The Smokes had six daughters, which was regarded as a great misfortune. A succession of old crones of the parish had offered remedies for this affliction, but Kenny Smoke turned them all away, proclaiming that any one of his daughters was worth ten of another man’s sons. The Smokes’ house was large and spacious. There was a chimney at the gable end and Kenny Smoke had constructed a large hearth, around which were arranged a number of upholstered chairs. A range of fine crockery was displayed on a dresser, built by a carpenter in Kyle and transported to Culduie by boat. Kenny Smoke and his wife slept in a chamber at the back of the house and there was a separate chamber for their daughters. After his marriage, Kenny Smoke had rented extra land and built a byre for his cattle, saying that he would not have any of his girls living under the same roof as livestock. He always referred to his wife as one of his girls, and on summer evenings they could often be seen walking hand-in-hand to the point at Aird-Dubh. If my father saw them he would mutter that, ‘She has to hold his hand to stop him doing the Devil’s work.’