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El Castrator always came to the village late in the Spring. He traveled from village to village after the crops were in, gelding all the livestock from the previous year. He was really nothing more than a peasant himself, raising a few coins to supplement his income, just as his father did even before Ferdinand and Isabella liberated Spain from the Infidels. He would roll into the village with his ox-cart and spend a day or two under the big oak near the church. Seeing him arrive, the villagers would bring in the yearling stock they wanted cut. Juan Pedro and I would sneak away from our chores and watch him work. The peasant farmers usually sent their older boys and girls with the animals to wait their turn, so a small crowd would gather. There would be piglets in baskets, bawling calves away from their mothers for the first time, prancing young colts, cute lambs held in arms. The small animals were hung upside down from the old oak tree and operated upon, the larger animals were tied to the side of his cart. The girls giggled, the boys stared in a mixture of awl and sympathy as animal after animal was castrated. El Castrator joked and teased us as he worked. But he was nice to us, so we helped him by handing him the small animals or the hemp cords he used to tie the larger ones down.
Adults without animals came and went too-- mostly men-- to gossip with El Castrator about other villages or people, or joke about his work. But it was unusual to see several members of the same family arrive at one time. Our friend Francisco waved at us when he arrived with his father and uncle. His father wouldn’t let him come visit with us, so Juan Pedro and I went over to him. Francisco’s father was proudly talking about him. We had heard the story so many times before: how Francisco sang so beautifully at Mass when the Bishop visited last February that His Reverence invited him to come sing for him in his cathedral in Madrid. "I understand completely" responded El Castrator, "just let me finish this calf, and we’ll take a look." El Castrator used the magic trick of the rope to drop the calf, one loop behind the front legs, another loop in front of the hind legs, pull the rope tight, and the animal falls helpless. We watched El Castrator deftly slice into the sack, then quickly worked the two orbs out and slice through their cords, freeing the testicles from the paralyzed calf. A moment later the ropes were let lose and the calf slowly got back on its feet, and the girl who brought him gave El Castrator a copper penny and led the new steer back home. Then, under the watchful eyes of the father and uncle, El Castrator beckoned Francisco to sit on the edge of his cart. He started to pull Francisco’s tunic over his head. Francisco tried to hold it down for a moment, but then his father and uncle snapped at him so he let go. Everyone there had seen Francisco naked before. In the summers we boys never worried too much about clothes. Francisco was only embarrassed because his little penis was erect from watching the calf being gelded. Some of us giggled at seeing it, especially the girls. El Castrator coaxed Francisco’s knees apart, and only then did it occur to Juan Pedro and I that El Castrator was thinking about gelding Francisco. Francisco realized it at about the same time. "What are you going to do?" he asked, looking at El Castrator, then his uncle and father. All the children went quiet, paying special attention, and even the girl whose calf was just finished returned to see what was going on. El Castrator left dark streaks of blood on Francisco’s pale, hairless sack as he manipulated his balls between his fingers. "How old?" "Thirteen, second son of my second wife." Francisco's father responded "Well, we could wait a year, but there’s always a chance..." "I have three other sons. Let’s go ahead." Poor Francisco. He didn’t even know what to say. El Castrator glanced around and saw us. "You two scamps, crawl under my cart and tie two cords onto either end of the axle. We did so. El Castrator tested the strength of each of our knots then he tied each of Francisco’s ankles back under the cart. "Let’s wait a year, can’t we?" Francisco pleaded with his father. "No, no. The Bishop will be so pleased! And you’ll have a long career with His Reverence, a better life than you could have here." We crawled out from under the cart to see El Castrator wiping his small knife off on the side of his bloody leather apron. He then pushed gently on Francisco’s chest. Francisco lied down on his back, and uncle and father each took hold of one of his arms from behind the cart. "You’re going to geld Francisco?" one of the sillier, small girls asked out loud. "Don’t worry, honey," El Castrator assured her. "Francisco will be fine. I’ve done this to many boys in my time." "I didn’t know they gelded boys, too!" Juan Pedro blurted out, stunned. "Oh, yes, yes. To save their beautiful voices for the glory of God." El Castrator assured him. "Do you sing in the choir, son?" "Me?" Juan Pedro squeaked out. "No. Father Marcos pushed me out last Autumn." Francisco’s erection was gone, but mine strained out more than ever. I was reminded of when Juan Carlos and I convinced Francisco to play Mare and Stallion with us, and we lost our virginity in his tight, warm backside. Francisco’s father was telling him to be brave and show everyone how brave he was, but Francisco was already sniffling. His father and uncle sighed when Francisco pissed an arch up into the air, because El Castrator brought his knife close to Francisco’s tight sack. "Just breathe deep son, and say a prayer to the Virgin." With his knife ready, El Castrator looked up at Francisco’s father, who gave him a final nod of approval. Francisco started crying as El Castrator began cutting—following the natural line going down the middle of the scrotum. Blood began to ooze down his crotch and another smaller, spurt of urine sprouted out of Francisco’s shrunken foreskin as the scrotum squirmed and shrank like a snake's skin when it tries to get out of your hands. But the real struggling started when El Castrator finished opening the sack and then began pushing out an orb with his free hand. "Hold on now," he warned the men holding Francisco’s arms. Francisco’s eyes were full of tears as he squirmed helplessly on El Castrator’s dirty cart, moaning and biting his lower lip. I could tell Francisco was trying hard not to scream out in front of all us. He was trying to lift his head up to see what was happening to him. His chin was quivering as he held back sobs. El Castrator cut one of the small nuts free from a final membrane, and then dragged his bloody knife over the cords without a second thought. "One more to go, son!" The little girl put her hand on Francisco’s bare knee to comfort him. El Castrator leaned forward, and as his leather apron swung away from his body, I could see or imagine that he too had a big erection, and I felt better about my own. Juan Carlos was absent-mindedly stroking his, but we all knew he did that all the time. Francisco was openly sobbing now, as El Castrator spread the wound to better free the final orb from the membranes and small tendons that hopelessly held the remaining little organ in place. El Castrator made a few small slashes and the last oval emerged. Finally, El Castrator quickly slid his blade against the cords. As they separated, one end retreated back into Francisco’s bloody wound. The other clung to the dying organ that El Castrator tossed aside near its twin. The girl with calf gave a loud sigh. "We can stitch up the wound, or burn it with a hot iron, just to be safe." El Castrator announced to the men still holding Francisco’s arms tight above his head. "No, he’ll be alright," his father announced. El Castrator nodded to them, and they let Francisco’s arms go. Our friend wiped his eyes, then he began to soothe his shrunken penis. El Castrator gestured to us to crawl under the cart and untie the knots on his ankles. "Get up now, it wasn’t so bad." El Castrator took Francisco’s hand from his penis and coaxed him to sit up on the cart. Juan Carlos and I stood beside our friend, but couldn’t keep our eyes off the bloody, flabby sack under the little nub of a penis. We didn’t know what to say. Francisco didn’t dare bring his knees together, and we all examined his wound with him as he slowly bent his head down, and spread his sweaty, inner thighs slightly to better see what remained between his legs. El Castrator was already preparing a young lamb by hanging it by its hind legs under the oak tree. Before we knew it, one of the village mutts had gobbled up one of Francisco’s balls and was running away with the other, followed by several other members of its pack. "In a month you’ll be living in the Bishop’s Palace and singing in his choir!" Francisco's father encouraged him. The adults around him nodded. Finally Francisco’s father coaxed him to get up off the cart, and Francisco sobbed almost as much as when he was being gelded. Drops of blood fell on Francisco’s legs. El Castrator came back over to Francisco, bent over and looked at Francisco’s crotch. "The bleeding will stop soon. You’ll be fine." El Castrator winked at us, then gave Francisco a playful slap on his naked behind, leaving a dusty, bloody out-line of his large hand. "We’ll go home now." Francisco’s uncle chuckled and handed El Castrator a copper penny. "May I put my tunic back on?" Francisco pleaded between his sobs. "No, you’ll stain it." His father said. So we helped Francisco walk through the village and back to his home, with his father and uncle close behind. We passed Father Marcos going the other way as we walked. "Well, I'm not sure the Bishop would approve!" He shook his head, but smiled. "But I will tell him it was the result of an accident. Chin up my singing cherub." He patted Francisco's head. "To God be the Glory!" Then off he went, humming one of Francisco's favorite hymns. "Do you think El Castrator will geld any other boys today?" Juan Pedro asked me once we left Francisco in his house. "Don’t know, but we should hurry back to be sure!" "When will Francisco go live with the Bishop?" "I don’t know. Soon I guess." "I hope we can play Mare and Stallion with him at least once more before he goes-- I mean when he's feeling better." "Me too. But should we call it gelding and stallion now?" We ran back to the old oak near the church.
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