Near Bishop’s feet, the pig lies on its side. Grass is flattened around it, pushed down by its body. In this bright, clear light, it’s like a different animal. Black fur gleams. Ears twitch, flicking this way and that as if the pig hopes to hear someone coming to save it.
Poor thing…there is no help in this place, something I’ve already learned.
Bishop’s spear throw opened up the animal’s thigh, an awful gash that makes me wonder how it could run at all. There is also a slash on its upper flank, a straight line that starts at the neck and ends past its shoulder.
That cut was mine.
Blood oozes across the black fur, blood that is littered with dirt and small sticks, dotted with crumbled leaves.
Yes…blood is the price of all things.
The pig’s ribs and stomach rise and fall in a ragged rhythm. Every breath in is a sucking snort, every breath out comes as a thin whine of misery. The pig’s legs twitch, like it would run away if it could just find the strength to rise again.
Worst of all are the animal’s eyes. They are brown with big, black pupils. They flick to me, to Bishop and back again, over and over. The wide eyes show obvious terror—they look almost human.
We stare at it for a moment.
“I had a dog,” Bishop says finally. “I can’t remember her name.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I simply nod.
“The pig is dying,” he says. His voice is small, quiet, not at all at home in a body his size. I understand why. This was a game to him. Now he’s looking at a frightened, exhausted, bleeding animal.
It’s not a game anymore.
Despite its wounds and the filth covering its fur, in this light, I find the pig beautiful. The wet nose, the wide eyes…if we had seen it here, in this clearing, running and scampering and full of life, would we have tried to kill it?
Part of me wants to say Of course not, but I know that part is from the little girl I used to be. Twelve-year-old Em—well-fed, well-rested, safe Em—would have wanted to make the pig a pet.
If I had understood how this hunt would end, I would have stopped it. We were hungry; now this animal will die in a place with more food than we could ever eat. This is awful. The pig did nothing to us.
“It’s in pain,” I say. “We have to help it.”
Bishop’s face is pale. He knew how to hunt; he didn’t realize what he would have to do when that hunt was over.
“We can’t help it,” he says. “It’s wounded real bad. It will be dead in a little while. Maybe an hour, maybe more.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant by help it, Bishop. You have to end its suffering.”
He looks at me, a tortured expression on his face.
“You mean kill it now? Why? It’s going to die anyway. Why can’t we let it die?”
Why? Because I don’t need memories to know right from wrong. Because Bishop insisted on hunting this animal to exhaustion. Because if I was a better leader, I would have stopped him from hunting it in the first place. Because Latu was hurt and we should have stayed with her. Those and a hundred other reasons, but there is one reason that stands out above all others.
“Because it’s not humane,” I say.
The pig lets out a high-pitched whine. It tries to get up, but can’t.
I feel a cool tickle on my cheeks. I touch there, look at my fingers…tears. I couldn’t cry for Yong, but I can cry for a pig?
The knot in my chest is as hard and tangled as the branches we crawled through to get here. Just as sharp, just as jagged.
That voice in my head stirs, the one that said Crying doesn’t fix anything, the one that told me to always attack. It’s a man’s voice, swirling up from somewhere in my hidden memories.
It says, Choices have consequences.
The voice is right.
“You wanted to hunt it,” I say to Bishop. “So finish the hunt.”
He says nothing. The pig continues to whine, each small sound a pointy stick jabbing into my soul.
Knife shaking in his hand, Bishop kneels next to the pig. It tries to lift its head. Its hooves twitch—it wants to run because it knows what is coming, but it has nothing left with which to fight. Even now, with blood seeping onto the grass, this animal wants to live.
In that way, it is no different from us.
We know the pig can bite. Bishop isn’t taking any chances. His free hand shoots out, pinning the black furred head to the ground. Bishop leans forward, using his weight to hold the animal still. The pig squeals and grunts, breaths ripping in and out. The legs kick a little bit more, then it stops struggling.
Bishop presses the knife’s edge against the pig’s thick neck.
I wait.
I wait some more.
The pig’s eye looks up at me.
“It’s terrified,” I say softly. “It’s hurting. Please, finish this.”
The knife hand trembles.
I see the muscles in Bishop’s shoulders twitch and bunch up. He’s trying to cut, but his hand won’t obey.
He lets out a soft little moan.
Bishop knows how to hunt. He knows how to throw a spear. He knows how to hit people and how to yell and scream.
But he doesn’t know how to kill.
He lets go of the pig’s head and sits back on his heels.
The animal is still breathing. Each breath is a spasm of torment. I can’t let this continue.