'Wild Child' by Emilie Lamplough
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
There was a shallow, wet ditch that lay at the edge of the wood near the farm. The pigs liked to bathe there during the summer. Lazily tossing and turning in the cool pool of mud, they found relief and smiled in their pleasure, eyes closed.
I enjoyed watching this. I liked the pigs; they didn't seem to mind my company and I was quite fond of theirs. Sometimes I even lay down and joined them. Laughing as the chill of the slime hit my belly, I let myself sink.
I ate with them too, sharing their mash. This was usually slops; oats, corn and barley ground to a watery pulp. It was really intended just for the pigs but I could get in on the action if I was lucky. Not that they minded me sharing, but first come first served - you had to be quick. Sometimes we devoured the goo quite contentedly side by side, but fail to reach the trough in time and your share was cancelled. There was no room to squeeze between the pink slabs of flesh and nothing was ever wasted.
It didn't always mean hunger though. There was a couple who lived in the house nearby and they were quite choosy with their meals. The rattle of their waste bin was as good as a dinner bell. Now and then it was just to tease me - I'd sprint to the back door to find nothing there. But when there was something, it could be quite generous: chewy pink meat, lumpy brown sauce, squares of black bread, all mashed together in abundance. I polished the bowl.
The village children scorned me. All frayed grubby rags and lion-mane hair, I wasn't one of them, that much was clear. And so I was shunned from their play. Sometimes I became the game though - when they came after me. They armed themselves with any debris they could find and pelted me with it, laughing at the sport. Look at the feral child, they'd taunt, look at the beastie!
Screaming at them, I roared and I snarled, leaping at the nearest person only to be pinned down by the group. Trapped in a circle, I couldn't win.
Sal was a goat I regularly played with; nearly my height had he the horns. He was a dull-looking creature, large pendulous ears drooping down over his head like those of a squat-legged basset hound. Still, he had the soul of a kid and the litheness of a dancer, and together we made a fine pas de deux: tossing our heads, we sprang and we spun, whirling in circles with vigour and skill. This wasn't our best pastime though. My favourite game was Animal.
The rules of Animal are simple: mimic as many different voices as you can. I loved this contest as I always won. The challenge would start and I'd be three creatures at once. Lion, tiger, panther - I roared furiously.
HEE-HAW, I'm a donkey, ARF-ARF, I'm a hound. Sal would give it his all but could only do sheep. Sometimes the pigs tried to join in but could not pass beyond human squeals. KLURK-KLURK, I'm a chicken, MUUUUU, I'm a -
Something strikes the back of my head with such force I'm knocked down, my chin slamming against the ground. The earth is hard and pebbled. There's a warm taste in my mouth.
Shut the hell up, says a voice.
And so I don't speak.
I can't.
- Emilie Lamplough
