Damn House Stinks O' Charred Hog Fat Again, by Helena Pantsis
Photo by Liv Bruce
Fire crackles, short and cuppin’ heat in curled hands. Room is warm, is small and tired, and sittin’ crouched by open hearth is Daddy, sleepin' at baby’s side—both tucked away by the fireplace, tryna suck in that warmth. Daddy picks his boots off the floor, heaving filthy, harden’d leather and restin’ them on the short timber table—he sets ‘em there with toes curled so they trudge and creak with every arch of his blue, achin’ feet. Smell o’ dirt and body funk risin’ from him, fillin’ the cabin, mixin’ with the heated edge o’ the fire. The wood beneath ‘em’s begun to split, a sym’tom of the unfixed hole in the roof and the early mornin’ showers. The cold air stifles the house, it shrinking in the chill o’ ev'ning. One of Daddy's hands stays gentle, rockin’ baby back and forth, back and forth. He and baby lulled to sleep by the constant motion, the firelight and the warmth o’ Daddy’s watch.
The window, thwarted by wind, starts slammin’ inwards, strikin’ wall in a violent thumpin’ way, and waking the li’l house, real sudden in the dead quiet o’ the winter night. Daddy jump, almost out his own skin, the hat coverin’ his eyes tumblin’ to his lap, and baby openin’ his maw to echo them shrill cries that make your damn ears ring, make the house wanna fall in on itself. Fire done waver, ash smoky and fragrant. The winds, they jagged, they thrashin’ the door from hinge to hinge. Daddy been good with his hands, but he ain’t gotten to fixin’ that door yet—it loosely fixed against its frame and jigglin’ as if someone tryna to break into the house. Daddy rise, slow as the dead and groanin’ in his seat, the piercin’ wail o’ baby’s cry makes his ears muffle. He moves deliberate, real purposeful, and with strong hands he forces the window shut, jammin’ it locked with its iron latch. The house shakes real violent like, the weather threatenin’ to pull it from its quiet foundation.
Baby keep on cryin' from the ruckus and the shrinkin’ heat, the house full of a raggedy cold. So cold, he emanatin’ a harsh iciness, nose red and smellin’ o’ death; sour, somethin’ that shrouds the senses. Breeze still comin’ through the window, the chill followin’ inward, trailin’ the smell of smoke, creepin’ by Daddy's side, hulkin’ over baby, hurlin’ itself t’wards the open flame. Makes the candlelight dance, makin’ the wick bend and twist. Daddy returns now to baby’s side, he got his hand on the crib, right by the firewood, he pullin’ up and down, rockin’ baby like a signpost in the wind. Daddy take a log of firewood, one of them piled high beside baby’s bassinet; he throws it swiftly, real fast into the embers. He got a good arm, strong and tense and rough from years of hard labour, helps to avoid splinters, so that he barely touch the wood when flingin’ it from box to fireplace, doin’ his part to keep the kindling burnin’.
“Daddy here, don't cry no more.”
The window shutters smack against the latch—clack, clack, clack—the iron bent back enough so the cold still gettin’ through. The rhythm make Daddy’s eyes shut. But baby gettin’ louder now, cryin’ for his mama, cryin’ for dinner, cryin’ for the fact he can’t sleep. Daddy keep his eyes close, his forehead creasin’ tight, his eyes clamped like a good workin’ iron latch. He reach out to the firewood and grab a soft log. Log go snap in Daddy’s hands; he think nothin’ of it—moves so quick he barely notice, then drop it down on the fire. Eyes ‘lmost twitch open, Daddy ‘lmost hear a cry, some scream o’ horror and death and violence.
But then the fire done roar, and Daddy breathe relieved. Stink o’ death rises up, consumin’ house and home, fillin' it with the stench o' dead pigs and charred meat. But Daddy don’t smell a whiff of it, sleepin’ deep and undisturbed, ‘cause baby don't cry no more.
Helena Pantsis (she/they) is an editor, writer and artist from Naarm, Australia with a fond appreciation for the gritty, the dark, and the experimental. Her works have been published in Overland, Island, Meanjin, and Cordite. More can be found at hlnpnts.com.