all the stronger by comparison. This is passing foolishness, the thoughts of a deranged old woman.
I wish for her to suffer greatly with this illness. I remember when I was a girl, seven or eight, when I was with my family at Ecsed, before Ursula grabbed my life by the scruff and arranged my marriage to Ferenc. A band of gypsies had come through our village, and a constable in the service of my father had caught one of them for selling his daughter to the Turks. They came to visit my father to let him, the ruling lord, decide how this man should be dealt with. My father told them to take the man to the stables. I overheard and asked for leave from my tutor to go and play on the estate. I hid behind the stables and watched as one of our boys led an old grey mare into the yard. The gypsy was yelling that he was innocent, and straining against the constable’s men who held him, but as he struggled, a purse full of money fell from his belt. He would not explain to my father where he got the money, and my father did not care to give him another chance. He told the men to beat the gypsy until he was limp, and to tie him up. Then he gave a nod to the stable boy. The boy produced a long, sharp blade, and slit the mare’s neck in one strong motion. Blood swelled from the slash, painting a dark bib on her grey-haired chest. The horse stumbled, took two steps forward and fell. The boy rolled her onto her side, then slit her belly open, sternum to tail. Her entrails spilled out, dark, snakey tubes, and her limbs twitched and kicked. The men dragged the beaten gypsy over to the dying horse and stuffed him inside her belly. They left his head outside the wound, cradled on the escaped intestines. Then the stable boy took a needle and twine, and stitched the belly closed. The gypsy’s head still stuck out, just under the horse’s tail. His hair was now slick with slime and dung that had leaked out of the severed bowels.
I watched this scene and felt that hard, sick knot in my stomach. I had watched my father discipline our servants before, and I had seen the authorities beating peasants for one thing or another when we rode in our carriage through the village. But the extremity of this, to sew a live man into a dying animal to rot and fester, was something I had never witnessed. The men, and my father, laughed at the gypsy, then walked away. The gypsy’s eyes welled up, and he let out a howl once he understood they meant to leave him trapped inside the body of the horse. My father and the men looked back briefly, and then only laughed harder.
I stayed hidden for a few minutes, until the men had gone and the stable boy went to groom one of the other horses. I edged closer. The sun was warm, and everything smelt like hot iron, like slaughter. Flies buzzed around the horse’s spilled blood, the crack of the wound, the dung in the gypsy’s hair. The knot in my stomach became harder, and for a moment I thought I might vomit. I turned around, collected myself, then looked back. The gypsy’s head was lolling around, and even though he was bound, he was trying to wiggle free, his futile movements muted by the heavy flesh of the corpse. This time, I saw it: it did look funny. He looked like a tiny, ugly doll struggling to burst from the wreckage of that old mare. I giggled. After all, he did sell his daughter to the Turks.
The gypsy lived through the next day. The day after, from my window, I could see a few of the stable boys lugging the grey rotting mess out of the yard.
I wish a death like this on Ursula. Except she should be stuffed into a cow. I would stitch her into the gutted animal myself.
There’s a knock at my door. “Heading to the staff room for lunch?” It’s Jana. Her fishbowl office is in this corridor too, a couple of doors down from mine. She’s holding up a brown paper bag.
“Uh, yeah.” I close the attachment. “I’ll meet you there...Have to finish something up.” I’m preoccupied with images of dead
I wish for her to suffer greatly with this illness. I remember when I was a girl, seven or eight, when I was with my family at Ecsed, before Ursula grabbed my life by the scruff and arranged my marriage to Ferenc. A band of gypsies had come through our village, and a constable in the service of my father had caught one of them for selling his daughter to the Turks. They came to visit my father to let him, the ruling lord, decide how this man should be dealt with. My father told them to take the man to the stables. I overheard and asked for leave from my tutor to go and play on the estate. I hid behind the stables and watched as one of our boys led an old grey mare into the yard. The gypsy was yelling that he was innocent, and straining against the constable’s men who held him, but as he struggled, a purse full of money fell from his belt. He would not explain to my father where he got the money, and my father did not care to give him another chance. He told the men to beat the gypsy until he was limp, and to tie him up. Then he gave a nod to the stable boy. The boy produced a long, sharp blade, and slit the mare’s neck in one strong motion. Blood swelled from the slash, painting a dark bib on her grey-haired chest. The horse stumbled, took two steps forward and fell. The boy rolled her onto her side, then slit her belly open, sternum to tail. Her entrails spilled out, dark, snakey tubes, and her limbs twitched and kicked. The men dragged the beaten gypsy over to the dying horse and stuffed him inside her belly. They left his head outside the wound, cradled on the escaped intestines. Then the stable boy took a needle and twine, and stitched the belly closed. The gypsy’s head still stuck out, just under the horse’s tail. His hair was now slick with slime and dung that had leaked out of the severed bowels.
I watched this scene and felt that hard, sick knot in my stomach. I had watched my father discipline our servants before, and I had seen the authorities beating peasants for one thing or another when we rode in our carriage through the village. But the extremity of this, to sew a live man into a dying animal to rot and fester, was something I had never witnessed. The men, and my father, laughed at the gypsy, then walked away. The gypsy’s eyes welled up, and he let out a howl once he understood they meant to leave him trapped inside the body of the horse. My father and the men looked back briefly, and then only laughed harder.
I stayed hidden for a few minutes, until the men had gone and the stable boy went to groom one of the other horses. I edged closer. The sun was warm, and everything smelt like hot iron, like slaughter. Flies buzzed around the horse’s spilled blood, the crack of the wound, the dung in the gypsy’s hair. The knot in my stomach became harder, and for a moment I thought I might vomit. I turned around, collected myself, then looked back. The gypsy’s head was lolling around, and even though he was bound, he was trying to wiggle free, his futile movements muted by the heavy flesh of the corpse. This time, I saw it: it did look funny. He looked like a tiny, ugly doll struggling to burst from the wreckage of that old mare. I giggled. After all, he did sell his daughter to the Turks.
The gypsy lived through the next day. The day after, from my window, I could see a few of the stable boys lugging the grey rotting mess out of the yard.
I wish a death like this on Ursula. Except she should be stuffed into a cow. I would stitch her into the gutted animal myself.
There’s a knock at my door. “Heading to the staff room for lunch?” It’s Jana. Her fishbowl office is in this corridor too, a couple of doors down from mine. She’s holding up a brown paper bag.
“Uh, yeah.” I close the attachment. “I’ll meet you there...Have to finish something up.” I’m preoccupied with images of dead
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