After They Came

by Tom Kavanagh

Tree trunks stuck out of the soil, spreading their roots out into the air around them. Some smaller trees had fallen down, having been unable to shoot their roots deep enough into the hill. Holes dotted the hill, some made from collapsing trees, others probably having been dug out by foxes and then abandoned. At the bottom of the ravine, a small stream ran. It had once been a lot larger, but the summer had been hot and dry, and so it had dried up. The heavy rain hadn’t done much to make it larger; all it had done was to make it into a mini marsh.

  Other than the occasional rustling of leaves or snapping twigs, it was oddly quiet.

  And then we heard it—a faint bleating.

  It was the ewe.

  “Can you hear that?” I asked, hoping that for once the sound wasn’t coming from my own head.

  “I hear it. The silly thing must have fallen down the ravine.”

  “How are we going to get down there?”

  “It looks like there’s a section that isn’t so vertical. We can scramble down there and then walk back in this direction.”

  We walked parallel to the ravine until we found a way down, and then began our search. It was tough going. The marsh that had been created by the heavy rain grabbed at our shoes. It was as if it was alive, trying desperately to drag us down to the ground. I was quicker than my dad, who had lost a lot of the speed he’d once had, and was lighter on my feet. It was easier for me to skip over the bad patches. My dad’s heavy footsteps didn’t help him, either.

  I had walked twenty metres in front, like a scout surveying the area, and then heard a noise. I looked to my left to where the sound had come from, and then saw her.

  It was the ewe.

  “I found her,” I called out as I approached the ewe.

  She was limping and obviously distressed.

  Dad rushed over but made sure to keep his distance. He didn’t want to spook her. If the ewe got scared and tried to run, she might make her injury worse.

  “She must have had a tumble down this little ravine and then got stuck.”

  “How are we going to get her out?”

  “I don’t think we can at the moment; she’s too scared.”

  “Are we going to have to wait?”

  “I guess so.”

  Great.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  * * * * *

  The next hour passed by slowly. Every so often, Dad would try to approach the ewe, only for her to bleat in fright and attempt to run away. There were times when she would fall over, unable to hold her weight on her injured foot. She would kick at Dad if he tried to approach her, and then get up and hobble away.

  After a few more exhausting attempts, Dad backed away from the ewe and stood next to me, breathing heavily after his hour-long duel.

  “Isabelle, I really don’t think we’re going to be able to do anything for her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, even if we get hold of her, I don’t see how we’re going to get her back up the ravine. She can’t put any weight on that foot. I just don’t think we can do anything for her.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means there’s nothing we can do for her, Isabelle. I’ll have to put her down.”

  “Can’t we get the vet?”

  “The vet won’t be able to do anything, and he’ll charge an arm and a leg just to come out and check on her.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle. But you know how this works. If an animal is sick, we put it down. That’s how it’s always been.”

  I considered fighting him on this until I could change his mind, but I knew it was futile. He had turned on his farmer’s brain, and so the ewe was nothing more than a burden.

  He was going to kill her, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. As he said, it was the way it had always been. And apparently you couldn’t change something just because it was the way it had always been done.

  “Okay,” I finally replied, accepting the ewe’s fate.

  “You can go back to the house if you want,” he suggested, knowing that I wasn’t supportive of what was about to happen.

  “No, I’ll stay. You’ll need help getting her into the back of the car.”

  “Are you sure? I can get one of the other farmers to help me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  It took a while for my dad to get hold of the ewe. Even though her leg was hurt, she still had a lot of fight left in her. He held her down as he produced a sharp knife from his pocket. In one swift movement, he cut the ewe’s throat, making sure that she died as quickly and as humanely as possible. The ewe’s legs kicked fiercely for a few seconds before she fell to the ground with a thud.

  It all happened very quickly.

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle. But it had to be done.”

  “I know.”

  I didn’t, but there was no point in arguing with him.

  “You wait here while I go and get the off-roader from the garage.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you going to be alright?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay. I won’t be gone long.”

  It fell deathly quiet in the ravine after the scrabbling sounds of my Dad’s footsteps stretched out of earshot. I tried to keep my eyes up, searching the canopy of trees above me for any signs of birds. But occasionally, my eyes would dart down again, meeting with the eyes of the dead ewe beside me. Her blood ran towards the small stream nearby, mixing with the murky brown water of the marsh before arriving at the water.

  A horrible feeling swelled in my stomach and spread throughout my body. My mouth watered, and I suddenly felt extremely sweaty. My breathing became rapid, and my hands shook uncontrollably. Suddenly and without warning, I felt as if I was about to throw up, and rushed towards the closest thicket of bushes.

  I’d never reacted that badly to seeing blood. Living on a farm meant seeing blood on a regular basis, even if my dad tried to hide me from it. But even when I did see it, it was more cold and sterile in the backdrop of the farm. In nature, it was unforgiving and violent.

  Soon after I’d been sick, I heard Dad’s off-roader making its way into the field. I could see it stop just outside a section of broken fence, unable to make it through the worst of the overgrowth.

  Slowly but surely, my dad made his way into the ravine, scrambling down on his bum for most of it, making sure to dodge branches and holes.

  “I brought some rope. We can tie it around a tree, and then on to the back legs of the ewe. That way, I can pull it up, and all you have to do is give it a nudge if it gets stuck in a hole or on a root. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s get going; it’s going to take a long time.”

  I grabbed the ewe by the back of the legs and helped haul her up the ravine. It was slow going; the ewe was heavy and kept getting stuck on roots. Once she was in the back of Dad’s small metal trailer, I felt like I could try to put her out of my mind for just a second. I didn’t want to throw up again. But as I climbed on to the off-roader, I saw streaks of blood on my hand and on the throttle. Once again, it wasn’t as if I’d never seen blood before, but it felt somehow different now.

  The whole way my dad had dealt with the situation felt different. He hated to lose animals on the farm, so I naturally thought that he would try to save the ewe. But he had killed her so easily.

  He hadn’t even called the vet.

  He always called the vet.

  Something strange was happening.

  He didn’t seem as sad about losing animals. There wasn’t the same sadness behind his eyes that usually accompanied those situations. It was almost as if he’d left his body, leaving just a shell, an empty vessel for something else to inhabit.

  I didn’t feel like I recognized him anymore.

  * * * * *

  The drive back felt long, even if it was only half a mile.

  Dad’s off-roader didn’t get along with our disused field, the suspension creaking and
moaning with each bump and dip. We hadn’t used the off-roader in a while; there were cobwebs covering a lot of the engine and brakes.

  I made sure to keep my eyes fixed on the sky, unable to look at the blood on my hands for even a second without feeling brutally ill. I could hear the trailer rattling behind us. Occasionally the sound of the sheep’s head thumping against the metal cage was audible over the sound of the engine, a horrible, morbid reminder of what was following closely behind us.

  We snaked our way over the worst of the field and darted through the final row of trees that separated us from the main gate and back to the farmhouse. Just as we passed through the thickest of the tree line, out of the corner of my eye, I could see something flash past. That same uncomfortable feeling swelled inside of me. It was like the feeling where you know someone is staring at you. The hairs at the back of your neck rise, like a cat about to attack. Something was definitely out there, and it was following the off-roader as it went back to the house. My grip tightened around my dad’s waist. I could feel my heartbeat quicken in my chest; I wouldn’t have been surprised if my dad had felt it, too. It didn’t slow down until we passed the final gate, well away from the tree line, which was likely now infested with those odd little creatures that leaped from tree to tree.

  Just after we got back to the farmhouse, a mist had begun to settle in the valley, spreading as it had done that morning. It was as if those little creatures had set off smoke machines so that they could pass through the trees more easily without getting seen. They were obviously intelligent, and knew that they would likely be killed if they exposed themselves.

  I watched the mist fall from the tree line like a waterfall, while my dad got a firepit ready for the ewe that had died earlier in the week. She had been in the garage since we first transported her there.

  “What are you going to do with the ewe that died today?”

  “We can use that one for meat because it’s fresh, but we’ll have to burn the other one.”

  “Burn her?”

  “Yes, burn her. Can’t bury her, and I don’t want to pay for a vet to dispose of her.”

  “But . . .”

  “Isabelle, this is part of living on a farm. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes . . .”

  But the truth was that I didn’t understand. He had never been this callous towards the animals, so unwilling to provide proper attention and care. He used to hate losing animals, but now it seemed like he couldn’t care less. It seemed as though he thought of them as more of a nuisance: something that needed to be fed until it was too much of a bother.

  I shivered as I watched Dad throw the dead ewe on a pile of wood, but it wasn’t because of the cold. The sound of clattering wood filled my ears and echoed through the valley. As the sound receded, it was replaced with the sound of sheep bleating faintly in the distance, all mourning the death of one of their own.

  As we watched, wood popped and spat out bursts of tiny embers into the cold autumn air. Smoke hurriedly rose, dissipating as the wind rushed through the valley, picking it up and flinging it eastward. The ewe’s fur fizzled as fire wrapped around her body, licking her limbs, clambering higher and higher as it fought for traction.

  Wafts of putrid air billowed out of the bonfire, filling my nostrils with the smell of burning hair and flesh. I had such fond memories of bonfires and fireworks on the farm, but those memories were different now. Instead of remembering the strong smell of burning wood and crackling fireworks, I could only think of the smell of the burning ewe. Instead of remembering how I felt wrapped up in a blanket while I watched the fireworks burst into brilliant colours before fizzling out, I could only think of how disgusted I was at the sight of the ewe burning on top of the heap of firewood and anything else my dad could find to grow the fire. I remembered the happiness I had once felt, but could now only feel sadness, like an anchor in the turbulent seas of my stomach.

  “Are you coming in, Isabelle?”

  It had turned dark in the valley, giving the creatures a place to hide. They could now dart from tree to tree without being seen. It was the perfect cover, and they knew it.

  “I think I’m going to stay outside for a little longer.”

  “Are you sure? It’s getting pretty cold.”

  “No, that’s okay. I have the fire,” I replied dismissively, not wanting to look at him. He had changed, and so I wanted to try to remember the old him for as long as possible.

  “Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  “Okay.”

  Dad walked up towards the house, vanishing into the encroaching darkness. They were waiting patiently for the fire to die down, and they could wait for as long as needed.

  I stood as close as I could to the fire, pushing my hands out in front of me in search of warmth. Once again the ewe’s eyes, dark as a starless night, stared vacantly into my own. As the flame wrapped around her head, I wondered whether it would be the last time I’d ever think about her. A feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I would see her again and that it would only get worse from here.

  Four

  Masks

  Beep.

  “John Clarke to see Dr. Andrews.”

  I was going in soon.

  We hadn’t been able to make my last doctor’s appointment because of the tree that broke the windshield, and so I was terrified that the doctor might find something wrong with me. I could imagine there being a long drawn-out pause before he’d take off his glasses, rub his eyes as if he was tired, and then tell me something horrible.

  “Isabelle, this horrible disease has spread throughout your body, and you now only have two weeks left to live.”

  Dad would start crying.

  I would start crying.

  And slowly but surely, my life would fall apart around me.

  I watched as John Clarke feebly rose from his seat, his arms wobbling as he struggled to gain enough momentum to launch upward. He tottered towards the door, each step an opportunity to fall over and break a hip. Everybody in the waiting room watched with our collective breath held, waiting for something terrible to happen. Eventually he made his way through the double doors and into Dr. Andrews’s office without anything going wrong, but who knew what was going on behind closed doors.

  Five minutes passed, and then John Clarke appeared from behind the door and made his way slowly but surely across the tarnished linoleum floor, aging with each measured step.

  Beep.

  “Samantha Jones to see Dr. Andrews.”

  I was next.

  I thumbed through the last few pages of the magazine I had apparently picked up after walking in, scanning the words in the same way a visitor in a museum would view a slab of stone covered in hieroglyphics. The words had no meaning. They hadn’t for a while. I had been too focused on what the doctor might say and what my dad might do if found out I’d not been taking my medication.

  I threw the magazine on the coffee table in front of me; it was a time capsule of the last ten years, covered in a thick coating of glossy newspapers from days gone by.

  There was at least another five or ten minutes until the doctor would call me in, and so I sat twiddling my fingers, waiting as the bad news rushed ever closer.

  The people sitting around me looked like ghouls, their faces white and drawn. One man had a cast on his arm, tied up in a sling around his neck. A woman was holding a tissue so closely to her nose, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out it was a part of her anatomy.

  Was she doing it so that she wouldn’t catch anything? Or was it because she didn’t want anyone else to catch what she had?

  Was she doing it because I was there?

  Maybe she thought she’d catch something off me, something more than just a cold.

  Dad would have probably killed them had they been animals on our farm.

  “Are you okay?” Dad asked in a seemingly sincere way.

  “I’m fine.”

  I wasn’t, but I di
dn’t want him to know that.

  Something strange had been happening with him, and so I needed to keep my distance until I could find out what it was. I forced myself to smile at him, and then went back to people watching.

  Apart from the man with the broken arm and the lady with a handkerchief for a face, there was only one other person now remaining in the waiting room. He was an oddly short man with a huge gut, much too big to be caused by overeating. And then I noticed how oddly shaped his shadow was. Light shone through the window behind me, casting a shadow of the man on the wall behind. It didn’t seem to follow the already unusual shape of his body, as if an object I couldn’t see was distorting the light finding its way to the wall.

  Could that same strange creature be here, too? Were there more of them? Had they found a way of hiding in the shadows? They may have travelled in the dark, and then hid in shadows when the sun rose.

  They were following me.

  It must be them—whatever they were.

  What else could explain the strange shadow on the wall and that uneasy feeling rising from my stomach? It was the same feeling I’d had in the kitchen and at school, and then walking around the farm after the storm.

  The storm . . .

  Beep.

  “Isabelle Richards to see Dr. Andrews.”

  It was time.

  I dragged myself away from staring at the shadow and followed my dad through the double doors, like a cow to the slaughter.

  * * * * *

  I hated Dr. Andrews’s room. I knew that doctors had to be professional and had to be clinically clean, but there was something off about his office in particular. The only personal memento in the whole room was a small picture of his daughter. But even the frame was unimaginative and plain, as if any pattern or accessory would cause it to become a breeding ground for germs.

  It seemed too clean, and the smell of disinfectant was overpowering. My nostrils burned with each breath inhaled, and so I spent the whole appointment breathing in short and sharp breaths. It looked as if I was having a panic attack; I was surprised he didn’t offer me a brown paper bag.

  “Hello, Isabelle. And how are we today?” he asked, as he walked in, his words travelling on the back of his moist coffee breath.