By Jaime Screen
Finnegan Soteri felt everything: the mud under his bare feet, seeping between his toes, the rain drenching him, the leaves and wind whipping his face and all the skin it could reach. But there was only one thing he could see. It was white and small, trapped against the fence line and struggling to free itself from the barbed wires that shredded its fur and skin. He could hear it as he approached, the strained bleats and cries filling every space inside his head.
Finnegan could see where the lamb had made its way over the outer fence of the property, designed specifically for this: to keep animals out. But the stone had done nothing, the broken branches and indented leaves scattered about at the bottom of the wall made that clear. He wondered silently how the little lamb had reached the top on the other side. Had the violent winds knocked something against the wall? Something that had acted like a step for the lamb. He would have to check in the morning. He couldn’t see much in the quickly disappearing light now, just the barbed fence, the stone wall behind it, the creek to his left and the lamb.
“Oh, what have you done?” Finnegan muttered to himself. He cast a brief glance over his shoulder towards the house, towards the room his mother and father were asleep in. The light was thankfully still off, a great solace to his mind but terrible for his vision. He could have used the extra light, the world was falling away around him, disappearing into the blackest night. He wished the lamb could hear him, that he would make a friend of the creature before him; that maybe this creature, out of all on the planet, could understand him. But he knew better than that. Wishful hoping had seen him ostracized, almost outed and ultimately shunned. It was only a matter of time before his parents did the same and he knew that. He knew that too well.
He had life between his fingers, a power between his palms and he should have never come out here in the rain. Not with his parents so close. But when he saw the lamb out of his bedroom window, bathed in the light of the candles that adorned the fence posts, he knew he would not leave it the way others had left him.
And now Finnegan was here, trembling either with fear or from the cold. The lamb bucked at the fence again, recoiling in pain as the pads of its feet hit a barb. The pain in its voice, its eyes, it was harrowing. He saw so much of himself here, trapped and in pain. The lamb looked so tired as it stared at him, its eyes wide and though he knew it wasn’t entirely possible, Finnegan could have sworn it was crying.
The barbs dug into Finnegan’s own hands as he lifted the first string of wire above his head so he could clamber through to the outside of the fenceline. The wooden pole propping up the section wobbled as he did so. He would have to hammer it back into the ground, another job for the morning.
His hands were burning as he knelt next to the lamb and he swore he could smell smoke. The lamb calmed almost as soon as Finnegan’s hand ran over its side, the fur matted from the elements and sweat. It lay its head into the wet grass and looked with a calm curiosity up into the night sky. It looked peaceful. It looked like death. Something that Finnegan Soteri would not allow today, not ever, not on his hands.
He tore off his gloves and shoved them into the pocket on his pants. Briefly, the question of how he would explain the mud over his clothes to his parents passed through his brain, but the damage was done and there were more important things at hand. He ran his fingers over his left palm idly, a strange mix of power and resentment mixing deep within his stomach. But he could wait no longer. He placed one hand on the sheep’s side, the other near its neck. A gold hue began to lift from the seams of where his hands met fur and for just a moment, the world turned bright.
The pain within Finnegan’s body was agonizing. The thought that the tiny animal in front of him had stomached all of the pain that now ran through his own body was morbidly curious. But it didn’t matter anymore, the lamb wouldn’t feel this anymore, only he would.
Finnegan bit into his own shoulder trying to stifle any whimpers and cries that unwillingly left his body. The pain thrummed through his veins and around his heart. Still the creature in front of him was still. He knew there was no way of explaining this, no way to explain that he had known the lamb was here because he felt it long before he saw it.
When the pain finally subsided, transforming into no more than a dull throb in his skull, he removed his hands. He watched as the lamb flinched at the movement and how he longed to assure it that there was no danger in him, that there was only ease. Finnegan set to work unhooking the barbs from the matts in the lamb’s fur and when he got to the last one, he slid his hand beneath the side of the lamb and pulled it to its feet. The animal’s first steps were tentative and unsure, it slowly kicked each of its feet as if checking they really still worked.
When Finnegan reached out his hand, the lamb leaned forward its neck, sniffing his palm, determining the level of threat. There was a part of Finnegan that was hurt when the lamb did not come closer, but the logical side of him knew why it didn’t. He could only imagine the lamb’s previous experiences with his people. They were kind, that’s what all of the legends said across every country in the world, that was the reason why their blood was gold. But his people were farmers, he himself had seen creeks flowing deep red out of slaughter houses. That was not what he considered good.
What he considered good was the power flowing through him. The power he could use to help people, to take away their pain and give them peace. But this power was meant to be gone, extinguished from the living world hundreds of years ago. He would be hunted, tortured, taken for testing. He would be shunned. He would be killed. He could never tell anyone the power he held. As much as it killed him inside to hide a treasure like he had away.
He made his way down to the creek, the stone wall was shorter here, almost crumbling from disrepair. No one ever really came down to this end of the field. But he would be able to guide the lamb over here without causing harm or drawing notice. He hoped at least.
After a little struggle, no more than a few minutes, Finnegan watched as the lamb jumped off of the stone wall and into the pastures on the other side. He could only hope that they were greener there, that there were friends and family waiting for it and that it would forget the ordeal.
When he turned around, his father stood against the doorframe on the porch; his mother sobbed silently on her knees almost as if she was praying. Finnegan’s heart raced as he stumbled through the paddock and to the back of his house.
His father’s jaw was clenched, lines forming under his cheekbones. His beard was unkempt and there were stains on his nightshirt. His eyes were unreadable, Finnegan had expected anger to be there, but instead there was nothing. He found that worse. His mother wouldn’t look at him and when he reached the bottom step, Finnegan knew that they had seen much more than the lamb escape over the fence. How could he have been so careless? How could he have forgotten to keep an eye on the lights?
“What was all that then?” The older man’s voice was hoarse, though not with anger but with sleepiness. He almost sounded curious. A warm feeling of hope ran down Finnegan’s spine.
“The lamb,” Finnegan stammered, “it got trapped in the fence. It was hurt. I just helped it back into the pastures.” His mother wailed in front of him.
“A liar too?” His father laughed. “I meant the light show, Finnegan.”
There was nothing that anyone could say, he lowered his head in a brief silent prayer and said, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” his father’s voice was cold now, gruff. “I am sorry. Go to bed Finnegan.”
The next morning when he woke, Finnegan found his bags packed and lined up next to his shoes. He had only time to throw his coat over his shoulders.
“I don’t care where you go, just make it far from here.” Was all his father said as he carried his things up the path.
Finnegan made it no more than fifty meters before his mother’s hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. She didn’t say much, as if scared to.
“Here,” she said softly, “for the road.”
He watched as his mother practically sprinted back to the house. And as he did so, he unwrapped the blue checkered cloth in his hands. Tears welled in his eyes.
It was lamb.
In dedication to Gordon ‘Pop’ Tapner