and he twisted and turned, but for some reason the air wouldn’t lift him up. We both fell to the ground. We were covered in dust. You couldn’t have said what was turkey and what was me, we were just one big tangle.
I thought my eyes were covered in red from the wattles, and I didn’t mind one bit. But it was blood that was blinding me. I started to feel weak. The turkey was on his last legs too, he was just barely moving his wings. He tried to peck me again, but what could he do with nothing but his head sticking out of my grip like it was poking out of a hole. He didn’t peck any harder than if he’d been picking up grain from the ground. Besides, he might not even have been able to see what he was pecking, because his eyes were popping out like pebbles. He opened his beak wide and began hissing like a punctured tire, but he was weaker and weaker. I passed out and he collapsed on top of me. Father and mother came running out of the house. They thought we were dead. And that more likely the turkey had pecked me to death than that I’d strangled the turkey. I was a child, after all. And the turkey weighed twenty-two pounds even after it was plucked and dressed. Father carried me into the house. He was crying up a storm and all covered in my blood.
A whole horde of neighbors gathered. They sent to the village for holy water to splash on me before my soul left my body and it went cold. Some of them already began to say the prayers for the dead, others were comforting mother, telling her God wouldn’t let any harm come to me in the next world, and he might even make me one of his angels, because I’d not done any wrong in this world. And they waited for the holy water. But before it arrived I came to of my own accord. Except that when I saw the crowd ofpeople over me I burst out crying and mother had to hold me in her arms for the longest time before I calmed down.
It was the same when I was older and I’d go caroling with the other boys, no one would agree to be King Herod, because death cut Herod’s head off and no one liked to be killed. So I was always Herod, because I preferred being king to being afraid of death. We had a real scythe, one that was used for mowing, not a fake one with a wooden blade. When death cut your head off with a real scythe you felt death was real too, and not Antek Mączka dressed up as death in a white sheet. Especially because each time I was killed the blade of the scythe had to touch my neck, not just knock my crown off. But I never once flinched. Though death cut my head off and I was a goner as many times as we visited houses in a night. The farmers we caroled for sometimes couldn’t even watch, and their wives would scream and cover their children’s eyes. But in the houses where they were most frightened, afterward they’d give us each an even bigger serving of pie, and a piece of sausage, and a glass of vodka. They always turned to me and said, you want a top-off? They’d check whether the scythe was honed and whether I didn’t have a cut on my neck. And they couldn’t get over it. He’s a brave one, dammit. That’s for sure. He’s a proper Herod. The real thing. There was just that one time Antek Mączka brought the scythe down and nicked me till I bled, so I took his scythe away from him and kicked his ass and he didn’t play death anymore.
Or in the resistance, seven times I was wounded. Once I thought I was already in the next world. I got hit in the stomach. When I opened my eyes I was actually surprised it was exactly the same woods, the same sky, that a skylark was singing somewhere up above. A skylark, okay, why shouldn’t there be skylarks in the next world. Except that not far away there was a village in flames. Cows were lowing there, a baby was crying, someone was wailing, Jesuuus! And way far away in the distance a farmer was plowing. He didn’t look like a farmer from this world but like the soul of a farmer, becausehe wasn’t looking in the
I thought my eyes were covered in red from the wattles, and I didn’t mind one bit. But it was blood that was blinding me. I started to feel weak. The turkey was on his last legs too, he was just barely moving his wings. He tried to peck me again, but what could he do with nothing but his head sticking out of my grip like it was poking out of a hole. He didn’t peck any harder than if he’d been picking up grain from the ground. Besides, he might not even have been able to see what he was pecking, because his eyes were popping out like pebbles. He opened his beak wide and began hissing like a punctured tire, but he was weaker and weaker. I passed out and he collapsed on top of me. Father and mother came running out of the house. They thought we were dead. And that more likely the turkey had pecked me to death than that I’d strangled the turkey. I was a child, after all. And the turkey weighed twenty-two pounds even after it was plucked and dressed. Father carried me into the house. He was crying up a storm and all covered in my blood.
A whole horde of neighbors gathered. They sent to the village for holy water to splash on me before my soul left my body and it went cold. Some of them already began to say the prayers for the dead, others were comforting mother, telling her God wouldn’t let any harm come to me in the next world, and he might even make me one of his angels, because I’d not done any wrong in this world. And they waited for the holy water. But before it arrived I came to of my own accord. Except that when I saw the crowd ofpeople over me I burst out crying and mother had to hold me in her arms for the longest time before I calmed down.
It was the same when I was older and I’d go caroling with the other boys, no one would agree to be King Herod, because death cut Herod’s head off and no one liked to be killed. So I was always Herod, because I preferred being king to being afraid of death. We had a real scythe, one that was used for mowing, not a fake one with a wooden blade. When death cut your head off with a real scythe you felt death was real too, and not Antek Mączka dressed up as death in a white sheet. Especially because each time I was killed the blade of the scythe had to touch my neck, not just knock my crown off. But I never once flinched. Though death cut my head off and I was a goner as many times as we visited houses in a night. The farmers we caroled for sometimes couldn’t even watch, and their wives would scream and cover their children’s eyes. But in the houses where they were most frightened, afterward they’d give us each an even bigger serving of pie, and a piece of sausage, and a glass of vodka. They always turned to me and said, you want a top-off? They’d check whether the scythe was honed and whether I didn’t have a cut on my neck. And they couldn’t get over it. He’s a brave one, dammit. That’s for sure. He’s a proper Herod. The real thing. There was just that one time Antek Mączka brought the scythe down and nicked me till I bled, so I took his scythe away from him and kicked his ass and he didn’t play death anymore.
Or in the resistance, seven times I was wounded. Once I thought I was already in the next world. I got hit in the stomach. When I opened my eyes I was actually surprised it was exactly the same woods, the same sky, that a skylark was singing somewhere up above. A skylark, okay, why shouldn’t there be skylarks in the next world. Except that not far away there was a village in flames. Cows were lowing there, a baby was crying, someone was wailing, Jesuuus! And way far away in the distance a farmer was plowing. He didn’t look like a farmer from this world but like the soul of a farmer, becausehe wasn’t looking in the
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