As far as I know, this person will come out to a farm or ranch and buy the dying or dead animal and then haul the carcase away for the hide, and to use for glue.
Now, lets shelve that bit of information for now and move on.
I have horrible dreams. Not every night, in fact, many of my dreams are wonderful, sensual, beautiful things. However, when I have a nightmare... Well, let's just say I could probably freak out Stephen King. In fact, some of my nightmares have never been told to anyone, and never will, mainly for fear that I'll be locked away in a padded cell for a while.
Last night's subconscious performance was not the worst of the bunch, but it was awful in its own way.
No violence or torture of a physical kind, but I woke up near tears and have been up since.
I dreamt that I was in a small village with only one road which led down the center of town and over a bridge separating the 'good' side of town from the slums.
I was walking across the bridge (which seemed rather steep) toward the nicer part of the village when I saw a dirty young boy trying with all his strength to pedal a bike up the bridge. The bike had a large box on the front, so it was almost like a cart being pedaled from behind.
A bit like this:
Except the cart was wooden.
The boy, who only was about 7 or so, would put all his weight on one pedal and then the other, but was not making much progress and he began to cry.
I walked over to the boy and asked him if I could help.
At first he didn't want me to, I think he was embarrassed, but the after a few more futile efforts, he silently motioned to a rope at the front of the cart.
I took the rope over my shoulder and with him pedaling and me pulling, the cart began to move.
It seemed very heavy and I noticed that is was fully loaded a little over the top of the box and covered with a grey blanket so I couldn't see what the shapes were.
I asked the little boy, "Where are you taking the cart?"
The boy quietly mumbled, "I'm the knackerboy, ma'am," as if that explained it all.
I thought about it and wondered if this young boy's task was really to get the carcases from surrounding farms and take them to the slaughterhouse.
The lumps under the blanket looked too small to be livestock. Young animals, maybe? Deer? Either way, what an awful job for a young child.
"So do you need to go to the slaughterhouse?"
"No, ma'am. The church."
"Why are we taking animal carcases to the church?"
The boy stopped and stared at me, then slowly lifted a corner of the blanket.
The cart was full of the bodies of children. Some of them babies. All grey and slightly bloated in death.
I dropped the rope and stepped back, agape at what he had shown me.
The boy put the corner down, pedaled the cart to the church door (we were nearly there) and knocked. After a short greeting to the priest, the boy and another person took the cart to the back of the church.
I approached the priest and asked what was happening.
"The families of those children pay the boy's parents to have their children taken here to be buried."
"Oh wow... I'm going to give him some money."
"You can't. If his parents find out he took charity from someone, they'll beat him."
My god. It explained why he he didn't want me to help at first.
I found out that his parents were home, laying about, while their 7 year old son carted the bodies of dead children and babes to the church.
I met up with the boy and tried to give him an oatmeal cookie, but he'd only take half and only that on the condition that I eat the other half with him. So I did.
I woke up and couldn't sleep after that. My mind keeps replaying the dead faces of the children and the live face of a little boy who was nearly dead inside.
