Vealbeast

plot: Overcoming the monster 

In his dark, musty, cramped stall, the thin bull calf lay on a bed of straw, chewing slowly. In another time and place, he might have become viener schnitzel, but his plan was rather more dramatic. 

Without warning but (thanks to clockwork) regularly, the trapdoor that released grain into his feeding tough clanged open and shut, and he stood to munch on the generous portion of vitamin-enriched corn.

The boy and his father were having another blazing row. 

‘What you ask is foolish, my son,’ declared the old man. ‘I cannot survive if I give you your inheritance now.’ 

The boy vented his frustration and anger. ‘I feel trapped! I will die if I have to stay here, and I will certainly die if I go off to seek fame and friendship elsewhere without some capital behind me. So I insist you give me what is due.’  

Eventually, the old man was persuaded. Reluctantly, he gave the boy a large amount of money and he took his rage, recklessness and irresponsibility elsewhere.

The calf was growing, and the stall seemed already too small for him. His grain portion remained the same, but the shutter clanged open more often.  

His horns were developing.

The boy spent all the money on women and gambling and fine dining and wild living. Soon, surprisingly soon, he was without funds and friends. And then the bull market collapsed, and fierce famine struck the land. 

He found a job tending pigs, and longed to eat the meagre food the pigs were given. That was when he came to his senses. The revelation shone a light into his dark heart. Even my father’s hired hands have plenty to eat, he thought. I shall arise and go home and explain I want to work as a hired hand. I’m no longer worthy to be called a son. 

So he got up and went home.

Meanwhile, the calf grew wider and taller and stronger; also growing was the resentment at being trapped in the dark, inadequate stall. The calf was musing in the gloom, in readiness for the day some fool stepped up to open the door.

But while the boy was still a long way off, his father spotted him approaching, from his vantage point on the roof. ‘My boy!’ he shouted and ran to greet him with a kiss. He called for a ring and a coat and some shoes for his son, and issued a Bull to one of the hired men to slaughter the fatted calf.
 

‘My lord? The fatted calf? Surely not…’ The hired man was fearful of the beast and reluctant to obey. The father asked all his men and received the same reply. None was ready to enter the stall and do battle with the beast, so great had it grown, and mighty.
 

‘Father, I am no longer worthy to be called your son, but I am your hired man. I shall obey your instruction.’ The son stepped up and took the knife from one of the refuseniks.  

He approached the calf’s stall and tried to ease the bolt open silently. But the metal had been in the sun and rain too often, and the rusty bolt creaked, momentarily jammed and then shot open.

The dark, terrifying beast, so long held captive, burst forth with a deep growl, blinking in the harsh, bright light but furious and oh, so determined to do bloody murder to his imprisoner.
 

So, this was the boy! He had been younger last time the calf had glimpsed him through the slats of the battened-down window, but it was definitely him.
 

The calf had grown way too big for his claustrophobic stall. He was large enough to be called a grown animal now; heavily muscled, fully horned, snorting, pawing at the ground, scratching up dust, threatening, alarming.
 

He roared and suddenly charged, catching the boy by surprise, throwing him to the ground. The bullcalf stamped down and pinned his tormentor. The bull turned his head first one way and then the other, goring the boy in the thigh. He cried out in pain, and wriggled free with the energy provided by the burst of adrenaline.
 

He leapt to his feet and threw himself at the bull calf’s thick, powerful neck. He held tight with one arm, and reached around with the other, willing the knife blade to find the throat of the beast. The bull bucked and roared, tossing his head to dislodge the boy. But to no avail.
 

The blade bit deeply into the soft tissue of the bull’s throat ripping arteries, muscle, veins and windpipe.
 

The boy’s knife, hand and arm were swathed in the hot blood of the suddenly dying bull. The animal, still full of rage but without breath, collapsed to his knees, dislodging the boy – way too late. Blood splashed onto the dusty ground and was immediately soaked up. Never mind, there was more to follow.
 

Hired men came running now the danger was passed, and helped the boy to his feet. It was as much as he could do to keep them from carrying him aloft.
 

Within a couple of hours, the monster, who had grown so fearsome on the farm, was spitted, roasted and served (topped with cheese, on bread rolls, with salad and mayonnaisse and plenty of wine). All the villagers tucked in. 

Meanwhile, the boy’s personal monster of rage and frustration had also been sublimated. Growing fearsome within the boy while he was working on the farm, it was however subdued by his revelation in the pigsty, and at last had been overcome by the loving, forgiving, gracious welcome of his father.