Tarrow Halott is a butcher and he butches anything alive.
Rumour has it he kills people. Chop them off into pieces and sell them like the pigs and cows he does everyday. The little ‘uns had even devised a song he would hum when he slaughter his victims.
Even though Shinwa folks claim to know better, they are still wary of this man. Young Halott, before ten years old, was a good kid. Outspoken and gorgeous. A straight-A honour student, a real Hollywood-silver-screen gentleman.
One day he came back from a swim at the lake, shook up and on edge The boy was pale like paper, and his bright eyes glazed over. Some was different about him. Subtly, but he had changed. He wasn’t like before. His thorns started showing through, and although in time he had become much like the pleasant boy before, he was never the same.
Growing up, Tarrow resembles a bull from afar, bulky and muscular and brawny, his robust body covers in complex tattoos. It’s hard to believe he was such a wimpy, girly-looking shrimp as a child. He has a quiet, menace glint in his eyes as he chat with the people, sizing them up, weighting their worth. His voice is throaty, but laying under the sexual hint, there’s something else, equally alluring but ten times dangerous.
Asorotany finds his uncle Tarrow wrapping newly cut pig’s thighs, listening to a sad ballad song over the radio. The hang light dangles above his working table, buzzing to the pulse of the quiet. The back room is dampen of cold dead meat and stale freezed blood and sweat.
“Uncle,” He calls softly.
Uncle Tarrow pauses and peeks over his shoulder. He gapes. “Asoro, what’re you doing here? Not on shift?” He turns and wipes his beefy hands over his dirty apron. Tarrow wanders over and changes the station to Rock ‘n’ Roll. Asorotany smiles, uncle Tarrow always knows he can’t stand anything that doesn’t contain “energy”.
Asorotany rolls up his sleeves and comes to look at the bloody mess. “On suspension.”
“For how long?”
“Ten.”
Uncle Tarrow chuckles and chucks him a pair of latex gloves. “Defy orders again?”
Asorotany snaps it on. “Something like that.”
“How long have it been?”
“Today is the third day.”
They take their position and work simultaneously. His hands catch on to the old rhythm.
“I’ll pay you later,” Tarrow says.
“Sounds good.” Asorotany nods. “I’ll come for the rest of the week. There’s not much for me to do.”
Asorotany had worked all his summers at uncle Tarrow’s butcher shop since he was able to. It’s sicken at first, but he got used to it. In a way, it’s like mediating for him. It helps him steam off the pent-up anger. At some point, during the last year of high school, Asorotany has considered being a butcher instead of continuing his father’s law enforcer career.
Fische has refused, gagging whenever Asorotany tries to convince him. He even cried once. This is perhaps the only aspect Asorotany best his brother. Fische can’t stomach the sight of carcass swinging on the hook, blood pooling down the drain and the ruthless strike of the butcher knife on the wooden cutting board.
After they done the day batch, Asorotany wheels the cart to the front. He checks the temperature and the date on the old meat. He clears away due ones and stashes bundles tightly on each other according to its due date. Tarrow had already starting on the chickens.
A few cars are pulling into the parking lot. Asorotany glances at the clock and yells to the back, “Should I flip the sign?”
“Yes, please.”
The day trudges by slowly. After the early morning wave, things still down. As lunch rolls around and the heat beats the AC air, Asorotany has gotten bored of his mind. Uncle Tarrow has scurried to the back room and will dock there until the evening. It’s gross with all the slowly rotten carcass, but much cooler than at the front.
Asorotany uses a ballpoint pen to pick the dirt from his fingernails. His fingers itch for his phone, but considers he’s an adult now, being remind to keep in line will be embarrassed. After a while, he sighs and sprawls on the fake-granite countertop, resting his cheek against the surface. It’s grimy and leaves a vile feel on his skin. He closes his eyes then reopens it. Glaring up, he gazes at the Chinese oil painting hanging above the entrance. That painting has been there since forever, although it cannot seems more random in this place. This isn’t some tea stands, it’s a butcher shop. Asorotany simply cannot see the connection.
Asorotany stares. Then something weird happens. Faces and shapes start to emerge from the chaos of colours. The grayish-white blob in the middle molds into the edgy profile of a skull, with a woman plump body. The rusty gray splashes that leaves behind her coat’s trail materialize into faces—faces that he recognizes, faces of the dead people that he knows—some faces twist in utmost agony, some looks peaceful, some scrunch in dread.
Asorotany pushes himself upright, turning away. Yet, everywhere he looks, the faces and the shapes arise there. Their faces tip at him, eyes drilling into him.
It’s all mental, he thinks.
He glances back at the painting.
“Hey Uncle Tarrow, what’s the black painting’s name? The one you hang out here?” He asks.
“Are. A-r-e. Ah-reh.”
“That’s Arr.” Asorotany says.
“Not Arr. Ah-reh. Don’t whitewash her name. She’s one of the Nihongo most powerful god.”
“Nihongo?”
“Ancient people of this land we’re contaminating.”
Are. He’ve heard of that name. Asorotany chews on his bottom lips. Asorotany repeats the syllables, rolling it around with his tongue.
The boy monk mentioned it.
“What does she has to do with your business?”
“Are’s the Goddess of Death. Fitting, no?”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure Èyùn is the Goddess of Death.”
Tarrow laughs gruffly. The periodic cold metal breaking bones rises once more, shuddering through the stifling hot air. “Èyùn is another of the Chinese cheap rip-off.”
“She’s the Aboriginal Goddess.” Asorotany points out.
“We’re celebrating the Aboriginal culture that isn’t Aboriginal. The Chinese are very good at replacing other cultures with their damned own.”
“We’re the Chinese.”
The cutting sounds forcefully now, as if Tarrow is physically axing at Asorotany’s dense skull. “Ever wondered why Shinwa is such a miserable hell hole?”
“Uncle, businessmen are drawing into this land like bees to honey. Amongst the Trio, Shinwa is the most prospering and—”
“And those make you happy, Asoro?” His Uncle says.
Asorotany halts, the rest of his sentence drops into silence. He swallows once. Twice. Clears his throat. The answer that pops in his head isn’t the answer he supposed to say.
Tarrow resumes slowly, his words measured. “We’ve forgotten Are, and she had cursed us. Even to death the people of Shinwa will be writhing in regrets and anguish.”
“Oh, right,” Asorotany scoffs. “You’re just blaming all of the unfortunate stuffs of your life on this unexist body of ‘God’.”
Uncle Tarrow pauses for a long time. “As I said, Asoro: don’t mention Èyùn as the rightful Goddess of the Death. Ever. Remember this. It can save your life.”
“As if.” He mutters.
He scorns, leaning on the counter and running a hand over his scalp. He exhales through his mouth. Asorotany scrutinizes the painting again, cocking his head to the side. He traces the imperious angles and the graceful coordination of her long limbs.
A glimpse of the Nomad woman flashes at the back of his mind.
His heart skips a beat. The fanthom cold from last night licks his skin.
“Don’t you think the Nomad woman looks a lot like your Are?”
His Uncle doesn’t say anything. Loud banging clatter, mixing with Uncle Tarrow’s heavy shuffling and the flush of water running.
“Well?” Asorotany repeats.
Tarrow lifts the the plastic veil strips and pushes the cart out. He replenishes the duck and beef. “Who know. Maybe she is.” Tarrow keeps his back to Asorotany as he speaks, his movement is deliberate. Asorotany sits up a little straighter, craning his neck. Once finished, Tarrow straighten and uses the hem of his apron to wipe the sweat accumulating between his fingers. “I want you to stay away from that hobo, though, okay, boy?”
Asorotany picks at a sticky spot on the counter. “I think she has something to do with Fische’s death.”
Tarrow’s face tighten. He scratches his beard, the corner of his mouth turns down into a frown. “Listen, Asoro. Whatever you think, keep it to yourself. Avoid her like a plague. Legends said Are sometimes come down to pick her sacrifices, and she has an exquisite taste in young men.” Tarrow comes and grabs Asorotany’s chin, forcing him to look him into the eyes. Tarrow’s breath smells foul. “I’m trying to protect you.”
Asorotany jerks from his Uncle’s steadfast grip. “Whatever,” he mutters.
Tarrow clamps both palms on Asorotany’s head with enough force to dent his skull. “Did I make myself clear?”
Asorotany does not blink. “You’re not my fucking Father.”
“Steer clear of her. Please.” Tarrow whispers before shoving him back.
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