Brumalk

 From the Canticles of Babellum

It’s one of the hardest things we ever have to do. It can’t be prepped for, or taken lightly. It’s a heavy thing that demands our full attention, and it’s always when you least expect it. For me, it’s usually when I’m smothered up against the coldest tits of winter. Sometimes it’s when I’m alone. But, it’s always the Darkest Days, the Brutal Days, the days when your balls ache from the cold, and twist you around from the inside. But, got to still boil the Brumalk–-The Brumalk— the name of the dish itself makes me shudder in a way the cold never could. It’s a special sort of sacred, making the Brumalk. Happens every year, though I never could figure why. And what would happen if I didn’t make it? I never figured that either. 

But, it must be done. I’ve got to make the walk in the dim to the larder, or the cooks tent, or the  market. Walk past the tubs of butter, the hills of radishes, cabbages, past the legions of dried fruit, beyond the calling lights of oranges and gleaming green apples nestled in bins. Past all that to the farthest reaches, the coldest corner. Because that’s where the butcher’s block is, that’s where the blood and the axe is.

“Chop up some legs for the boys.” I’ll say, and a hand will lift its blade, lay down a slab of boar's hinds and—HACK! Cleaves right through the shanks. Butchers will try to throw in the anus or the lips or the nostrils or the feet. But touching those with their cold yellow skin makes mine crawl. What if I grab a paw or a hoove, and it shakes mines back?   

I’ve done enough of the killing to know none of them are really dead: That’s the truth in it, there ain't no death. They’re all chopped up, hacked up, torn to pieces and they won’t be waddling, or trotting, or crawling anywhere; they’ve been killed, but they aint dead. And, they know you're here for them. 

Then it’s time to get something dry, simple, and clean: onions, garlic, and gray herbs, a peck each. My feet crunch in the snow, slowing me down as I make my way back to the kitchen: camp tents frozen stiff from the frost, barracks with a stench so thick and foul it’ll drown you in your sleep, the white wastes of the north. 

Fumbling in the dark of the long night, looking for a match. I’ll eventually find the strikers, and the torches will light up the inner guts of the kitchen: stovepipes, knives, pots, pans, iron, firewood, all gleaming wet with oil and dew. The chopped up legs under my arms wrapped up in white butcher's cloth, weighing me down and slipping away. They know what’s about to happen and they’re trying to break free, run away across the frozen dirt, clickety-clack-clickety-clack. But, it’s too late.

First thing I do is wash them, and toss them in a pot. Then I get to work on the stove fire, until it burns bright and hot. Now it’s boiling, seething, the surface rippling with dark grey bubbles, all the bad stuff, all that’s greasy, all that’s fearful, all that suffered, scampered away, tried to break loose, yelped, hollered, couldn’t understand, gasped for breath—turned to muck. It’s gone, boiled over in a thick black crust. Gone.

Then I dump the runoff, rinse what’s left with fresh water and put it back in clean. It’s proper meat now. All that was fearsome is in the dirt. A calm little flower of flame, just a bit of heat to simmer down all that, that’s what takes the most time. 

While it cooks, I settle in and take my time prepping the herbs and onions. I’ll add them to the pot in two batches. First one now, and then again when it’s almost done. I add plenty of salt, because I have plenty. And, it’s done. By the end, like magic I’ve turned flesh to gold, sweet dark meat, and nothing about it, nothing, will remind you of the axe. 

The men are here, now that the soup is safe for showing. I never cooked for this lot before —and they don’t ask too many questions. Strain the broth, pull the meat with a knife like my father did in the old days, in the Age of the Dragon, and the other Dragon, and the Last Dragon, Arkan the Mad. We never did find him.

They set up their bowls and plates and press fresh garlic into each. I add the meat and use the ladle to pour a thick, rich, golden broth and that’s that. My job is done, the ritual complete, and the rest is up to the winter. The men take their bowls outside, and cover the boxes with lids, and eat over them. 

I take some myself, and stay inside the tent alone with a nip of the white dog, and think about tomorrow's march, and that we need more grain, and I need to pay everyone somehow, and slice some meat for my morning breakfast, and figure how many we lost, and trim the hairs from my nose again, they keep crusting over with ice and snot. It’s awful.

 I won’t cook for the men again, not for another year at least, for some never again. And if I feel like dying senselessly, I’ll do it now, while nobody can see me. Do it violently and for no reason. And leave a hell of a mess. 

I take a sip of the Brumalk, and wash it down with the Dog, burning my mouth twice over. And I do it again and again, until I don’t feel the cold any more.