The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

“I’ll take him.”

  “How long do you think he’s going to stay on your side of the fence with the sheep on the other?”

  “I’ll keep him inside.”

  “No you won’t.” Jiri’s cat tugged at the long sleeve of his sweater.

  “You can’t just put him down.”

  “He’s not a pet. He never will be. And I have had four farmers come by to look at him as a working dog. He just about smashed through his cage trying to get at them. He would have torn them to pieces.” Jiri stroked his cat sadly. “The poor dog did his job, he protected the sheep and Jack shot him. He’s crazy now. He trusts nothing at all. And no farmer with any sense will trust this dog. I wouldn’t trust this dog. His livestock days are over.” Jiri lifted the cat off his lap and set it on the floor. “It’s not fair, I know.”

  “Why did you do the damn surgery?” asked Marilyn as she stood up.

  “Because Jack told me to,” Jiri said sharply.

  Bridget was in the kitchen washing dishes when Fred walked in. “Um, um, could you cook up some sausages?”

  She opened the fridge, pushed some cans around and pulled out a package. “How many do you want?”

  “All of them, please,” said Fred.

  Bridget looked down at the package of eighteen in her hand. “Hungry boy.” When she looked up, Fred was gone.

  Fred sat beside Taillon’s cage and thumbed through a stack of letters. Most of them were from rabid hockey fans, and some of them made Fred a little uncomfortable because they suggested he should have hit Madison with something heavier than a pie. One had suggested a shovel, another a brick. And Fred was shocked to read that one man thought a bullet would have been best. There sure were a lot of kooks out there.

  Sitting near the bottom of the stack was an angry letter from his father. It expressed George’s disappointment about what Fred had done and how it had brought shame to everyone. It implied it would be a cold day in hell before George ever spoke to Fred again. This brought a rueful smile to Fred’s face as he gently folded it back into the envelope and stuffed it in one of his pockets.

  Bridget called from the window. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Fred pushed himself up and came inside. Bridget poured him a glass of milk. “How’s our rebel with a cause tonight?”

  “Um, not bad, not bad.”

  Jiri had already put out plates and cutlery and a salad. A bowl held the cooked sausages. Fred grabbed the bowl and went back outside.

  Jiri went to the window and watched as Fred put the bowl on the ground. He pulled a hook off the cage and opened the gate. “No, Fred! He’s not sedated any more! I told you!”

  By the time Jiri arrived outside it was too late. The gate was closed and Fred was inside. He had placed the bowl of sausages in the middle of the cage. Fred sat at one end and Taillon, growling, eyed him suspiciously from the other.

  Jiri opened the gate. “Get out.”

  Taillon began barking fiercely. “Buh, buh, you are making him angry, shut the door and then hush.”

  Jiri grabbed Fred’s arm. Taillon lunged, just missing Jiri’s wrist. Fred froze. Jiri stumbled backwards. Taillon snarled, snapped and slowly returned to his side of the cage. Fred slammed the gate shut.

  Bridget yelled from the kitchen window: “Leave them alone, he knows what he’s doing.”

  Jiri retreated reluctantly and went inside. He checked to make sure his rifle was loaded by the back door before returning to the kitchen window.

  Taillon’s nose twitched from the smell of the sausages. He had lost a lot of weight. His giant tongue dropped out of his mouth and made one big circle around his lips. “Buh, buh, you have been to h, e, double hockey sticks and back, um, um, you must be hungry as a horse.”

  Bridget stood captivated at the window, silently cheering Fred on as she would have if she had been watching him play hockey.

  Taillon stared fiercely at Fred, who refused to break eye contact. “The veteran Aryan says you are in between two worlds and that is not such a bad place to be if you really think about it.” Fred reached for the bowl, thinking he would toss a piece. Taillon growled. “Okay, okay, I won’t touch your food even though I am hungry too, buh, buh, I brought it for you, so c’mon down.”

  Taillon sat, then slowly approached and stood before the bowl. Steam from the sausages rose up in the cold air. The first bite was small, tentative. The remaining bites were big, sloppy, satisfying. When the bowl was empty, Taillon licked its inside with such enthusiasm that he knocked it over.

  At this point Taillon did not retreat to his side of the cage as Fred had expected him to. He stood there licking the sausage juice from the hairs around his mouth. And once he was done licking, he scratched an itch behind his shoulder. Still he did not move.

  Bridget bit her bottom lip, as she knew that Fred was well past centre ice and was passing the blue line, heading for the net.

  Fred crept forward. Taillon noticed, growled, then looked away. Fred moved closer. He knew right then that more than anything else in the world, all he wanted was to touch.

  Fred was near enough that the vapour from Taillon’s breath disappeared only inches from his face.

  Fred’s hand came up. He avoided the shaved patch on Taillon’s throat, choosing instead the other side of his neck, underneath his ear. There was a hint of hesitation, but Fred’s hand found its mark and disappeared into the thick, white coat. The sound of whimpering that followed was unmistakable. It just wasn’t certain from whose chest it came. Or whether it came from both.

  fifteen

  Fred’s search at the back of the garage was ending on a promising note. The old issue of Playboy he found in a box stuffed with farming almanacs may not have been Jack’s gun, but it was a coup nonetheless. Fred poked through a toolbox. He kicked pieces of sheep’s wool aside and felt inside the rims of tires until he saw the black stains on his fingers.

  Over in a far corner he pushed aside a bundle of wire fencing and yanked a picnic basket out. There was a bag inside. He popped the lid. A faint, foul odour drifted up. Fred peered inside. Bones. Petrified skin. Fred’s eyelids blinked rapidly. He dropped the bag and sat down on a tire.

  Jack tossed a stack of wood into the back of his two-ton. The mountain of firewood had been reduced to a pimple. He glanced up and saw Kenton strolling beside the ram field. He appeared to be lost in thought, so Jack was surprised when he walked up and said that Fred wanted to see him in the Enchanted Forest. Kenton’s hands were covered in dirt.

  Jack looked despairingly at the nearly empty truck bed. He had wanted to get the truck loaded before sundown. “I’ll load,” said Kenton, and he started tossing pieces of wood.

  “Here, son.” Jack handed Kenton his work gloves. “You’ll get splinters.”

  It didn’t take Jack long to find Fred. The Enchanted Forest was not that big. And when he found him, Fred had sweat dripping from his nose and a smear of dirt across his forehead. A pickaxe and shovel were leaning against a tree. “Hey, hey, hey,” said Fred when he saw Jack.

  “I see you dug a hole there,” said Jack, walking up.

  “Um, um, the ground is not too frozen yet.”

  The ground was more frozen than Fred was saying. Jack knew what it would have taken to dig that hole. But before he could tell Fred how impressed he was, he saw bones and skin at the bottom of the hole. “What the hell’s that?”

  “Um, um, what was the name of your old kitty cat who died not so long ago?”

  “Norman?”

  “The Great, that’s it and that is him, buh, buh, he has lost some weight.”

  Jack looked confused. “Where did you find him?”

  “In the garage, um, um, just like your typewriter, don’t ask why. I guess that is where I took him after Taillon gave him back to me so maybe we could bury him together and, I don’t know, bury our differences at the same time, okay, shhh.” Fred handed Jack the shovel. Jack scooped the first load of dirt into the hole.

  “Hold on.” Fred pulled the b
attered dime novel cover from his pocket and placed it carefully in the hole.

  “What’s that?”

  “The sunless city, back where it belongs and Badger said it was too jinglistic anyway.”

  “Jingoistic?”

  “That too, and sexist, buh, buh, the secret codes will now be buried forever.”

  Fred pushed dirt into the hole and Jack began shovelling. “So tell me the truth, was it a pie all along? Even that night at the final home game?”

  “Yes, um, um, Badger said that a man from Newfoundland was the first human to throw a pie in someone’s face and that was two centuries ago, buh, buh, just like with Taillon you connected the dots in a way that was not even close to the truth so it is a good thing you stayed a foot patrolman and never made detective because no crimes would have been solved and a lot of innocent people might have been shot.”

  Once the hole was filled, Fred limped over, reached for a fallen branch and stuck it in the dirt. Then Jack grabbed the pickaxe, Fred hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and they started back to the house.

  Arriving with an armful of firewood, Marilyn was the last to come inside. Jack roasted two chickens. Fred and Claudia were setting the table.

  Marilyn said it was a perfect night for a fire. Fred said it was barely cold enough and wondered when the snow would come. It took a few tries but Fred and Claudia finally had a fire started. Jack’s drab living room was transformed. The warmth became a beacon. Before too long, Dink and Pearl had curled up in front of the crackling logs.

  Kenton and Claudia waited at the table. Marilyn served up the potatoes and green beans, and Jack started carving the chickens. Fred lumbered into the living room, telling everyone it was time to stoke the fire. Gunshots exploded. Marilyn screamed and Jack told everyone to get down. Pearl scampered into the kitchen, piddling all the way. Dink tore into the bathroom and hid behind the toilet.

  Jack stepped into the living room. “Are you okay?” Fred was frozen, pointing at the fireplace. Without warning, something fell onto the burning logs, sending a shower of sparks across the floor. Jack yelled that it wasn’t over.

  “What the hell is it?” asked Marilyn.

  Jack zigzagged his way to the fireplace, grabbed the poker and stuck it into the fire. It wasn’t until he turned around that Fred and Marilyn saw it was Jack’s gun. Jack looked at Fred accusingly.

  “Buh, buh, I did not put it there, I swear, I think maybe I threw it up onto the roof before I left and, wowee, I guess I got a hole in one.”

  Shortly after Jack had brewed a pot of coffee, someone knocked at the door. Jack came back inside and told Fred he had a visitor. Fred pulled himself up and shuffled outside.

  “Who is it?” asked Marilyn.

  “Some guy named Mo.”

  Fred wasn’t gone long. When he returned to the kitchen his left hand was bobbing. His face looked as it did when he was bombing down Greaser’s Run on the tire tube. There was excitement. There was mad joy. But there was also fear.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Um, um, they want me to drop a puck at a game in Brandon, you know, because I am such a high-class celebrity.” Fred tilted his nose in the air. Nobody noticed how much his neck was trembling.

  “Oh, Fred, that’s wonderful,” said Marilyn.

  “Why don’t we all go?” said Jack.

  “Yes,” yelled Kenton.

  Fred limped over to Jack, wincing all the way, and put his hand on his shoulder. “Um, um, I don’t quite know how to say this because you have been so good to me, buh, buh, I think this is something I should do on my own, you know, go back to Brandon without my strong uncle by my side.”

  Jack nodded with genuine disappointment.

  Fred was in his bedroom packing clothes into a big hockey bag. The door, for the first time in Jack’s memory, was wide open. Fred was having a hard time deciding which sweaters to take, which headbands. The choices were endless.

  “I’ve got to tell you something before you leave,” said Jack, leaning against the door frame.

  Fred was fussing over a stack of ski gloves. He couldn’t choose, so he tossed the whole stack in the bag.

  “We’re going to have to put Taillon down.”

  “Um, um, put him down?”

  “Put him to sleep.”

  “Buh, buh, make his heart stop with a needle?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He is not a puppy dog is he?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Um, um, Jiri told me.”

  “I think it’s best we get it done before you come back.”

  Fred stopped for a moment, “And maybe by then I will have forgotten. That is smart.” Fred threw a pile of sweaters into his hockey bag. He waited until he heard Jack shut the back door behind him. And then he limped over to the window sill, paused, and smashed his fist down upon his log cabin, shattering it with one blow, sending pieces scattering across the floor.

  Fred dragged the old sheepskin across Jiri’s backyard. Taillon stood up and wagged his tail. Fred opened the gate to the cage and gently placed the sheepskin inside. “Okay, bye.” Fred’s voice was quivering and to stay longer was out of the question. He limped back to Jack’s truck.

  Taillon inched forward, sniffing the familiar sheepskin. At first it raised the hairs on his back. But the more he smelled it, the more he liked it, and he eventually curled up on top and rested his head on his paws. He neither saw nor would have cared that the little dog from Fred’s log cabin was sitting in the far corner of his cage, watching over him.

  Fred dragged a chair over and climbed up on it, almost tipping. He stretched as far as he could and, with his fingernails, yanked the tack from the ceiling. Fred held the puck in the palm of his hand. It was heavy. Fred liked that about pucks. They had weight to them. They were black and smooth. Their shape was perfect.

  The headlights on Marilyn’s truck arrived just as Fred was tiptoeing into the kitchen. Jack’s bedroom door opened and Pearl scuttled out, whining and circling at Fred’s feet.

  Jack was puffy and disoriented from sleep. “What are you doing?”

  “I am going to the airport.”

  “I thought I was gonna drive you.”

  “Um, um, Mrs. Feniak had to go into the city and besides, she had some things she wanted me to take to Ryan so it was a fair trade all around, buh, buh, I have never forgotten that time in the store when I was looking at a magazine and the checkout lady said I had to buy it if I wanted to read it and I told her I had no money and she made me feel so small that I ran outside and she didn’t know you were my protective uncle standing in line and you told her I was handicapped and you would buy the fucking magazine and ordered her to take it outside to me and apologize and she did, um, um, I don’t like goodbyes any more than you do.”

  Jack took Fred in his arms and gave him a big hug. Fred did his best to hug back with his left arm. “You better let go or Mrs. Feniak will get the wrong idea.”

  As Jack watched Fred from the window, limping to Marilyn’s truck with the hockey bag slung over his shoulder, he wanted to yell out that he was proud of him.

  The truck turned slowly and crunched across the gravel. Jack closed the door and turned the kitchen light off. All was quiet again, except for the sound of a truck, off in the distance, heading for the highway.

  sixteen

  The plane circled and began its descent into Winnipeg. Fred’s breath steamed the window and his fingers pressed against the cold plastic. He hadn’t seen snow the whole flight. Just brown fields. Climate change. Badger was right.

  Fred shuffled from the gate with his heavy hockey bag and his Davy Crockett hat bobbing behind. He saw a raggedy-looking man standing with a piece of cardboard that said Fred Pickle in big, clumsy letters.

  “Um, um, I am Fred Pickle and I hope you are not an FBI agent disguised as an old man with a sign.”

  Virgil was speechless. He tried to recognize the young man he used to know underneath the extra pounds and t
he beard. “No, no, my name’s Virgil McLeod, I’m with the Brandon Wheat Kings.”

  Fred dropped his bag and scratched his chin. “Virgil McLeod, ding dong, now why does that name ring a bell?”

  “You don’t remember me at all?”

  “Buh, buh, give me a hint.”

  “I was the rink guy when you played here.” Fred studied every crack on Virgil’s face. “I wrote you a letter, and I even come out to see you a while back.”

  “I’ve received lots of letters and I am sorry I don’t remember, buh, buh, do not feel bad, I am brain injured.”

  Fred’s hockey bag wouldn’t fit in Virgil’s crammed trunk so Virgil put it in the back seat. He leaned across Fred to help him on with his seat belt, Fred said, “Oh, baby,” and off they went.

  Virgil navigated the highway with both hands tight on the steering wheel and a nervous eye on the steady stream of vehicles that passed his battered Cadillac. The roads were bare but he stubbornly plugged along at fifteen kilometres an hour below the speed limit. Virgil felt he had caused Fred enough injury. He didn’t need to add another.

  Virgil had not heard a word Fred had said since they had left the airport. And there had been plenty of them over the two hours it took them to get to Brandon. Fred was so preoccupied with talking that he only asked Virgil five times what he was mumbling about.

  Fred became even more animated once they arrived in the city. He recognized a park where he had taken a girl, a bottle of Newfoundland screech and a blanket. He pointed to several taverns, excitedly describing a Russian cocktail waitress he had asked to marry him. The memories flew from Fred’s mouth so quickly he had to restrain himself. “Um, um, slow down, Fred, slow down.”

  Virgil’s mind worked feverishly as well. But he just mumbled as he searched diligently but patiently for the right moment to talk. Fred suddenly threw his arm in the air and shouted. “Pull over!” Virgil did as he was told, receiving a blast from a driver on his inside lane. “Um, um, can you wait here for a minute and a half?”

  Fred pounded up a wide sidewalk and through the automatic doors of Brandon General Hospital. No sooner had the door closed before it opened again. Fred limped joyfully back to the car, his arm in the air and his double-barrelled laugh ricocheting off Virgil’s closed window.