Sacrificial Lamb

I used to sneak out to the barn on Christmas Eve when I was a little kid.

For years.

Because I’d been told that the animals can talk at midnight on Christmas Day, and I desperately wanted to talk to them.

I was scrupulous, even accounting for clocks that may be too fast or too slow. Mom would find me come morning in with the sheep, or the goats, with one critter or another chewing away placidly on my good blanket, and scolded me furiously. Once Dad got clued in, he’d come barging in to drag me screaming back to bed, thundering about how he worked hard to give me a decent bed and I’d better sleep in it. Mom’s ineffective bleating about it being Christmas and it doesn’t matter where I sleep made no difference to him; his word was law in his own head.

What I learned is that parents lie. So all the “magic” and “wonder” of the season shattered far too early for me, quickly followed by Santa and the Easter bunny and the Tooth Fairy. And Jesus. And God, after the third belt whipping and destroying all my Christmas presents in front of me. Just for wanting to sleep in the barn to hear the animals talk.

Mom didn’t stop him. And she didn’t sneak me any Christmas dinner, either.

My teachers, at least, knew what dirty and ripped clothing meant, and hollow cheeks after the New Year’s. Extra rations at school led to my teachers stopping at the house during the holidays, and taking me to their homes for “extra homework” as “punishment.” Dad was more than delighted to see the back of me, a girl that didn’t know her place in the hierarchy of his awful world view. He treated the dog better than me.

Nothing like being a full-fledged atheist at the tender age of eleven.

One of the teachers tried to get me to fit in, to at least pretend to submit till I could leave. She even tried deportment lessons, of all things, and didn’t understand when I deliberately ruined the lesson. I had to spell it out for her one day: “Look, Missus Alder, I know you mean well and all, but there ain’t no way I’ll ever be a lady in front of Dad. Ever. The dirtier I am, the less girly I look, the less’n he looks at me as a replacement for Mom. You can’t be this dumb to have missed the way he looks at any girl.”

She didn’t believe me at first. “No, Charlie, you can’t mean that-”

“He’s done it before,” I said flatly. “There’s a reason my older sis left home and ain’t ever been back. She left pregnant. You can figger it out.”

She did. I got a lot of cookies after that. Too bad I didn’t put on any weight from it, that would have made Dad’s wandering eye look elsewhere.

But something was talked about all the same, because whenever dad was out and about, big and burly men suddenly appeared, and drifted between Dad and whatever pretty lady was in view. But if Dad got the hint, he turned it on the girls he still had under his thumb.

Mom got the worst of it, but I soon had bruises showing every time I went to school. Someone must have complained, because a lady in a very prim suit and two of the biggest men I’ve ever seen came to the farm to have a “talk” with Dad. Mom tried to explain it all away, farm life being hard and all, but since I had a huge black eye at the time, she didn’t get far. The lady gave Mom such a disgusted look and said something about not protecting her own that made Mom blush and cry, and Dad was snarling something, but the lady was perfectly calm. My little sisters, even the baby, were taken away with them.

Me? I was needed for lambing season. It would be my first time in the barn, helping out, because every single ewe was fit to burst.

The lady said it all before she left, with the baby sleeping peacefully in her arms: “One more bruise, one more smack, and I come back for her and the boys. You have been warned. I don’t care if the farm goes under, you don’t treat people this way. Shape up, or you’re going to jail.”

Dad spit some horrid words as soon as she was out of earshot that I won’t repeat, but his threats made Mom real nervous.

I got night shift in the barn. Someone had to be there if something went wrong, and Dad and Mom loved their sleep.

So I was out there, once again, with my old ratty quilt, which had been downgraded to horse blanket.

I was supposed to stay up all night, but who does that? You sleep with them, and it’s quiet, but if a ewe’s in distress, they huff and moan. It’s not hard to wake up fast when there’s a strange noise in the barn.

So the whispers were something that snapped me awake real fast.

“Poor thing. Is there anything we can do?”

“If I bite him, he’ll kill me. Any of us, really. And wouldn’t we all be sold off if he dies?”

“Naaah. The oldest boy will inherit, and he’s a decent sort. The other two cubs, well, they’re just as bad as him, but he might drive them off if they treat us bad. He’s already knocked them down when they kick us for no reason.”

“Elsie, would you do it? For them? For this one?”

“I would, but how would we get this one and the cub-man not to drink any?”

A thin, nasal voice. “This one does not drink it, because it hurts her tummy. The oldest boy drinks coffee, says cereal is for babies. The rest do, even the bad man, especially when the cream’s still on the top.”

“Greedy guts. Elsie, I do not wish you to die, I hope you live.”

“Better than living here with the bad man. We could fight, but them we would be killed. This way, the good ones stand a chance, with the good little ones out of the way.”

“Better to do this soon, then.” And there was a swishing, like something was leaving.

I snapped my eyes open, sat up.

No one. Just the barn animals lying around, swinging their heads to blink at me. And one ewe nursing her brand-new lamb, like my help was never needed.

And Elsie, our milk cow, was ambling out the open barn door.

We let them do that, come spring, to enjoy the air.

I checked on the ewe, making sure everything was really okay, and petted both her and her little one, praising them both. They seemed to enjoy it.

Come next morning, I almost forgot the whispers. Till I saw the fresh milk Mom brought in in the milking pail, pouring it for her and Dad’s cereal. She made my oldest brother eggs and toast, because he wouldn’t eat anything else for breakfast. My younger brothers fought for the rest of the milk, spilling some, for cereal and large glasses to chug down. I shuddered, and nibbled on dry toast.

That night, Elsie seemed a bit shaky. No lambs, though. No whispers either.

The next morning, everyone else was pale and shaky too, except me and Dave. That’s my elder brother, but I don’t like his name, because he’s a junior, and I hate Dad. Dave Junior don’t like it neither, for that matter. He was looking a bit concerned at the rest, but Mom waved him off, said they were fine. He shrugged and looked at me, and I shrugged too.

That night, two lambs, with no problems. Elsie looked worse though.

And so did everyone else come morning.

Dave mentioned going to the hospital, but Dad snarled at him - well, tried to, he was doing rather poorly. So were the rest. I decided to stay home from school to help if needed, but Dave hustled me out the door to the bus. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, looking worried, “but I don’t want you here in case it spreads. I’ll do as many chores as I can, and you’ll have to pick up the rest after school. Sorry for that, but it can’t be helped.”

When I stepped off the bus after school, I could see the big black hearse at the end of the lane.

I ran down, and Dave tried to grab me, but I saw.

They were all gone.

I ran to the barn to hide, but saw Elsie laying sideways in the barnyard, all stiff. I ran back to tell Dave, and he and a tall man in a dark suit came out to look. The man said something about milk sickness, and Dave looked shocked. They left, and I plopped aside of Elsie in the yard.

There, in her mouth, was a branch of white snakeroot.

Where did she get it? At this season? How?

The dog came out and laid his head in my lap. The other animals gathered around, and I was worried about them getting in it too, but they stayed back. It was like they were quietly mourning, even the new lambs. I stroked Elsie’s nose, silently thanking her for the gift of freedom she gave us.

The suit lady decided to keep our sisters. She said she found good homes for them, even the baby. That’s okay, I guess, because we’re up to our ears in keeping the farm running.

Dave and I looked, but we didn’t see a stitch of snakeroot anywhere. We know enough to pull it up because it’s poison, but what, did she eat it all?

We had a bumper crop of lambs to raise, and each one of them was an easy birth.

The funerals were quiet. Most came to make sure me and Dave were all right. They knew what Dad was like.

Dave and I get along well. He’s okay with me wearing boy’s clothes and taking care of the animals, while he does the fields. We share cooking and cleaning. It’s not like we have much time for either, but we make do. Miss Jessica from town is making eyes at him, but I think she sees a farm that she can rule more than a person who needs affection. I think Dave and I need time to figure out who we are first, before we bring other people into this mess of our lives.

I had a strange talk with the preacher, after the funeral. He shows up onct or twixt a month, just to see how we’re doing. I’d told him about not believing in God, and why, at the funerals. He was surprised, but understanding, and didn’t push. I was grateful for that. He asks gentle questions, and sometimes I even answer them.

I told him about what started it all off, believing the animals should talk on Christmas.

He gave a soft chuckle. “Well, Charlie, that’s a powerful reason, and sound logic. But, well, I hate to tell you, there is a flaw in it all the same.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Christmas isn’t in winter. Well, the day we celebrate as Christmas. Since we didn’t know the actual date of Christ’s birth, some Roman Christians just slapped the name on a day in late December, to stick it to the pagan Romans. You know, how dare they celebrate Saturnalia and all that.”

I stared. I was being rude, and I knew it, but I couldn’t help it.

“We don’t know the true date of Christ’s birth, of course, because none of the Roman census reports have ever been uncovered. I have a personal theory that it’s on the same day that He was crucified, but that’s just my own sense of irony talking. But we do have a clue: it’s in Luke, chapter two, verse eight. ‘And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.’ Shepherds don’t do that in the middle of winter. Only in spring, during lambing, to stop predators from taking the lambs for supper.”

I stared some more. It was all I could do.

“So if they’re going to talk, it would be about now. Keep that in mind when you’re on lambing watch, you never know.”

Dave must have seen my face, because he took over the conversation, and I sat there stupefied.

The whispers.

Elsie.

A sacrifice.

I was numb. I was scared. I didn’t know what to think.

And the dog came over, put his head in my lap, and didn’t that blasted dog wink at me.

A tiny bit of hope bloomed in my heart, like an early spring blossom.

Well.

A particular night, come next year's lambing time, might just be real interesting.