Nine-Inch Carnivore—Meg Keane

Through the window, the bare bones of the blossom tree sit rigid. A skeletal figure rooted at the centre of an icy lawn. Each morning, I gaze from the warmth of my kitchen to see whether spring has arrived overnight. If the frost has lifted; if a bud has broken through the winter hardened bark towards blueing skies.

For months it remains a barren wasteland until, one morning, against the muted browns and greys of winter, something white appears. Though, it’s far larger than a budling, and too soon for a blooming floret.

Condensation drips down the glass as I lean in to inspect further. The small shape is ununiformed, and doesn’t bloom towards the late winter sun. Instead, it hangs limp over a cold branch.

The hem of my pyjamas grows sodden against the frost-dampened weeds. White clouds surround my voiceless mouth as I stand in the shadow of the tree, where the sun has not yet reached. Encased within its fleshless bones, I’m able to see what spring has brought.

A dead mouse.

Two thick thorns protrude through its body, pinning it to the low branch. The last remnants of breath having long escaped between its long teeth. Its pink clawed toes feigning life in the biting breeze.

I hesitate.

A meal fumbled by a predator. To take it down would be fruitless, to leave it up is to be merciful. Let it not die in vain. Soon it will be fed on and I must allow nature to take its course.

The following morning, the mouse remains. Its small body still impaled on the thorny twig, but no longer is it alone in the tree. A branch higher, another shape has appeared.

With eyes fixed on the new arrival, I reach for a piece of fruit. Over the lip of the bowl, my fingers slide into the centre of a plum. Rot has wormed its way through the sticky sweet flesh. A guttural heave escapes my strained neck as the bowl’s contents tumble into the bin.

Something is rotten.

Each morning, new somethings appear. They adorn the hanging tree in a sacrilegious display. A taunt. A warning, perhaps.

In the garden, my usual place of solace, I face the skeletal tree to behold the sacrifices. Rodents, amphibians, coleoptera, even some smaller birds—no garden dwelling species is safe, it seems—all frozen in place by arctic winds and rigor mortis. A body on each branch, impaled by a dry twig once adorned with petals, now reaching different stages of decay.

A shrike sits atop the furthest branch, leering down at me. Eyes pinched into a knowing stare. Nature’s own hangman. Both the perpetrator and the artist. A white crown atop its head with eyes masked in black. So small, so mighty. Heedless of its own fragility. And yet, I could crush its skull in my palm. Snap its spine under a misplaced boot and tread it into the garden path.

Perhaps, we aren’t so different after all.

But the skies grow lighter now, and earlier each morning. Daffodils, Tulips, Snowdrops, all bare their hopeful heads in the sodden graveyard. The ponds thaw and the frost melts as the earth erupts with new life.

A black-billed magpie perches hungrily at a distance, biding its time. Nothing nine-inches tall can sit atop the food chain for long. I salute the bird before shutting my garden door and allowing nature to take its course, once more.

photo by Joshua J. Cotten (via unsplash)