The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “I never do anything I don’t want to.” Fred rolled over and looked up at the stars.

  Jack pushed the toe of his boot into the wet grass. It felt spongy. “I guess I got worked up.”

  Fred’s voice cracked. “I don’t even know what I do wrong sometimes, buh, buh, when you get mad it must be right.”

  Jack thought about throwing another log on the fire, but this was Fred’s camp. “Thanks for bringing the sheep in.”

  “It is not quite as difficult as splitting the atom, buh, buh, I think sometimes you confuse a lazy, frustrated nephew with a stupid nephew, okay, shhh.”

  “I’ve never thought you were stupid.”

  “Buh, buh, just lacking in motivation, um, um, aren’t you even going to ask me if I am not scared sleeping out here in the dark with all the coyotes and goblins?”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  Fred groaned, sat up and pointed to a dark shape in the grass a short distance away. “Not with the best night sentry in the whole world.”

  Taillon sat with his back to Fred, his massive head moving slowly from side to side, sniffing the air for trouble. “He thinks I’m a sheep.” Fred sounded as if he was loading up for a double-barrelled laugh but he only burped. “Little does he know I am not worth a dime at the butcher.”

  Jack wasn’t thrilled that his livestock dog had switched loyalties. But one night wouldn’t hurt.

  Fred waited until Jack’s footsteps disappeared before he pulled a pack of wieners from inside his sleeping bag. He tossed one to Taillon, who sniffed it and gobbled it up. “Here I was thinking today was going to be one of the worst days of summer, buh, buh, here we are, sleeping under the stars. Who would have thought that was possible?”

  Taillon’s ears twitched once and then were still.

  “Um, um, exactly.”

  eight

  Jack waited longer to wean than most sheep farmers. And he was proud of this fact. Most farmers weaned at six to eight weeks. Some of the more ambitious farmers who trusted agricultural papers written by academics who had never tended sheep did it at twenty-one days. But Jack did his at three months. He liked his lambs to get plenty of milk.

  The main challenge of weaning was not the separation of mother and lamb. It was, as Fred had exclaimed on more than a few occasions, the destruction of nature itself. Stopping a ewe from producing milk took careful planning.

  Preparations had been ongoing for weeks. Jack had begun replacing the high-quality lactation hay with a poor-quality hay. This had the desired effect of reducing but not ceasing the ewe’s milk production.

  Mothers had a natural desire to reunite with their babies and he had to make sure they couldn’t. He had seen a ewe jump a fence, so Jack’s solution was the creation of a barrier made of plywood. It was ugly but effective.

  The day of weaning was toughest on Fred. He seemed to feel the pain of the mothers and the fear of the babies. “Um, um, why can’t you just let them be?”

  Jack patiently gave Fred the same answer he had provided at breakfast. “The lambs fatten up better on grain, and you gotta think of the ewes. All that feeding dries ’em up.”

  The ewes would remain confined for a few days before they could be let out to pasture with the lambs, hungry and milk-free. Fred didn’t mind the part about the ewes. It was the “fattening up” part he didn’t like. More weight meant more money for Jack come September. And September was not something Fred wanted to think about. Weaning day was bad enough.

  There wasn’t much Fred remembered from his coma. It felt like a night, but it was a terrible night spent in full equipment searching for his teammates in the Keystone Centre. They weren’t anywhere. Not on the ice or in the dressing room. He was sure they had a game or a practice. He tried the exit doors. They were locked. He was trapped inside. When he had discovered how long he’d been in a coma he’d shuddered; three months was a long time for a bad dream to last, a dream that still resonated—the sound of his blades clattering across the concrete and the anguished cries from his gut, not unlike those of the ewes and the lambs.

  Fred kept an eye on his favourite lamb. “Okay, Lucy, today may not seem like a lucky day, buh, buh, I will hum a happy tune so you can’t hear your mommy cry as she starves under the iron heel of that evil shepherd.” When Fred looked across the fields he thought he saw Claudia watching him from the fence. She disappeared as soon as she saw he had seen her.

  Jack was with the ewes, checking for signs of mastitis, an inflammation of the udder, and squeezing milk from swollen udders.

  Fred’s scream startled the ewe and Jack ended up with a squirt of milk dripping from his face. He jumped to his feet and saw where Fred was pointing. Taillon stood outside the lamb corral with something big between his massive jaws. At first Jack thought it was a fox. “What the hell is it?”

  Fred was breathless and pumped his hand ferociously. “Buh, buh, the poor old tomcat came running past, chasing a squirrel and, wham, Taillon nailed him.”

  Jack quickly jumped the fence. His voice was calm and soothing as he moved toward Taillon. “Easy, boy, drop it.” Tom jerked once but Jack couldn’t tell if he was alive. He assumed that Taillon had snapped his neck. As Jack came within a few metres Taillon began to growl. This stopped Jack immediately. It also scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t remember Taillon ever growling at him.

  Taillon turned and started to move away. Fred’s voice, dropping deeper than Jack had ever heard, boomed, “No, Taillon! Drop it!”

  Jack was impressed with the tone of the command. Taillon was cautious but less impressed. He did stop moving, however. Fred gave him the voice one more time. “Drop it now!” Taillon opened his jaws and the tomcat fell to the ground with a thud. He sniffed Tom once and trotted away. Jack stumbled forward and bent down. Fred stayed behind the fence. Jack poked the cat with his finger.

  “Um, um, he’s deader than a stick.”

  “Taillon knows this old fella, why would he go after him?” The old tomcat suddenly sprang to his feet. Jack and Fred screamed together. Jack fell backwards onto his butt. Fred fell sideways but managed to grab the railing of the corral fence. Tom bolted into the barn.

  “Um, um, I will go get that old man some tuna because he has seen the Grim Reaper up close and personal.” Fred careened off to the house, kicking up clouds of dust with his spiking left foot.

  Jack turned. Taillon was sitting in the pasture staring back at him. Jack assumed the attack was a case of mistaken identity. Taillon had seen a flash of movement near the lambs and had done what came naturally. But the growling. That wasn’t good. Jack hoped his prize sheep dog wasn’t turning mean.

  nine

  It wasn’t the beer or loud music that had bothered Kenton. He had seen and heard it before when his mother wasn’t home. In fact, he had seen and heard just about everything since Tod and his pals started coming over, including kids having sex in the bathroom. But the young guy at the kitchen window with the binoculars was a problem.

  Ryan didn’t mind that Tod was Claudia’s boyfriend. Some of Ryan’s friends were still sixteen, so it wasn’t unusual for them to be coupling up with Claudia’s friends.

  Just after lunch, the three girls who had seen Fred with Claudia in the backyard and the three boys who had surrounded Fred outside the Christmas dance came over.

  Kenton was banished to his room. After he snuck out and saw the young guy at the kitchen window, he hid behind a chair in the living room. It was hard to hear because of the music, but he heard enough. “Anything?” asked Tod.

  “He’s just putting the sheep away.”

  The yelling from the basement bedrooms grew louder. Kenton thought he heard something break. More beer was snatched from the fridge. The sound of clinking bottles made Kenton more nervous. More booze. More yells. More trouble. “Hey Tod!” yelled the guy at the window.

  Tod came upstairs and walked right past where Kenton was hiding. “He’s leaving.”

  Kenton heard a crack of thunder. Light ra
in began to speckle the big window in the living room. “Bye-bye, sheep fucker.” Both guys laughed. “Let’s go get him!”

  “Wait, it’s that white dog.”

  “Where?”

  “Right there.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “He went and sat at the back door as soon as the truck left. That’s a smart dog.”

  The two guys ran downstairs. Kenton heard Claudia giggling and yelling. “No!”

  Tod returned to the kitchen with one of Claudia’s girlfriends. “He’s gonna know,” said the girl.

  “Bullshit,” said Tod. “Turn the music down!”

  “Where’s the number?!?”

  “On the fridge!” yelled Claudia’s drunken voice from downstairs. “Tell him I wanna fuck him!”

  “Shut up!” barked Ryan from somewhere in the house.

  “Freddy! Freddy! Come suck my tits!”

  “It’s ringing!”

  “Shhh, hello Fred? It’s Claudia.” Kenton heard the girl snicker. “I know I sound funny, I’ve got a cold.”

  Kenton didn’t wait to hear the end of the conversation. He tiptoed to the back door.

  Fred limped away from the house in his green rain slicker and yellow polyester rain hat. The hat made him look like a fireman, which was good because the rain slicker made him look like a giant watermelon. Taillon followed him. “No, no, boy, you stay here.”

  Fred arrived at the closed gate, untied the twine that flicked in the wind like a horse’s tail and saw that Taillon was still with him. “Claudia heard a noise and wants me to make sure that everything is A-OK so I have to go and you have to stay or Papa Joe will tan my hide and then yours.”

  Fred shut the gate. Taillon barked.

  The rain fell heavily. Kenton slipped on the wet grass. He hurdled the fence near the mountain of firewood and skidded past the barn. He then witnessed two events that stopped him cold. Taillon, in full gallop, was headed straight for him. Fred, full steam ahead, was already on the road. Kenton yelled as loud as he could: “Fred!”

  Fred turned to see who was yelling.

  “Get back to the house!”

  “Um, um, is that you, Kenton?!?”

  Taillon hurtled forward, his lips curled up, baring his teeth. Fred was far away but he could see what was happening. “Get away from the barn! You’re too close to the sheep!”

  Kenton, terrified, backed up. “It’s okay, Taillon, it’s okay, I’m leaving.” Taillon dwarfed Kenton and Kenton peed his pants, convinced this would be his last minute on the planet, and he hadn’t even had the chance to have a girlfriend. Taillon’s head snapped to the side. A thunderous “woof” erupted from his throat. Kenton watched as Taillon turned at the last moment and bolted for the road.

  The red truck with the crew cab and the black trim was slowing down beside Fred as he limped along. “Fred! Run!”

  “Um, um, how?!?”

  Kenton ran toward the road. Tod was the first one out of the truck. Another boy followed. Taillon leaped the fence in a single bound, a feat that amazed Kenton and terrified Tod. But Fred was dragged inside the truck just as Taillon slammed his head into the door, leaving a massive dent.

  The truck lurched forward, with Taillon in full pursuit, and Kenton chasing Taillon.

  —

  Jiri knew that something was wrong. Jack’s dog was a long way from home. By now, Taillon wasn’t running any more. He was standing, panting, and then he vomited. Jiri stepped out of his truck. Taillon ignored him and stared down the road. “You all right, old buddy?” Taillon barked once and started trotting reluctantly back toward Jack’s farm.

  Jiri followed Taillon at a slow speed. When Taillon passed a young boy in a T-shirt and jeans headed in the opposite direction, Jiri stopped and let Taillon go home alone.

  “What’s going on?” asked Jiri, slowing to a stop.

  “Nothing,” said Kenton.

  “Don’t tell me nothing. What is Jack’s dog doing all the way out here?”

  Kenton shivered from the rain, the wind. He seemed to be weighing his options, his loyalties. His downcast face suggested he had only one choice. “He was following Fred.”

  The hotel had been Jack’s idea. He thought a change of venue might do him good. He stepped up and down from the chair wearing nothing but his socks. Perspiration trickled down his back. “Who told you this would work?” asked Marilyn.

  “I read it in a magazine.”

  “Oh, Jack,” said Marilyn, smiling.

  Jack continued to step up and down. Finally exhausted, he stopped, dizzy, breathing like a horse. Without warning he turned and pushed Marilyn up against the wall, his hands tearing at her shirt. “Rip it, Jack,” whispered Marilyn. “Rip it off, I’ve got another in the bag.”

  Jack ripped the shirt apart, buttons fell to the carpet. Marilyn pushed him off. “It wasn’t just Fred, it was Claudia, too. Kenton told me what happened, he saw it all.”

  “Fred’s no angel,” said Jack, fumbling with her bra.

  “Neither am I.”

  Jack tore the clasp, his fingers found skin and the two tumbled onto the bed of room 102 in the Spindletop Motel. The usual oaths weren’t uttered as both shuddered toward the point of no return. Marilyn gasped that she didn’t like junk any more. She wanted her dairy cows back. She asked Jack if he would help. And Jack, still barely able to breathe, was able to say that he would. And then he howled so loudly, so triumphantly, that the hotel manager, many rooms away, chuckled.

  It hadn’t taken long to figure out that only two of them needed to hold Fred down. And so with Fred’s left leg and arm held firmly, Tod circled the table while Ryan stood near the door. “Do you know what this is?”

  Fred stared at the rain ricocheting off the covering of Bridget’s greenhouse. Tod ran a plastic tube under Fred’s nose. “You smell that? Wicked, isn’t it?” Tod squeezed some cream onto his fingers. “Did you ever use this stuff? Deep heating rub? You know, after a hockey practice, rub it on those stiff, aching muscles?”

  “He never played,” said the one holding Fred’s leg.

  “Sure he did,” said Tod. “Before he was a retard.”

  Ryan was not nearly as resolute as his three friends. He stood near the door, supposedly to be a lookout. But, in truth, he was ready to bolt. He didn’t know any more whether a sadistic initiation ritual for rookies was appropriate for a grown man. He didn’t know any more because the effects of the five beers had begun to wear off.

  Fred was naked from the waist down. His pants, underwear, shoes, rain hat and slicker were piled on top of a tray of flowers, bending stems, leaving petals on the floor. Fred already looked traumatized and nothing that Tod was looking forward to had even happened yet.

  “Did you ever have to put this stuff up here?” Tod touched a dab of cream on Fred’s thigh. Fred flinched. “You ever accidentally gotten some on your balls? Holy shit that hurts. I wonder what makes it burn so much.”

  “It’s the menthol, stupid,” said Fred.

  “I don’t know,” said Tod, reading the back of the tube. “There’s methyl salicylate, thirty percent.”

  “Methyl what?” asked the one holding Fred’s leg.

  “Salicylate. Freddy, are you ready?” asked Tod. “To start screaming like a bitch?” Tod squeezed half the tube onto his fingers and his hand went between Fred’s legs. Fred groaned. “Now don’t start getting a boner. Things are bad enough, you don’t want us thinking you’re a fag.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Ryan saw Tod massaging the cream deep into Fred’s testicles.

  “Um, um, please stop.”

  “Um, um, we haven’t even started,” said Tod.

  Steam hissed and wafted at intervals. Flowers of every colour surrounded the table: blue globe thistles, baby’s breath, peonies, Love in a Mist, poppies, English roses, tea roses. The sweet fragrances hung in the heavy, warm air. In a square pot near the back, three marijuana plants thrived.

  Tod grabbed Fred’s rain-soaked pants and wiped his ha
nd off. “Jesus, that’s even hot on the hand.” Tod lit a cigarette. He bent over and blew smoke through his nose onto Fred’s face. “Anything?” Fred watched the swirling patterns of water on the polycarbonate covering. Fred’s neck began to tremble. “Here we go.” Fred’s jaw clenched. “That really stings doesn’t it?” Fred took a deep breath. His whole body began to tremble and Ryan could hear Fred’s knuckles cracking as he made a fist. Tod leaned close to Fred’s ear and whispered. “Why aren’t you crying, you fucking pervert?”

  “Buh, buh, burly men with beards don’t cry,” Fred gasped.

  “Turn him over.”

  “That’s enough, Tod,” said Ryan.

  “Turn the fucker over.”

  Fred was rolled onto his stomach. He tried to free a leg, an arm. Tod grabbed a rake and snapped it over his knee. He took the rounded end and smothered it with cream.

  “No way,” said Ryan stepping toward Tod.

  “He fucking raped her! She’s your sister, you coward.”

  Ryan tried to grab the rake handle. Tod swung it viciously at Ryan’s head. Ryan ducked just in time. “You can’t handle this,” seethed Tod, “go outside.”

  Tod lunged at Fred and Ryan tried to grab his arm. Fred grunted as the rake handle found its mark. The first half of his double-barrelled laugh, the part that sounded like the last breath of a dying man, burst from his mouth. The joy and happiness that had previously provided the fuel for these spontaneous eruptions were replaced by terror and rage. But Fred was helpless to move.

  The door flew open. Jiri stepped inside. Kenton tried to follow, but Jiri saw what was happening. “You wait outside.” Ryan tried to swallow the devastated expression on his little brother’s face before Kenton backed away.

  “Get your clothes, Fred,” said Jiri.

  “Um, um, is that who I think it is?” asked Fred weakly. “The veteran Aryan?”

  “Get dressed.”

  Fred rolled off the table. He grabbed his pile of clothes and looked at Jiri helplessly. “I don’t want to do this with them here, you know, it’s clumsy with one hand.”