Harlequin Rex Read Online Free Page A

see without need of sun, or moon.
    In the yard was the dog tucker ewe hung high in a tree by the kennels to beat the flies, and with a split sack to cover it. His father would unhook the rope and run it down the pulley, and swing the carcase on to the broad stump that served as butcher’s block. The heavy cleaver was never lifted high, but bit through the ribs as if they were kindling, and his father would throw a part shoulder, or leg, to each dog without moving from the block, and each dog took it according to character — with a snarl and twist to subdue it, with a fawning uncertainty, with a quick snap and retreat into the kennel. Usually his father tossed the meat with an odd, backward flip of his hand, as a card sharp deals in a routine display of skill.
    And when his father had gone on to the next chore, David might watch the dogs eat, the tucker in the sack sway high again, the white leghorns and the sparrows pick the meat and fat from the cuts in the stump. In time it was his own turn; with the same cleaver grown less mystical and the stump so much reduced, and the dog tucker in an old freezer under the tractor shed overhang, instead of strung and idling in the aromatic macrocarpa branches.
    At nine he was old enough to make mash for the chooks each morning before his own breakfast, while his father milked the cow, taking down to the fowl house one bucket half full of warm water and another of kitchen scraps, and mixing in the mash meal with an old butter pat. There were wooden troughs in the runs, and in the winter the mash steamed as he ladled it in, and the frozen chicken droppings glittered like agates in the first of the sun. When he dished out the mash, he always left the run gates open, because  there were some leghorns that roosted in the sheds and trees of the yard, and they would come stupidly running, late for their share, beaks agape.
    Nothing of this is ever lost, Alst Mousier and Schweitzer would say, though it may be inaccessible. The white leghorns run stupidly and incessantly, the dog tucker carcase sways on high, the glass poppy gleams in the faintest of light. Forever.

THREE
    Pedder Culhane was the director of the Slaven Centre at Mahakipawa — the Great White Father of the place. Everyone said how lucky they were to have him. He’d been born in Bulls and gone on to a world reputation in some of those fearsome shape-shifters coming out of Africa: Lassa fever, Ebola, HIV. He could have stayed in any of the world’s research institutions, but he came back to Mahakipawa to do what he could against Harlequin. Schweitzer, people called him at the centre, and only partly tongue in cheek. There was pride and gratitude that someone of such ability, and with such career options, chose to be heading up things at the Slaven Centre. He had graced the cover of Time magazine without becoming convinced of his own divinity. He had a wife and three daughters in Wellington, and every second weekend flew out from Nelson to visit them. All other days but those, he was on call around the clock.
    David saw him first on the orientation day for new staff. Three male and four female nurses, Polly Merhtens and David who were block aides, a visiting radiologist from Adelaide and a pudding-faced payroll guy from central admin. They were such a small group, that after Alst Mousierhad taken them for a tour of the facilities, and after the nurses and radiologist had displayed a deal of medical knowledge while Polly, David and Pudding Face added little, they were all able to fit into Mousier’s office, which was roomier than most because he was chief administrator. It was hot, and Mousier altered the slat blinds to keep out the glare of the sun.
    Mousier’s secretary brought in glasses of dilute and artificial orange drink, and Schweitzer carried one too when he came. He had a candy-striped straw in his, though, and he sat on the end of the desk with easy informality, and his cheeks sucked in as he drank. Then he said,