Jack opened the gate to turn the llamas out to pasture. “Get going, you good for nothing mules.”
“Um, um, they did everything they could.”
Jack threw a clump of dirt at one of them. “Everything but protect my goddamn sheep.”
“There were two bad dogs and they got scared, um, um, if there had only been one then watch out, there would have been trouble in the OK Corral.”
Fred and Jack were both acutely aware that something was missing in the pasture. Neither of them said a word as they passed Taillon’s sheepskin on top of the mound.
two
Badger had been buying cheap Honduran cigars by the bundle at the same store for more than twenty years—ever since he had quit smoking cigarettes. So it was natural for the proprietor to be surprised when Badger slapped a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and asked for a single Cuban cigar, a Cohiba Espendido. He was also concerned. He hadn’t seen Badger for months and couldn’t help but notice the portable oxygen tank strapped to his back and the regulator in his nose. Badger also had a bag of potatoes slung over his shoulder. He had to say something. “Are you sure it’s okay for you to be smoking, Badger?”
“I’m sure of only one thing,” he said as he smiled and pushed the fifty-dollar bill across the counter, “that’s a hell of a lot of money for one cigar.”
three
The cage in Jiri’s backyard was big enough that Taillon could stand up and run from one end to the other. But Taillon hadn’t moved the entire time Fred had been sitting there, and Fred’s visit was pushing two hours.
The shaved patch on Taillon’s neck was obscene to look at, but Fred couldn’t help staring. It reminded him of his hockey rink. So smooth and bare, surrounded by huge banks of snow. And Fred needed to think of something soothing to take his mind off the conversation that was drifting through Jiri’s kitchen window.
“Holy mackerel!” exclaimed Jack. “I thought it was going to be less than that.”
“I wasn’t cleaning his teeth, Jack. The bullet was right near the spine. For you, one thousand five hundred.”
“How am I gonna come up with that kind of cash?”
“I thought Marilyn was paying.”
“She’s paying for the dead sheep, not the goddamn dog.”
“I don’t need it all right away.”
Fred could hear Jack moaning. “Oh, mother.”
“You had the choice to put him down.”
“Christ, I could buy five new dogs with that money and still have some left over.”
Fred stared into Taillon’s sedated eyes, which were open just enough to see some almond brown. “Don’t listen to them,” whispered Fred. Taillon growled as Jack’s truck backed up and drove away. “I agree, money, money, money. You might think this is the end of the road, buh, buh, he’ll never put you down now because he has too much invested and if he needs to pay the veteran Aryan before you get released from jail then I will do the best I can.”
Jiri saw he had fifteen minutes before his next appointment and came outside. “How’s the big boy doing?”
“He is depressed, buh, buh, I think he will be happy, happy, happy, when he is back in a grassy field chasing coyotes again and can I change his water?”
Jiri saw that the water bowl was still full and the food bowl was untouched. “Yes, but be careful.”
Fred opened the cage door. The first time Fred had done this, Jiri had been in the kitchen. He had come rushing outside expecting to find Fred mauled on the grass. But Taillon seemed to tolerate Fred. His ears twitched when Fred spoke, so Jiri encouraged Fred to come over as often as he could.
Fred tossed the water from the bowl and turned on the outside faucet. “I can’t wait to build my rink again, buh, buh, have you ever seen a lamb get slaughtered?”
“No.”
Fred returned with the bowl, opened the cage door and gently set it inside. He left the door open so he could see Taillon better. “Does it hurt?”
Jiri walked over and gently closed the door on Taillon. “I can’t say that animals feel pain like we do.”
“You are the best veteran Aryan in the whole wide world because you saved Taillon’s life and you hurt animals all the time so you would know.”
“I don’t try to.”
“Do animals go to heaven?”
four
Jack backed the trailer up to the corral. He opened the rear gate and dropped a ramp down into the alley for the first load. He wasted no time from the moment the first lamb scampered out of the holding pen. If he stopped for too long he might start thinking about them. How sturdy and strong their young legs had become. How big and innocent their eyes looked as he prodded the first load through the alley.
It used to be worse. Jack used to get quite overcome. He had even cried once. Over the years, however, his perception had shifted. These were market lambs, not pets.
Still, if wool prices were thirty times higher he might consider abandoning raising sheep for meat. But they weren’t. So he couldn’t. And people ate lamb. They liked lamb. Jack liked lamb. He always made a point, however, of pausing before he cut into a roast. It wasn’t a prayer, exactly. It was a brief acknowledgement. He knew intimately the hard work that had gone into putting that meat on his plate. Of course, the lamb had done its part too. Its sacrifice was not something Jack took lightly, even if he tried not to dwell on it too much on the actual day before the sacrifice.
Fred didn’t think Jack had seen him when he ducked behind the garage, but Jack knew he was being spied on. Fred normally found somewhere else to be when Jack was loading the lambs. Jack figured he had remedied Fred’s concerns a week before by repainting the happy face on Lucky Lucy’s flank. There wouldn’t be any mistakes.
Jack never called the final destination an abattoir or slaughterhouse. These words didn’t do justice to the work of the man who owned the place, a man whose skills Jack admired as much as the sheepshearer’s. The man did more than slaughter. He also expertly chopped and packed the meat neatly into bundles; the bundles that Jack sold. So, instead, Jack always said he was going to see Billy.
Fred had enough information for his imagination to wander, information obtained previously and reinforced by Jack during dinner. His vigil inside the corral was as close as he could get to the real thing. That’s because the real thing was ten minutes away by car, where the first load of lambs was waiting.
Fred sat in the dark on a steel bucket, his back resting against the corral fencing. The only sound was the rustling of hay as one or another of the ewes and the remaining lambs moved around. Fred gazed at the stars above.
He thought of the lambs in the slaughterhouse holding pen. Stress. Blood. Tough meat. Maybe they were looking at the same stars that Fred was staring at. They were breathing the same air. Their hearts were beating.
He wondered again what it would be like to know you are going to die in the morning. Jack said the lambs didn’t know. They were animals. But what if Fred was right and they did know? Were they huddled together in a corner of the pen?
Fred sat and shivered. It was getting colder. He dangled a rope in his hand.
Most of the drivers didn’t notice. It looked like Fred. It looked like a dog. It looked like Fred walking a dog. And for those who didn’t know Fred, it looked like a limping man walking a dog. For those who slowed down, it was a strange sight indeed. It wasn’t often that they saw a lamb at the end of a rope. A few honked, and Fred waved.
The hardest part had not been catching Lucky Lucy. Nor had it been hiding her in Eddie Shack or sneaking her out after breakfast. No, the biggest challenge was walking her, because she didn’t want to go anywhere. She tugged and Fred tugged back and she tugged some more.
He didn’t recognize the red truck or the driver. All Fred knew was that Tod was a good guy for stopping and an even better guy for letting him and Lucy ride up front. Fred noticed that half of Tod’s ear was missing. It sure looked ugly, so Fred didn’t ask how it happened. It was a good thing Fred�
��s left arm was strong. Lucky Lucy bucked and squirmed the whole way. And Tod, like most bullies without their friends around, did the same.
Fred tied Lucy to a post. She bleated and yanked at the rope. “Um, um, hold your horses, I will be back in a blink of an eye.”
Fred passed an empty holding pen and limped up four concrete steps. He disappeared inside a black hole at the top. Fred waited while his eyes adjusted from the sunshine outside. The gloomy hallway didn’t seem promising at all. A shiny door, however, did.
The door was steel. And heavy. At first Fred thought it was locked, because it barely budged. But a second mighty tug swung it open. Fred moved quickly so the door wouldn’t bump him in the back. “Buh, buh, good morning, I am Fred Pickle and I have … wowee.”
Billy looked much younger than Fred had expected. He couldn’t have been older than thirty. And he was small. A lamb’s throat was just being slit. The blade was thin. The motion fast. The blood poured. The lamb staggered. Gurgled. Billy yelled. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Fred’s left foot slid across the blood. He landed hard on his side, tried to scramble up. His left hand slipped. He crashed down again. Billy grabbed Fred by his collar and dragged him to the door. The task was made easier because the blood expunged all friction between Fred and the floor.
Fred saw six lambs on their sides. One was still bleeding, headfirst on the cement floor. Another was cowering in the corner. Rivulets of blood zigzagged to the drains. Fred’s shoes cleared the metal frame. The door swung shut with a heavy clang.
Jack sat in the barn, Tom on his lap, looking at snapshots from his mind, moving pictures, some colour, some black and white, some fast, some in slow motion. The gun. The dead sheep. Taillon. Jack was grateful that his right hand had been sprained. Pistol shot champion. Taillon would be dead. The old tomcat purred. Jack stroked the top of his head.
A vehicle honked in the driveway. Jack flicked cat hair from his sleeves and came out of the barn to find Marilyn walking toward him. She looked gorgeous. She made him forget Taillon for the moment.
“Is this a good time?” asked Marilyn. Jack nodded. Marilyn waved at the truck and Ryan climbed out.
Ryan approached Jack cautiously. The annoying swagger that Jack had always associated with Ryan Feniak was missing. He shuffled and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Mr. Pickle, I’m sorry for crashing into your fence and doing such a lousy job fixing those posts.”
Jack hadn’t seen Ryan since Fred had been dragged inside Bridget’s greenhouse. Jack couldn’t help but notice the evidence of his thirty stitches. He wanted to ask if a hockey stick had done it. Or that young Czech fella. “You’re a good hockey player. That doesn’t make you a good carpenter. Or the best judge of what’s best for Fred.”
Ryan knew what Jack was talking about and there wasn’t much he could say except to explain that taking Fred to the greenhouse hadn’t been his idea. But Ryan knew that hiding behind that curtain was a coward’s way out, so he said nothing and let Jack tower over him as he had done to Jack at the hockey rink. Jack was enjoying Ryan’s discomfort, but he could only take pleasure in his deserved distress for so long. “How’s the camp going?”
Ryan looked startled. “It’s over.”
“Jack, didn’t I tell you?” asked Marilyn.
Ryan seemed disappointed that his mother hadn’t said anything. “Tell Fred I made the team.”
“Congratulations, son.”
Marilyn smiled. It had been a long time since a man had called her boy son.
“I’m not playing yet but they keep telling me any day now.”
“I don’t think Fred played much his first year.”
“Everyone knows him. In Brandon, I mean.” It was clear that Ryan’s perception of his gimpy neighbour had shifted as quickly as Ryan’s feet were now doing.
Jack heard the phone ringing inside the house. “You don’t want to miss your flight and have your coach yelling at you.”
Ryan completed his walk to the truck and Jack noticed his chin riding high and his shoulders back. It wasn’t his immature swagger returning. There was too much uncertainty in his eyes. This was new. This was possibly the beginning of a young man. Somewhere between a rain-soaked fence line at Jack’s farm and Brandon, the punk in him had been pummelled. And Jack felt privileged to see it.
The picture that greeted Jack at the slaughterhouse was much calmer than he had expected. Billy was sitting on the holding pen, drinking a pop. Lucky Lucy was still tied to a post. And Fred was sprawled on the hay.
“Hey Jack,” said Billy.
“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry.”
“No worries.”
Fred’s clothes were caked in blood. As were his hands. There were smears on his face. “Holy shit,” muttered Jack.
“I think he needs a bath.”
“He’s gonna get more than a goddamn bath, he’s gonna get the toe of my boot up his ass.”
“Easy, Jack, he’s just getting settled again.”
Fred looked more than settled. He looked as if he were in a coma. Billy jumped into the pen and put a hand down. Fred seemed to be studying Billy’s face. “Um, um, you are not half the man I thought you would be.”
“I’m not?”
“You should be uglier.”
Billy grinned and yanked Fred up.
Jack waited for as long as he could, which wasn’t very long at all. “What in the hell were you thinking?!”
Fred sat silently. When he spoke his voice was a whisper. “Um, um, I didn’t want to be selfish.”
“Selfish?”
“Buh, buh, you made a promise.”
“So?”
“I wanted you to have money for Taillon.”
“We got firewood. We’ll find a way. Goddammit I can’t believe you sometimes.”
Jack glanced in his rear-view mirror. Lucky Lucy was bouncing along in the trailer. She looked almost relieved. This was a first for Jack. A lamb coming back from slaughter. It almost made him happy.
Fred stared at Jack. And Jack had to look away. Fred’s eyes were the reason Jack had never gone inside the kill room. Fred had seen it. Jack was hoping he would forget. He didn’t want Fred looking at him like that ever again.
five
Fred carried his blood-stained clothes to a garbage bag Jack had left for him beside the back door, and jammed them inside. Then, almost as an afterthought, he poked his fingers into the pockets of the pants. He felt something. Fred stared at the blood-stained note. He couldn’t remember how long he had been wearing the pants. Maybe since Taillon had been shot. Maybe longer. The note was simple. It told him of a place, a date and a time.
“Um, um, what day is it?!?”
“Tuesday,” yelled Jack from his desk.
“What is the date?”
“September 20.”
Fred tried not to appear all atwitter as he rushed up the steps, through the kitchen and into his bedroom, where he quietly shut his door. He didn’t want Jack thinking that something was up.
Fred stayed in his room for the rest of the night. Jack tapped on the door to ask him if everything was okay. There was no answer. And for good reason.
Fred had laid out everything on his mattress: an extra pair of pants, underwear, socks, his tailcoat, top hat, money and, most important, his hockey ticket. He had hidden it well, not under the mattress where he knew Jack snooped. No, the ticket was buried under a small mound of dirty underwear. It had taken Fred three hours to find it himself.
Fred limped away from the side of the highway, his bike carefully hidden. As Fred stuck out his thumb at an approaching milk truck he took a deep breath of pungent odour from some silverberry shrubs. It helped. The soapy finger he had jammed into each nostril that morning had provided only temporary relief from the smell of blood.
—
Fred charged down the busy street, his knapsack bouncing on his back. The trip had been easy. The milk truck had dropped him just outside the city limits and Fred had hitched
a ride into town with a folk band returning from Yellowknife. The plump female vocalist sang old Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, some Stan Rogers and Townes Van Zandt. Fred told her she was better than Anne Murray.
Tell him to make me a cambric shirt …without no seam nor fine needlework …tell him to dry it in yonder dry well …which never sprung water nor rain ever fell…
Fred sang along as best he could, but he knew none of the words so he hummed and giggled.
Ask him to find me an acre of land…between the salt water and the sea sand … ask him to plow it with a lamb’s horn, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, and to sow it all o’er with one peppercorn, for then he’ll be a true love of mine…
By the time Fred had reached his destination he had finally finished explaining that it might be impossible to sow a field with a single peppercorn but it was entirely feasible to plow a field with the horn of a lamb, provided you had stamina and patience. He had told the band they were almost as good as April Wine.
He yanked on the door to O’Malleys, excited about making a grand and unexpected entrance. The door was stuck. He yanked on it again, then peered in a window. The restaurant was empty. A few pieces of white packing paper littered the floor. Fred stopped a passerby. “Have you seen where O’Malleys went because it was here just a minute ago.”
The pedestrian avoided Fred and walked away. The longer Fred stood there trying to get strangers to talk, the more panicked he became. This wasn’t like the Christmas dance or even one of the hockey games. This was a street in the city. Fred started to feel like an ugly, limping monster. And passersby looked at him and ignored him as if he were just that.
Fred tried to control the anxiety that was flooding his body. He pulled the blood-stained note from his pocket. He asked someone what the date was. The date was right. The time had passed an hour ago.
Fred stood in the empty parking lot of the arena. He compared the dates on the ticket and his note and became more confused. The date on the hockey ticket was many days away. The Chicago Blackhawks were okay. They were the visitors. But the other team. They had a strange name and played in a different city. And then Fred remembered. Papers swirled around his shoes as he scrambled away.
The Horn of a Lamb Page 30