The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  Jiri ducked inside the barn. Tom crawled out from a pile of sheepskins. Jiri picked him up and rubbed his head roughly. In the blink of an eye Jiri pulled a steel dentist’s pick from his back pocket and scraped the plaque off the old tomcat’s teeth. Jack was amazed. Anyone else would have lost a finger. In thirty seconds Tom was back on the ground chewing on a piece of moose jerky Jiri had pulled from his other pocket. “How’s Norman the Great?”

  “He’s old and lucky. He gets to sleep all the time.”

  Jiri caught a whiff of something. He followed the scent behind a hay bale, moved some straw and sighed, long and loud. “Jack, you’ve got poison in your barn.”

  Jack rushed over. Nestled against the wall stood two cans of paint. One blue. One red. The lid from the blue can had been knocked off. “Goddamn it.”

  “She must have licked it up. You shouldn’t leave paint cans in the barn.”

  Jack didn’t have time to say it wasn’t him before Jiri disappeared. Pearl crept over to the cans, nose sniffing. “No,” said Jack as he stuck the lid back on.

  Jiri returned and quickly prepared a syringe. “Sodium thiosulphate.” He dropped a knee over the panicked ewe, found a vein and plunged the syringe.

  Jiri pulled a bottle from one of his pockets. “Okay, pay attention, this part you do tomorrow.” Jiri jiggled the bottle. “Water.” Jiri dipped a spoon into a small bag. “Two tablespoons of magnesium sulphate.” Jiri tipped the spoon over the bottle. “A tablespoon of glucose.” Jiri stirred it all together. He screwed a feeder onto the bottle and forced the nipple into the ewe’s mouth. Her eyes blazed and her throat spasmed as she swallowed. When at last she had drained the medicine, Jiri picked up his black medical bag. “I think she might be okay.”

  The ewe still struggled but seemed to be in less distress. Jack clicked off the barn light and followed Jiri, collecting the two cans of paint on the way.

  As Jiri walked ahead his flashlight caught Taillon shooting an impressive stream of urine onto Jiri’s back tire. “Taillon, you old dirty bugger!” yelled Jack.

  Taillon stalked away, his tail high. “So there,” said Jiri with a smile.

  “You sure you won’t come in for a coffee?”

  “It’s almost midnight, Jack. Say hi to Fred.”

  Jiri jumped in his truck and roared off. Jack watched as swirling snow followed Jiri’s truck down the road like a snarling beast.

  Jack was relieved Fred hadn’t been there. He would have torn a strip off him for leaving the paint cans in the barn. And there was a tension between Jiri and Fred. And not all of it had to do with the fact that Jiri’s wife had a not-so-secret crush on Fred. Jiri was more on guard when Fred was around.

  It had started because Fred sometimes had a difficult time getting his tongue around long words like veterinarian. Jack had worked with him on it because Fred wanted to learn how to say it.

  When Fred repeated the word slowly, with a break, as Jack had instructed, it ending up sounding like “veteran Aryan.” So now, every time Jiri came over, Fred would shout, “Here comes the veteran Aryan!” and raise his left arm in salute. Jiri would immediately become alarmed and check to make sure his sleeves were pulled down to his wrists.

  Jack told Fred to stop doing it. Fred said if he could pretend he was the hunchback at church then he could salute Jiri with a straight arm. If you couldn’t laugh at the obvious stuff then you’d always be afraid of the underneath stuff. It was an explanation that left Jack baffled.

  Jack knew he’d have to get the coffee brewing; he’d be up every two hours checking on the ewe. Jack opened the door and Pearl scampered inside. “What do you say we leave these here? That way dumb-shit can say he doesn’t remember putting them in the barn.” Jack kicked snow from his boots, set the paint cans inside and slammed the door.

  It was midnight when Fred saw something glowing on top of Badger’s fireplace. He crawled off the couch and went for a closer peek. It resembled an animal bone and rested in a wooden cradle. It reflected the light from an outside street lamp so Fred could see it wasn’t a ghost. His hand reached out to feel the smooth surface.

  “Don’t touch,” said Badger from the hallway.

  Fred jumped. “Um, um, what is it?”

  “It’s the horn of a lamb.” Badger walked over and lifted the cradle.

  “Okay, okay, so now I have finally caught you in a lie because I am a sheep rancher and I know that lambs don’t have horns as big as this.”

  “This one did.”

  “How come?”

  Badger held the horn in the cradle with great reverence. His face quivered and he had to clear his throat twice before he could speak again. “When I was in Flin Flon I used to pass this little shop. It had a sign out front: Antiques Beyond Your Wildest Dreams. It looked like a junk store to me so I never stopped.”

  “Yes, and don’t you dare call Mrs. Feniak’s property a junkyard because she will look at you cross-eyed and crazy.”

  “One day I didn’t have very wild dreams, so I went inside. You should have seen it, it was like stumbling into the chamber of an Egyptian king. There were beautiful, strange rocks, ornaments, everywhere. And then this elderly man came up quietly from the basement, wiping what looked like gold dust from his apron. He had a giant beard.”

  “Santa Claus.”

  “No, it was after Christmas. He asked if there was anything I liked. I liked it all, but I saw the horn and told him I wanted it.”

  “A ram’s horn.”

  “No, he said he was canoeing on a lake nearby and one morning he saw this dead animal floating on the surface. He dragged it back to shore. It was a petrified lamb.”

  “How could it be scared if it was dead?”

  “Petrified, like a rock, it had turned to stone.”

  “Rocks don’t float, especially big rocks.”

  “This one did and once he saw the horn he knew he had to cut it off and keep it. So he did.”

  Fred put a hand on his hip and sized up Badger and the horn. “And he sold it to you for one thousand dollars because you are a sucker for tall tales.”

  “Five bucks.”

  “Not bad.”

  “All the antiques in that store had been plucked from the lake. Every piece had floated up from the bottom.”

  Fred circled his finger around his ear, “Cuckoo, cuckoo.”

  “I was told later that the old man was the gold prospector, the one who found that book I was showing you.”

  Fred didn’t quite make the connection or it would have made more of an impression. “So what you are trying to tell me is that it has special significance and you don’t want some clumsy oaf dropping it and seeing it shatter into a million pieces, um, um, so what does it do?”

  “Magic.”

  “Prove it.”

  “It’s not a rabbit trick. The lamb’s horn means many things to different people.”

  Fred was just about to call them crazy people but he sensed that this horn meant more to Badger than anything. Even more than his between-period speeches at the hockey arena. And for this reason, Fred started to believe.

  “There’s an old English medieval folk song that talks about plowing an acre of land with the horn of a lamb.”

  Fred thought about that for a second. “Holy waste of time, Batman, that would take forever.”

  “That’s the whole point. It’s attempting the impossible for something you love.”

  “If it’s not very practical for plowing what do you do with it?”

  “You blow it.”

  “Let me hear.”

  “You can’t. It can only be blown on special occasions.”

  “Like when?”

  “Like the beginning of a year that forbids permanent ownership of land, a year to replenish the soil, a year of lending money with no interest, a year of liberation for servants and slaves. Sometimes it signals a beginning.”

  “Of what?”

  “A revolution.”

  “So why not just blow it now
and get the ball rolling?”

  “It can only be blown after a sacrifice is made. And it can only be blown by someone who is at peace with himself.”

  “Is that a Bible rule?”

  “That’s a Badger rule.” Badger put the cradle back on top of the fireplace. “Leave it alone.”

  Badger left the room as quietly as he’d come in. Fred respected Badger’s rules more than biblical rules but he couldn’t resist. He touched the smooth surface of the horn just once, then dashed back to the couch.

  two

  Taillon became much more protective of the ewes during their gestation. He had learned, from seasons past, that he wasn’t just guarding one animal, he was guarding a mother and her unborn lambs.

  There were also, however, a few protective measures that seemed unusual for Taillon. On one occasion, Jack saw him chase Pearl out of the barn after she had brushed against one of the ewes. A week later, a visiting sheep farmer had been charged. The sight of the white beast in full gallop was usually something only soon-to-be-dead coyotes saw. It was only when Jack jumped in front of Taillon and yelled at him to stop that he did so, and backed up somewhat reluctantly.

  Jack had never seen Taillon charge anybody and it caused him concern. The shaken sheep farmer told Jack not to worry, that he’d been playing with his own dogs that morning and Taillon had probably picked up the scent.

  Taillon remained patient when it came to Fred. He allowed his encroachments at any time of day or night for as long as Fred wanted. The constant chatter seemed to soothe Taillon, sometimes putting him to sleep.

  Once December arrived, Taillon had to get used to the daily disturbance from vehicles and visitors to Fred’s rink. There was a seniors group on Tuesdays and Thursdays. There were shinny games almost every day after school and always after supper. Weekends were busiest, with a non-stop parade of skaters from Eddie Shack to the ice and back again.

  To Fred, looking forward to a hockey game in the city was only a little bit better than looking out his bedroom window and seeing a stranger on the ice. And this happened often because skaters Fred had met on Monday became strangers by Friday. Within minutes he’d be outside, standing tall and reciting his story about his accident.

  For the shinny games, Jack had made shooter tutors out of sheepskin for the goal nets with four holes cut in the corners and a fifth hole cut in the middle. The good players were not allowed to make the easy shots in the two bottom corners. Fred was allowed to score in the corner holes, though. He couldn’t raise the puck with one arm.

  Fred liked skating with the older guys because he could play rough. A new player hadn’t been baptized on Fred’s rink until he’d been cross-checked into the snowbank from behind.

  There were two people who hadn’t been to the rink since he had christened it. Fred asked Jack about this often. And all Jack could say was that Kenton and Claudia were busy with their schoolwork.

  three

  Fred was going to wear his tailcoat and top hat but he walked into the kitchen, took a look at his reflection in the chrome toaster and decided he looked like an idiot. Jack reminded Fred that anyone looking at their reflection in a toaster would say they looked like an idiot. Fred wouldn’t hear it. He stomped back to his room and threw on a white turtleneck and dress pants.

  Jack looked sharp in his navy suit and red tie. But like all farming men stuffed into tight shirts and jackets, he seemed fitted with the wrong costume and moved awkwardly like an unrehearsed actor in a bad regional play.

  Fred chattered incessantly in the truck. More so than usual, but Jack made no mention of it. A nervous Fred was easier to handle than an angry Fred. Besides, Jack knew why Fred was nervous. He had already asked three times if the Feniaks would be there.

  The community hall was dull white, rectangular and lacked the trim and decoration that might have rescued it from looking like a storage warehouse. The locals referred to it as “The Clam,” a name born as a nudge-wink to the gem contained within. And what a gem it was.

  Three Norwegians had been flown in from Minnesota to do the work. Jack had thought it a waste of money, but the men were blood relations of one of the dairy farmers and he had convinced everyone else it would be worth it. After the Norwegians had stapled rubber pads, dropped two layers of plywood, laid the strip maple flooring, sanded, buffed, cleaned, sealed and applied their final finish, there was nothing left to do but whistle at the beauty of it.

  After whistling their approval, everyone had had to roll up their sleeves and paint the outside themselves because there was no money left.

  Next to Fred’s rink, the shiny maple floor left behind by the Norwegians was the pride of the community. It provided a solid and elegant foundation for bingo games, basketball tournaments and the annual Christmas dance.

  Fred moved through the crowd like a politician, patting people on the back, plucking threads from collars, reminding everyone how high-class they looked. His joy was infectious. Everyone left in Fred’s wake wore a smile.

  Ryan Feniak, leaning on the bar without a smile, watched Fred work the room. The dance was Ryan’s first public appearance since Fred’s rink opening. He had made his way past the red-draped tables with his ankle cast and crutches, assuming that his arrival would be the talk of the night. It wasn’t. Ryan became so utterly convinced that life wasn’t fair he wanted to walk over to Fred and punch him in the face. Instead he began ordering his drinks two at a time.

  Fred continued the evening in the arms of Bridget, the exuberant, blonde wife of Jiri the veterinarian. Jiri, as Bridget had already told Fred twice, was castrating a bull and would be there soon. Bridget was a flower child, the perfect complement to Jiri’s dour demeanour. Rumour had it that she danced naked to Donovan in her living room and grew marijuana plants in a greenhouse she kept at the back of the property.

  “Do you know why witches ride broomsticks on Halloween?”

  “Because it’s faster than walking,” said Fred.

  “Back in old Europe, witches, real witches who practised the ancient arts, used to meet inside secluded log houses, deep in the woods, and take their clothes off. They would then smear belladonna on the shaft of a broom and ride the broom naked, back and forth along the shaft, ingesting the drug through their vaginas, so they were flying high when they had their orgasms. Do you see the connection? Broomsticks? Flying? Witches?”

  “Pussy,” said Fred, breathless. “Shaft. Orgasm. Um, um, Halloween is ruined and made better all at the same time.”

  Bridget had always confessed a soft, private, usually throbbing spot for hockey players, something that made no sense to Fred because she had never even been to a hockey game. Fred knew how easy it was with women who loved hockey players—they used to hang around the arena after games in Brandon. He and his friends called them puck bunnies or fuck bunnies depending on who was within earshot.

  Fred had necked with Bridget once but he wasn’t attracted to her. Somebody mean might have told Fred that beggars can’t be choosers but Fred would rather have begged outside Claudia’s closed door than plundered Bridget’s open house. He told her to be careful about what she said to Jiri. Fred had heard a story about an NHL goalie having sex with a bullrider’s wife at the Calgary Stampede and the bullrider beat the hell out of the goalie. “Hockey players are tough,” explained Fred. “Buh, buh, bullriders are tougher and your husband is tougher than any bullrider.”

  Bridget never pushed it, not because she was overly concerned about cheating on Jiri but because she was never sure if Fred’s equipment worked. And she didn’t dare ask. Or put him in a compromising position when she discovered it didn’t. But still she dreamed of him.

  Fred endured the unwanted attention. She made great cookies and was always friendly, but she reminded Fred too much of Sally, Charlie Brown’s sister, which made him think that he was Linus Van Pelt, with his blanket, great advice for others and always sucking his thumb. Fred felt he was more grown-up than that but he admitted that Linus wasn’t all bad. Fred
told Taillon that Linus knew the true meaning of Christmas and believed in the Great Pumpkin. Still, Fred dreaded the day when Bridget would call him her “sweet babboo.”

  He was careful to keep his big shoes from crushing Bridget’s feet. When Fred wasn’t looking down, or sniffing the air like a curious dog, he was watching another couple.

  Mrs. Feniak had asked Jack to dance and he had tried to refuse but she had grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the floor. Jack became uncomfortably aware of the sweat that was sprouting on his hands. Mrs. Feniak squeezed his left hand sporadically, causing Jack’s face to flinch and then flush. To keep his right hand dry, Jack began sliding it sideways across Mrs. Feniak’s back. This resulted in Mrs. Feniak moving her hips closer to Jack’s.

  Jack caught Fred staring and then offering an exaggerated wink. He became aware that others might be staring. “Marilyn, do you have a buzz saw?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A buzz saw, about two feet wide.”

  “I can check.”

  “I’ve got a sixteen-horse engine.”

  “You do?”

  “Yup, I think if I hook it up right I can make some cash from Butler’s quarter section. He just had it logged.”

  “I saw that.”

  “He’s gonna sell it as pasture land. But they left a lot of trees. There’s some nice piles of poplar and spruce, all stripped and ready to go, some of the logs are thirty foot. He said I could take what I wanted. There’s a lot of firewood there, Marilyn. What do you think?”

  “Well, like I said, Jack, I’ll check on the buzz saw.”

  “No, what about you and me doing it together?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Selling firewood. We can get eighty bucks a cord out here and at least a hundred in the city. I bet we could cut six cords a day if we figured things out right.”