Victoria Heartwood

The Skinner and the Elephant

 

The Skinner unlocked the door to the cage and grabbed a fox around the neck. The animal flattened its ears in reproach. Amused, the man pushed his face right up to its shiny black nose. “What’s it gonna be?” he asked.

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“Skunk,” the fox answered.

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“Bold choice, mate,” the Skinner said.

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The fox narrowed his eyes. “When this is over,” he spat, revealing the sharp points of his teeth, “if there’s any stink left in that skin, I’m coming back and emptying it all over you.”

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The man roared with laughter. “I like you, Red,” he said and strapped the fox to the operating table. He shaved the animal’s forearm and punched the port through a vein.

“I think I’ll make a pair of slippers for myself in your honor,” he said and started the intravenous drip.

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The fox struggled momentarily before slackening on the cold aluminum.

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The Skinner worked quickly, scraping the lustrous fur from the fascia. He looked down at the naked fox, raw and glistening beneath the overhead lights, and took a deep breath before sewing its body up into a skunk skin from the cooler. On his way home from work, the Skinner tossed the animal in a hollow where it had a good chance of healing from its wounds beneath a tangle of barberry. 

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The following spring, the Skinner trapped an abundance of animals: mostly rabbits and stoats, but also a comely Maine Coon house cat that got a little too curious. They cowered in a corner of the crowded cage. When he flung open the door a crooked skunk hobbled to the center. He hadn’t seen him there before.

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“I speak on behalf of my friends,” croaked the skunk. “We go together.”

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“The lot of you couldn’t fit into a coonhound,” the Skinner laughed. 

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“All of us,” said the skunk, pointing his nose to the kennels lining the room where coyotes, lynx, and bobcats paced in their separate cells. 

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The Skinner rubbed his chin and look around. Harvesting all those furs at once would allow him to take the rest of the month off. “I’ve got one elephant skin,” he said. “Never had any use for that old bag before.”

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“We’ll take it,” the skunk said.

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The Skinner worked all afternoon, anesthetizing the animals and slicing them out of their coats. The skunk was shot through with scar tissue and the man wasn’t sure if he was going to make it, so he stuffed the grizzled body down into the left foreleg of the elephant skin. If the foot should turn gangrenous, it could be amputated to save the whole animal. The Skinner arranged to have the behemoth carted away, before it awoke, by the proprietor of a nearby game farm.

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At the end of the month, the Skinner and two of his buddies took off on a hunting trip.

“I wanna show you something first,” he told his friends, pulling over at the game farm. “There’s an elephant here unlike anything you’ve ever seen.”

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They strolled through the forested grounds, hackles up, guns slung around their shoulders. They jumped each time they heard a stick snap and laughed at each other’s hypervigilance. A solitary white wolf threaded through the trees in the distance, like a ghost, and the men shivered in awe. At the edge of the woods was a bucolic field, tall grasses swaying with the breeze. The men sat out in the open, warmed by the sun, and drank leisurely from their canteens. The Skinner couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched by hundreds of eyes. He stood and said, “Either we lie here all day, or we get to camp before dark.” His friends stretched and groaned, nestling down in the grass. “Come on, mates,” he said. “What’s it gonna be?”

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The trees at the edge of the field rustled and, suddenly, an elephant barged forth like a steam engine clattering over a wooden track. It lurched toward them, with misshapen legs jutting at impossible angles. The men’s mouths hung open and they scrambled to their feet, fumbling their rifles, and fleeing as soon as the elephant trampled the guns… and the Skinner. He flopped over, covered in blood, to face the beast. 

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“What’s it gonna be?” asked the elephant, the left foot hovering above the man’s skull.

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“Mercy,” moaned the Skinner, aware of an acrid scent wafting from the animal’s thick toes.

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“Bold choice, mate,” said the elephant, coiling him in its trunk and lumbering back to the forest. “I have the skin of an old snake, God rest his soul, that I think you’ll fit into quite nicely.”

 

Victoria Heartwood is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer whose short stories and poetry have been published (some under the name Victoria Forester) by Washington Square Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Spectrum, Belletrist, Funicular Magazine, The Worcester Review, 580 Split, Moonchild Magazine, and more. She holds a master’s degree in fiction and a doctorate in higher education with a focus on embodied learning. Stay in touch with Victoria at www.victoriaheartwood.com, on Twitter @DoveVictoria, and through Instagram @victoria.heartwood.

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