writing_shadows

It’s called dhabihah, or in Hebrew, shechita; the pure and ritual slaughter of animals for consumption. The act is performed by a trained butcher, with one stroke of a blade across the throat. In dhabihah the slaughterer must be a Person of the Book; in shechita, only a Jew will suffice. Either way, I’m pretty much out.

In either case, it’s important that a man does the killing; not a man as in male, although they do both specify, but that an animal to be eaten is slaughtered to be eaten by a deliberate act of a human hand. Dead meat – the flesh of an animal that succumbed to age, weather, misfortune or predation – shall not be eaten.

The wolf must hunt, the man must slaughter; neither beast is a scavenger.

I started studying food rituals when Isabelle changed. I know from the little I’ve learned that meat contains the essence that keeps the wolf-spirit fed. Hunted meat is rich in it, or perhaps that’s the hunt itself. Farmed meat is poor.

Wolf-meat and long pork; apparently that’s where the good eating is, but that’s forbidden, which is something of a relief. I don’t take any real comfort from knowing that if an Uratha eats me I can claim definitive moral superiority, but the rules a society sets itself tells you something about them. I like knowing that there is a road that the Uratha – or the Forsaken, at any rate – turn from, although it could bring them strength.

But it’s the farmed meat that brought me to halal. There are rules for the raising of animals to be halal, as well as the ritual of dhabihah. The animals must be clean: a beast that has eaten ground-up sheep’s brain is unclean; a beast that has shuffled around a six-by-six box, ankle deep in its own filth is, surprisingly enough, unclean. Halal meat is good meat.

Some people say that dhabihah is cruel, but I’ve watched it done. I’ve looked into the animal’s eyes as the knife goes across and, more personally, I’ve been cut with a knife that sharp. I know that it doesn’t hurt. It’s almost like being tickled with a feather, until the blood comes and with it the sting, quickly dulled by shock.

The dedication to Allah may be a problem. I’m not sure it’s apt to the care and feeding of lycanthropic lunar cultists, but the alternative is to get my own slaughterman’s license and that would be a) a pain and b) almost impossible to explain. “I want to ritually slaughter a cow to make spiritually-enriched Bolognese for my werewolf girlfriend” is not something I want to be writing on a government form.

Besides, if it is better, richer, than ordinary food, Isabelle has never mentioned it.

So, I’m working on the cooking side of things, since that’s more my speed. There are a lot of rituals to choose from and I’m kind of working through them, looking for something that feels right. I’ve always kept my kitchen neat; now I worry that someone’s going to decide I’ve become obsessive. I’m growing and gathering my own herbs, grinding and mixing my own spices. It’s a bit of work, but the satisfaction is immense.

When I have the time, I might try hunting. It won’t be a wolf hunt, of course, because I’m not a wolf (nor a wolf spirit), not even in part. Still, humans have their hunting rituals as well. Maybe when I get certified for firearms I could look into getting licenses for a rifle and for stalking. Or I could just go after rabbits with a slingshot, I guess. Part of me feels a bow would be most appropriate, and I’m certain I could make one; it’s just a shame it’s completely illegal, really.

It probably seems a lot of effort to go to for something that isn’t really needed. As far as I can make out, Uratha get their essence from hunting, more than they do from eating. It feels important to me to make the effort though.

I guess it’s a little like when I was young, and Mum wouldn’t notice what I’d cooked for her. It still mattered to me that I wasn’t just feeding her any old rubbish. I taught myself to cook so that she would have something decent on her plate, whether she knew it or not. I’m doing this because I think Iz deserves the effort, whether it works or not.

Ultimately, it means more to me than it’s ever likely to mean to her, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not her spirit I’m feeding after all.