The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  A draft from the open door sent a potato chip bag scuttling across the floor. Virgil tossed it in a garbage can and, for the first time in his career as a rink rat, he silently started rooting for someone to make the team.

  fifteen

  The wind bent and whipped the branches. The storm seemed all the more sinister because it was night. Fred stood at his rattling window, staring at his log cabin, wishing he could shrink, walk inside, light a fire and go to sleep. Instead, he clutched his hockey ticket. He didn’t know why he was so afraid. It was just a hockey game. It was supposed to be something to look forward to.

  Jack sat at his desk, hunched over the calculator. Click, click. He scribbled on a yellow legal pad. The end of the pencil found its way into his mouth. He nibbled. Thought about lead poisoning. Stopped. He looked at his latest lamb weights. He nibbled again. The dryer droned in the basement. He thought of the high winds the night before and told himself he had better go check the fences. He nibbled.

  He heard Fred opening and closing the door to his bedroom, then the step, drag, step, drag, as Fred made his way to the kitchen. “Um, um, what is there to eat?”

  Jack was busy with his next set of numbers. “Cereal.”

  “I want something hot.”

  “Toast.”

  “Toast is hot when it comes out, buh, buh, it is cold by the time it reaches Mister Belly so do you think you could make me a poached egg or two?”

  “Not now,” said Jack, writing on the legal pad again.

  “When?”

  “Damn it.” Jack grabbed an eraser and rubbed. He blew the crumbs off the page.

  “Okay, fine,” said Fred.

  “You still wanna keep Lucky Lucy?”

  Fred stared incredulously at the back of his uncle’s head. “How dare you, you said we could keep her.”

  “It’s two hundred bucks and I just need to know if it’s coming or going, that’s all.”

  “You make it seem like you are doing me the biggest favour in the world and all you talk about is how little money there is and now I am supposed to tell you not to take her to market, buh, buh, that is rotten to the core.” Fred’s face was turning red. “Holy cow.” Fred’s face turned even redder. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  Fred pounded down the stairs. Jack tapped his pencil on the legal pad. The dryer stopped, as did the soothing drone. Jack paused, seemingly interrupted. He had two totals. One with Lucky Lucy and one without. Before his pencil moved, Fred came storming upstairs. He could hardly speak he was so angry. He held a sweater in his hand. “What did you do?”

  “I put your laundry through.”

  “Um, um, I was going to do it.”

  “It’s been sitting there since yesterday morning.”

  “A different pile, buh, buh, I have been doing my laundry just fine.”

  “I was just trying to help you out,” said Jack dismissively. “It was covered in dog hair.”

  “It is ruined,” said Fred as he pulled the sweater on using his teeth and a contortion that looked a lot like a magician escaping from a straitjacket in reverse. It had shrunk. A lot. It didn’t reach his waist and the sleeves were halfway to his elbow. “Cold water, by hand, you don’t put it in the hot wash, even I know that.”

  “Then why the hell did you have it in the pile?”

  “Buh, buh, to separate when I got down there, stupid.”

  “I don’t have time for you right now,” said Jack. He could feel Fred standing there. He could hear him breathing. Fred swung his left arm, his good arm, his strong arm, and his fist hit Jack so hard in the back of the head Jack’s reading glasses ricochetted off the wall. Jack’s forehead bounced off the desk and he blacked out momentarily. He raised a hand up to protect his head but there were no further blows. Jack spun and jumped out of his chair.

  Jack’s rage almost brought his punch to Fred’s jaw, but he steered it down to Fred’s arm. And Jack hit Fred’s arm as hard as he could; big, arcing punches. And Jack screamed as he punched. “Don’t you ever hit me.” Jack continued to punch Fred’s arm. “Don’t you hit anyone.” Fred flinched with each blow. They had to hurt. Jack was strong, and he put everything he had into them. He punched Fred’s arm until he was too tired to punch any more.

  Jack waited for Fred to make the first move, to lumber out of the house. But he stayed where he was, staring. It wasn’t a challenge. He was frozen, confused. It had all happened so fast. It was Jack who lumbered out. It was Jack who ran away. And it was only when he tried to start his truck that he realized he may have broken his hand.

  Jack’s mood had improved by the time he lowered his window and turned the country music station up a notch. His hand wasn’t broken. A one-hour drive to see his local doctor and a two-hour wait while an X-ray technician was paged had shown that much. But it was badly sprained.

  The tension bandage wrapped around his hand was supposed to help. He already hated the thing and was thinking he would take it off. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he had really hauled off and punched someone. It could have been as far back as junior high school, a fight in the parking lot over a comment someone had made about his sister’s teeth.

  Punching Fred had really charged Jack’s battery, though he wasn’t certain Fred had even felt any of his punches. Sure, he’d winced a little, but the punches hadn’t seemed to affect him that much. He was as sturdy as a sack of sand.

  However, Fred’s wallop to the back of Jack’s head was something else. He had knocked Jack unconscious. It was a dirty trick, hitting him from behind. He could have broken Jack’s neck. Jack turned into the farm, thinking some good might come of the whole thing. Maybe Fred had needed a good thumping.

  Jack’s truck barrelled down the driveway and had he not caught sight of the llama out of the corner of his eye he would have hit it. Jack slammed on the brakes and jumped out. The llama took off around the side of the house. Pearl was inside, at the side window, yelping and pawing at the glass. Jack was in such a hurry to rush to the pasture, he forgot to shut off the engine.

  He hopped the fence and made his way across the field. Even from twenty metres away he knew he was too late. The ewe’s face had been ripped from the skull, the skin still attached at the nose. Blood had soaked the earth around its head. There were other pieces of meat missing from the hindquarters and the back leg was bent grotesquely under its body. And it was still breathing. Barely.

  Jack rushed back to the house and returned, loading his .38 Special as he ran. Pearl followed closely at his heels, tail stuck between her legs. She tried to sniff the ewe. “Get!” Pearl dodged Jack’s boot. The gun felt awkward in his left hand. He fired a bullet into the ewe’s head. It kicked once, then sighed. Pearl scampered away and crawled through a hole under the house.

  Jack continued on. Another ewe. Its skull crushed open, the brain exposed. But this one was already dead. He found a third further on. A bullet ended her suffering.

  The second llama was on the other side of the pasture, pacing nervously, emitting what sounded like a demented laugh. It bothered Jack that both llamas had bolted and jumped the fence. He wondered aloud where the hell Taillon was.

  Jack could see the other ewes near the barn, huddled in a protective circle. Behind the ewes, the lambs called to their mothers and their mothers called back, a dreadful wailing so loud that Jack could not hear his boots as they swished through the grass.

  As he plowed deeper into the pasture, his heart sank. The carnage was everywhere. Lamb after lamb lay dead on the grass. One had its head ripped clean from its body, the others had been savagely attacked. Jack shot those that were mangled beyond saving. He stopped counting the dead lambs when he reached ten.

  Jack’s mind was swirling but he was experienced enough to recognize that this was not a coyote attack. A coyote, or a pack, might take one, maybe two, but they attacked for food. They did not indiscriminately maul sheep. Wolves and mountain lions were too rare.

  Jack realized he’d better get the remain
ing ewes and lambs back into the corral. He ran in that direction. Around the corner of the barn he saw a terrible sight.

  Standing warily, facing Jack. The fresh blood, explicit and harsh, on the white hair of Taillon’s chest and around his mouth told Jack of an awful betrayal.

  There had been warning signs, which Jack had ignored. These tumbled together and collided with the horrible images of dead and dying sheep that were fresh and sizzling. The guard had become the hunter. Emotion seized him. Jack didn’t hesitate. He steadied his gun.

  It took a fraction of a second for Jack to pull the trigger and for the bullet to slam into Taillon. It took the big dog several more seconds to slump forward, with a look of terrible confusion in his eyes.

  The job was not done. Jack had aimed for the head, but with an unsteady and untrained left hand he had missed. He walked over to Taillon and put the barrel against his massive head. He pulled the trigger. Click. He fished inside his pocket, drew out six more bullets and started loading the gun. Taillon groaned. Once again, Jack put the gun to the dog’s head.

  A clump of dirt hit Jack in the leg. He spun around and saw Fred standing a few metres away. His knees were wet, there was dirt on his cheek and grass stains on his shirt.

  “He’s gone feral, Fred, turn your back.”

  Fred charged Jack and grabbed his arm. He was gasping for breath. “Buh, buh, you come with me.”

  Jack shook his arm free. “I’ve seen it.”

  “No!”

  Taillon continued to groan. “Fred, he’s suffering.”

  Fred grabbed Jack again. This time, he lifted him up with one hand and threw him forward.

  Fred marched Jack past the dead lambs to a section of field that Jack had not seen yet. Jack didn’t recognize Kenton at first. He was hiding behind a post. His haunted eyes carried the grim residue of what he had witnessed.

  Fred pointed to the portion of fence that Ryan had half-heartedly repaired. One of the posts had collapsed, taking the fencing down with it. “You see?”

  Jack didn’t see. So Fred led him further down the fence line. There, lying side by side, were Bonnie and Clyde. Clyde’s neck had been broken and his head was turned almost completely around. Bonnie was a bloody mess. Her body was gouged with bites, her face torn and her jaw broken. Blood pooled between them. Both were clearly dead. Jack dropped to a knee when he realized that the blood on Taillon’s coat had not come from the sheep. “Oh dear God, what have I done?”

  Fred came to Jack and put a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t know, we tried to help, buh, buh, we really did.”

  Jack shook himself free from the devastating weight of bewilderment that was pinning him down. He tucked his gun in his belt and ran back to Taillon. “Get the sheep in!” Jack dropped on top of Taillon and put his head to his chest. “Hurry!”

  Jack picked up Taillon and grimaced from the weight on his sprained right hand as he carried the giant dog around the barn to the truck. He placed him gently in the back. His shirt was now wet with Taillon’s blood.

  The sheep did not have to be herded into the corral. They scrambled inside as soon as Kenton opened the gate.

  Fred arrived at the truck just as Jack was running back outside with a towel. “Try to slow the bleeding.”

  Kenton helped Fred up. Jack tossed the towel to Fred and stopped to kneel beside Kenton. “Are you okay, boy?” Kenton nodded, his shoulders shaking. Jack messed his hair up. “You go on home now.”

  Jack jumped in the truck and spat gravel all the way down the driveway. Jiri was fifteen minutes away. Jack knew he would have to get there in five.

  Fred pressed the towel into the bullet wound on Taillon’s neck. It was only now that Fred could see the awful effects of his fight to the death with Bonnie and Clyde. Large chunks of his beautiful coat were missing. His lip was torn and bleeding.

  “Hey, hey, hey, c’mon down, Charlie Brown,” said Fred. “You sure look tired today, if you do up my jacket I will love you ’til tomorrow.” The dog’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed.

  slaughter

  one

  Jack hadn’t asked for help, but Fred saw him struggling with a pile of fence posts beside the garage. Jack’s hand had swollen overnight and he couldn’t fit it inside his work glove. Fred didn’t need to inquire as to why Jack was only using his left hand. That’s because pain helped Fred remember. His arm was so sore he could barely lift it. “Um, um, I think two handicapped fellows could run a farm just fine.”

  With the posts loaded into the back of his truck, Jack tossed in a shovel, an axe, a bucket of nails, some extra fencing and a hammer.

  They hadn’t yet reached the broken fence when Jack slammed on the brakes and jumped out. He bent down to look at something. Fred prayed that Jack hadn’t found another dead lamb. Jack hopped back in, temporarily pleased. He dropped a hammer beside Fred and put the truck in gear.

  Fred picked up the rusted hammer and looked it over. “Buh, buh, I didn’t leave it there.”

  Jack recalled his encounter with Ryan’s dogs. He should have shot and buried them when he’d had the chance. He had been too merciful. The result was fourteen dead lambs and three dead ewes. And Taillon. Jack didn’t have any more energy to think about his livestock dog. He had been up all night thinking.

  It wasn’t easy with only two good hands between them, but Jack and Fred managed to cut away the damaged wire fencing and pull out the old posts. Jack was dropping the new posts into the holes when Marilyn, Kenton and Claudia arrived. Kenton led the procession with two Thermoses. Claudia carried a tray with cups.

  Fred squealed when he saw Marilyn with a box of doughnuts. “I think someone is feeling guilty, buh, buh, as long as you brought glazed not sugar I will forgive you.”

  Jack hardly recognized Claudia without makeup and with her hair up in a clip. She almost looked like a sweet farm girl. Claudia set the tray down and left. “Hey, hey,” said Fred as he limped after her. Marilyn took a deep breath and started in their direction. Jack gently squeezed her arm.

  Fred caught up to Claudia. “Um, um, we are just about to work ourselves into a lather so could I please have a glass of water?”

  “There’s hot chocolate in the Thermos.”

  “Hot chocolate is excellent, buh, buh, it is not a thirst quencher, even before the fact.”

  Claudia rolled her eyes and walked away. Fred came back to the fence just as Marilyn was telling Jack she had to take Kenton to the library. “Um, um, can I go too?”

  “You’re staying,” said Jack. “I need help.”

  “You don’t want us to stick around?” asked Marilyn.

  “Nah, we got ’er licked.”

  Marilyn and Kenton strolled away. Jack sipped his coffee, finished his cigarette and then grabbed the bucket of nails. “All right, Fred, hold it up.”

  Fred lifted the fencing so it was flush against the post. Jack jammed a few nails between his lips. It was only when he tried to grip the hammer that he realized he didn’t have anything licked. “Damn it, you’re stronger with your left hand, do you think you can swing the hammer if I hold the nail?”

  Fred shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”

  They repositioned themselves so Jack could hold the nail with his left hand. The fencing folded over their backs. It was a precarious beginning. “Careful,” cautioned Jack.

  “No problem,” said Fred as he swung hard. It wasn’t surprising that the hammer found Jack’s thumb. It was very surprising that Jack didn’t scream.

  Claudia returned with a jug of water. “Thanks, sweetie,” squeaked Jack, who waited for her to leave before he cussed. “We’re screwed.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Fred caught up to Claudia beside an old school bus. The back end was caved in but the sign still said to stop when the lights were flashing. “Can you help us?”

  “No,” said Claudia, crossing her arms.

  “You could hammer a nail or two.”

  Claudia refused to make eye contact. She looked
instead at her house, the backyard. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Huh?”

  Claudia fidgeted. “What those boys did.”

  Fred’s face registered nothing.

  “Forget it,” said Claudia. She started walking away.

  “You are so pretty without lipstick and that little touch of red you put on your cheeks, buh, buh, you have more to offer than beautiful boobs and a heart-shaped bum.”

  Claudia stopped at the gate to the backyard. “You’re so full of shit. That’s all you look at.”

  “I am as guilty as the next guy when it comes to the fruits that are ripe for the picking, buh, buh, sometimes it’s better to hide them just a little bit and make it fun for a special boy to find them, buh, buh, Kenton is so smart it makes my head spin and his report card must be A’s from top to bottom and Ryan is a good athlete and he gets all the attention, buh, buh, what does Claudia get?”

  Fred put a hand on Claudia’s shoulder. She flinched. “I think you will find something that makes everyone step back and say, I didn’t think she could do that, and if you do something you don’t think you can do, wowee, the world is your oyster and oysters are a good aphro … a thing that makes you horny as a little devil, buh, buh, Jack hurt his hand when he was beating me and he can’t hold a hammer and I think you should come back to the five and dime, Jimmy Dean, and help us fix the fence and who knows maybe you will like it and if you don’t you can blame me and I will forget.”

  Fred turned her around and started walking her back to the fence. “I’m sixteen now,” said Claudia.

  “Buh, buh, I will be nineteen forever so maybe in a few years we could get married.”

  It took one hundred and ninety-five nails, repeated instruction from Jack and heaps of encouragement from Fred, but Claudia finally hammered the final nail home. The fence looked as good as new.

  Jack was grateful.

  Fred was ecstatic.

  Claudia pretended that it was no big deal.