“What shall we do?’ said the boy trepidly.
“Bury it,” said the farmer matter-of-factly.
Father and son looked down from the high spur overlooking Red Rock Creek to the body of one of the prized merinos. Around them a strong wind was howling, and above in the glowering sky, the scarlet underwings of the kea beat strongly as it screamed in circles.
“But it’s getting late,” began the boy. “We could leave it to tomorrow.”
“No, best not,” said the farmer. “We need to push on with the south ridge muster.”
“Sure,” agreed the boy. “Shall I get the shovel from the Land Rover?”
“Yep, and bring the hand shears, too.” The farmer looked skywards, narrowed his eyes, and muttered, “Flag my bloody sheep, will you?”
The boy returned slowly. In his left hand he held the shovel and in his right, the hand shears, bound with twine. The farmer had climbed down next to the sheep and was moving the limp body with his boot. “Broken neck,” he mumbled. The boy looked on and shuddered, lowering his eyes to his feet. The farmer took the shovel and started digging. The dull strike of the shovel pounding the earth sounded amid the moan of the wind and the sharp call of the kea, still close.
“I suppose,” said the farmer, “we’d better get what wool we can off her.” He looked at his son. “It’s getting late, the sun’s going down.”
The boy nodded and looked detachedly at the body. He then galvanized himself and picked up the shears, tentatively undoing the twine and then dropped to one knee next to the sheep. The farmer turned away, returning to digging the trench.
The boy’s left hand shook as he gripped the sheep’s ear and started clipping down the side of its face. The wool fell away loosely and the sheep’s eye glimmered, staring at the sky. The boy stopped and looked at his father. He was still digging, really putting his back into it, making hurried forceful strokes with the shovel end.
“Go on,” he said, not looking around.
The boy blinked forcibly and returned to his task, clipping down near the backbone, gripping and pulling away the greasy wool, which uncovered drying blood welts on the wrinkled skin. He blanched and stopped, gasping slightly for breath.
The kea watched from a rocky outcrop.
The grave was completed, but it was very shallow. The farmer had found it hard going in the rocky soil. He glanced over at the boy’s handiwork. “That’s all?’ he questioned. The boy looked at his father silently, a slow grievance welling up through him.
“Well,” said the farmer to the boy, “I suppose we should roll it in.” The farmer bent down and grasped the side of the sheep. “You use the shovel and leverage against it.” The boy brought the shovel down hard under the sheep. They both strained, pushing up and out, until the corpse flopped into the hole. “Okay, fill it in.”
The boy filled the shovel with soil and tossed it over the carcass, which pushed the body down. He then hesitated and looked at his father. Their eyes met and the boy didn’t look away. “It’s not big enough.”
To the right of the two figures, the kea launched into the early evening sky.
The father looked down at the hole. He surveyed the sheep ghastly jutting out of the poorly finished grave and frowned. He looked over his son’s head at the receding kea and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. He hesitated, and then reached over for the shovel, bent down and proceeded to quickly flick and scrape the loose dirt over the grave, until in a few minutes the sheep was covered.
The sun went down below the mountain top, and the sky dimmed in color.
The boy looked down at his father who was still slightly bent over and mopping his brow, done with the finished business.
“It’ll sink,” the boy said matter-of-factly.