The Bull Calf, 1956

The thing could barely stand. Yet takenfrom his mother and the barn smellshe still impressed with his pride,with the promise of sovereignity in the wayhis head moved to take us in.The fierce sunlight tugging the maize from the groundliked at his shapely flanks.He was too young for all that pride.I thought of the deposed Richard II.”No money in bull calves,” Freeman had said.The visiting clergyman rubbed the nostrilsnow snuffing pathetically at the windless day.”A pity,” he sighed.My gaze slipped off his hat toward the empty skythat circled over the black knot of men,over us and the calf waiting for the first blow.Struck,the bull calf drew in his thin forelegsas if gathering strength for a mad rush…tottered…raised his darkening eyes to us,and I saw we were at the far endof his frightened look, growing smaller and smallertill we were only the ponderous malletthat flicked his bleeding earand pushed him over on his side, stiffly,like a block of wood.Below the hill’s crestthe river snuffled on the improvised beach.We dug a deep pit and threw the dead calf into it.It made a wet sound, a sepulchral gurgle,as the warm sides bulged and flattened.Settled, the bull calf lay as if asleep,one foreleg over the other,bereft of pride and so beautiful now,without movement, perfectly still in the cool pit,I turned away and wept.