"Those who keep watching see the field littered with carcasses. In the distance, where the frozen marsh begins, hundreds of dead animals are half-standing at odd angles like scarecrows, their thin legs piercing the ice. Forty-one minutes later, the train arrives in Amsterdam." |
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In 2018, at Oostvaardersplassen, thousands of animals died emaciated from starvation in an artificially created, confined nature reserve while local government and park authority debated intervention.
Honger, pain, slow passes through my legs, clumps of grey fur fall off my rump, the cold is colder. Colder. Honger. Puddles turn to ice. Can’t bend my neck to drink. Raven circles to feast upon my eyes. Soon. Sun’s a red strip growing thinner, the marsh goes to sleep, my brethren nap their last in frozen water, stomach eats me from the inside. Drumming of the ground, far below the sun, a snake of fire passes—inside it: human. I bellow--Honger. Life stops.
* |
Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights (detail) (c. 1490–1510)
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The Sprinter Service 4300 roars through the Oostvaardersplassen between Almere Stad and Lelystad at 5.15 pm, just as the sun sets. The train curves into the reserve, and a flock of greylag geese lifts heavily from the reedbeds, their feet weighed down with frozen clay. Several people lean against the windows, hoping to spot a Konik horse, a fox, or perhaps a grey heron’s standing, one-legged form. Instead, they notice a larger body collapsing. Multiple gasps pierce the quiet of the train’s cabin. Parents cover their children's eyes while sweets are produced from backpacks or adult-sized pockets. An elderly lady clutches her chest. Those who keep watching see the field littered with carcasses. In the distance, where the frozen marsh begins, hundreds of dead animals are half-standing at odd angles like scarecrows, their thin legs piercing the ice. Forty-one minutes later, the train arrives in Amsterdam. A little girl, holding her mother’s hand, steps onto the platform. The next day, during the beef-and-onion stew lunch at her local kindergarten, the girl plunges her fork into the hand of the child beside her.
*
I tell Joachim about the dead animals, and he doesn’t play with me. Dumb! He always plays with Mieke and the wooden horses. Always! I run away, cry in the corner, Mrs. Bal comes, strokes my back, then I ask her to braid my hair, and she says yes. I sit on the chair looking out through the glass, counting the delivery trucks and the little cars. One, two, three, four, five, seven, eight, six, nine, ten. Then, nine, eight, six, seven, five, four… But I can’t, because I see Joachim and Mieke run, laugh and climb on the sill, and I tell Mrs. Bal, and she tells them off. They know it was me, and my hair hurts the way Mrs. Bal is braiding it. We wash our hands and sit down, and old Mrs. Olff pushes the metal cart with the big pot. Smoke comes out like from the witches’ cauldron. Smells horrible! And when she gives me my plate, it looks like cat vomit. Joachim pinches me under the table. I grab the fork, stare at Mieke and then at Joachim’s mean hand.
*
Joachim’s dad is on a client call when the kindergarten calls. He stares at the banner of the incoming call for a moment before deciding to stop in the middle of his sentence, brush the phone against the lapel of his navy suit and answer the call while leaving the previous one without notice. Mrs. Bal explains, factually, what happened, apologizes for the inconvenience, and asks for Joachim—who is still howling in the background—to be picked up and taken to the children’s hospital. Three emails arrive in this time. The client calls back twice. Joachim’s dad thanks Mrs. Bal, gets up and walks past his colleagues and into the neon-lit toilet at the end of the hall. He locks himself in one of the stalls, hangs up his suit jacket on the back of the door, and sits taking deep, acrid breaths while waiting for the beads of sweat on his back to dry. He should have asked to speak with Joachim, he thinks, to let him know daddy’s there, daddy’s coming.
*
The young blond nurse at the sorting counter elbows her colleague, nods to the father whose lap holds a sleeping little boy. Her colleague puckers her lips, seems to be thinking. She holds a large, pink, sugar-powdered doughnut.
‘A seven-eight.’
‘What?’
‘He’d be an eight point five if he didn’t look so stressed.’
‘His child’s hurt!’
‘He’s balding.’
‘He’s not!’
The young blond nurse watches her colleague close the door. Behind her high desk, she brushes her breasts with her hand. Her nipples harden. She circles round and round the areolas of her left breast through her shirt, eyes glued to the half-asleep man in the blue suit.
‘A seven-eight.’
‘What?’
‘He’d be an eight point five if he didn’t look so stressed.’
‘His child’s hurt!’
‘He’s balding.’
‘He’s not!’
The young blond nurse watches her colleague close the door. Behind her high desk, she brushes her breasts with her hand. Her nipples harden. She circles round and round the areolas of her left breast through her shirt, eyes glued to the half-asleep man in the blue suit.
*
‘He’ll be alright. Won’t you?’ the doctor says, bending down on the side of the desk and emerging with a bowl of salty crackers.
Joachim reaches out and grabs a handful with his unbandaged hand. She laughs, and the boy’s father laughs too, shaking his head, exhaling. It’s silent in the consultation room, aside from Joachim’s small, fierce teeth ripping through the dry pretzel. She’s typing the report.
‘Terrible how kids can be,’ the father says.
She looks up at him, still typing, and nods.
‘Human,’ she answers, smiles again, and returns to the report. She needs to urinate. She wants to sleep. She wants to be home. She takes a deep breath, keeps typing. The child-patient reaches across the table despite his dad’s polite protests.
‘Here you are,’ she says, big grin on her face, handing him the bowl of crackers.
Joachim reaches out and grabs a handful with his unbandaged hand. She laughs, and the boy’s father laughs too, shaking his head, exhaling. It’s silent in the consultation room, aside from Joachim’s small, fierce teeth ripping through the dry pretzel. She’s typing the report.
‘Terrible how kids can be,’ the father says.
She looks up at him, still typing, and nods.
‘Human,’ she answers, smiles again, and returns to the report. She needs to urinate. She wants to sleep. She wants to be home. She takes a deep breath, keeps typing. The child-patient reaches across the table despite his dad’s polite protests.
‘Here you are,’ she says, big grin on her face, handing him the bowl of crackers.
*
Bed warm, light on, pizza in the belly, dad reads from grandpa’s book, my hand still hurts.
‘Here,’ I say, ‘what’s this, read here.’
‘Great cormorant, common spoonbill, great—’
‘Egret.’
‘Right… White-tailed eagle, Eurasian bittern, common kingfisher—’
‘Tell me one with a white-tailed eagle, an egret, a lion and tiger—’
‘A story?’
‘And with a dragon. Yes. Story.’
Daddy rolls his eyes, his breath like onion soup.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit tired. How about we read one more page and you get to—’
‘You don’t tell me stories like grandpa. You don’t even know animals.’
‘Well…’ He makes a cough sound from his throat. ‘Grandpa does know them better. Maybe better than he knows humans—’
His phone rings, he stares at it, the skin above his eyes like grandpa’s neck. He answers.
‘Here,’ I say, ‘what’s this, read here.’
‘Great cormorant, common spoonbill, great—’
‘Egret.’
‘Right… White-tailed eagle, Eurasian bittern, common kingfisher—’
‘Tell me one with a white-tailed eagle, an egret, a lion and tiger—’
‘A story?’
‘And with a dragon. Yes. Story.’
Daddy rolls his eyes, his breath like onion soup.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit tired. How about we read one more page and you get to—’
‘You don’t tell me stories like grandpa. You don’t even know animals.’
‘Well…’ He makes a cough sound from his throat. ‘Grandpa does know them better. Maybe better than he knows humans—’
His phone rings, he stares at it, the skin above his eyes like grandpa’s neck. He answers.
*
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Joachim says nothing back, and Mom prods me from behind. I lean over the phone. ‘Sorry. But you pinched me.’
‘Ok,’ says Joachim. ‘I had a whole pizza with salami.’
‘Can I have a slice? Joachim, can I please, please have a slice?’
Some noise on the phone. No words.
‘Can we play together tomorrow?’ I ask the phone.
Mommy pats my head, then says things fast, showing her teeth and being really happy to Joachim’s papa. Once the phone is in her pocket, she rushes me to bed.
‘Ok,’ says Joachim. ‘I had a whole pizza with salami.’
‘Can I have a slice? Joachim, can I please, please have a slice?’
Some noise on the phone. No words.
‘Can we play together tomorrow?’ I ask the phone.
Mommy pats my head, then says things fast, showing her teeth and being really happy to Joachim’s papa. Once the phone is in her pocket, she rushes me to bed.
*
Fifty emails. A round number sits in blue font, bluer than the blue light shining over Joachim’s father’s face, lighting his blue suit's chest, the rest of the living room submerged in darkness. The city sleeps. Another light—the phone—and Joachim’s father answers it with haste before the sound wakes up Joachim, who is sleeping two doors away.
‘Yes?’
‘Bad time?’
‘No, Dad. Perfect time.’
‘What happened?’
Joachim’s dad brushes his hand over his face, index finger and thumb pausing in the deep, exhausted crevices of his eyes.
‘Work. Joachim had an accident at the daycare. Some crazy girl stuck a fork in his hand, and I picked him up early.’
‘Oh. How is he?’
He shrugs. ‘Better. Complaining about my knowledge of natural science. I don’t reach your standards, seemingly.’
The older man laughs, throaty. ‘My one remaining fan.’
‘What’s going on?’
A deep breath. Joachim’s dad listens for his own dad to find words.
‘We’re shooting them down at dawn.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t read the news.’
‘Dad, my day—’
‘It’s alright. I understand—’
‘Shooting what?’
‘Mostly the red and roe deer. For now.’
‘How many?’
The old man whistles. ‘Two, three, four hundred, maybe more.’
‘That’s why you called.’
The living room is silent. The laptop screen goes to sleep. Joachim’s dad’s eyes are painted over black. The phone's static purrs like a cat.
‘I miss you,’ the old man says.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Joachim’s dad says. ‘That’s twenty, thirty years of work.’
‘Hope Joachim feels better tomorrow.’
The call ends. The screen light flickers, then goes dark again. Joachim’s dad gets up and opens the window. Cold air rushes into the room. He breathes it in—fresh, open, its dry taste lingering at the back of his mouth. He’s starving. On a line not far away, a train roars past.
‘Yes?’
‘Bad time?’
‘No, Dad. Perfect time.’
‘What happened?’
Joachim’s dad brushes his hand over his face, index finger and thumb pausing in the deep, exhausted crevices of his eyes.
‘Work. Joachim had an accident at the daycare. Some crazy girl stuck a fork in his hand, and I picked him up early.’
‘Oh. How is he?’
He shrugs. ‘Better. Complaining about my knowledge of natural science. I don’t reach your standards, seemingly.’
The older man laughs, throaty. ‘My one remaining fan.’
‘What’s going on?’
A deep breath. Joachim’s dad listens for his own dad to find words.
‘We’re shooting them down at dawn.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t read the news.’
‘Dad, my day—’
‘It’s alright. I understand—’
‘Shooting what?’
‘Mostly the red and roe deer. For now.’
‘How many?’
The old man whistles. ‘Two, three, four hundred, maybe more.’
‘That’s why you called.’
The living room is silent. The laptop screen goes to sleep. Joachim’s dad’s eyes are painted over black. The phone's static purrs like a cat.
‘I miss you,’ the old man says.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Joachim’s dad says. ‘That’s twenty, thirty years of work.’
‘Hope Joachim feels better tomorrow.’
The call ends. The screen light flickers, then goes dark again. Joachim’s dad gets up and opens the window. Cold air rushes into the room. He breathes it in—fresh, open, its dry taste lingering at the back of his mouth. He’s starving. On a line not far away, a train roars past.
*
Down where the reedbeds sting the clay, feed the greylag geese. Loose feathers fur the marshy ground. A burying beetle tries to unstick its feet. Willow trees, a raven pushes off, circles, circles, lands, picks at the black worms emerging from the rotting neck of a Heck cow. The raven twists its nervous head. Plump, he stares, the worms rippling in waves, all around. Shots crack at dawn. Animal legs drum against the ground, and soon their bodies slam against its coldness.
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Cristian Leata is an ex-management consultant, now an MSt student in Creative Writing at the University of Oxford. His fiction and non-fiction work has been published in Litro, The Frogmore Papers, and others. You can read more of his writing on his Substack: https://cristianleata.substack.com/
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