Shepherd's Warning

CW: Graphic descriptions of Gore, Violence, and Blood.

It all began this morning, when I woke up to tend to my herd, and was left bewildered on my front doorstep. The sun had bled all over the morning sky as it clawed its way out from the horizon. All I could do was watch it with a heavy pit in my stomach. It was a beautiful sight that many of my forefathers must’ve seen, and yet I felt strangely haunted by the restless trepidation they orally passed down to me. Father to son, blood to blood.  

That scarlet eye stared down my sweating neck, slick with sweat, as I began my daily routine of counting my sheep. That gut feeling dawned on me then. One was missing. The lamb. Only a day old. I had left Hardy and Whitefoot out all night to tend to my girls whilst I was sleeping, so I was certain no bear or wolf could’ve gotten past the fence. 

As a shepherd you must be prepared for anything. 

Perhaps she escaped through a hole in the fence or got stuck somewhere and was still waiting for me to find her. So, I checked the back of the farm and patrolled the edge of the forest with my dogs, monitoring the entire fenced off perimeter. Nothing. Though I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Once I had gotten back from walking my girls to the river, I closed them in for the day but stayed on my front porch for extra measure, my sharpened scythe in one hand and a bottle of ale in the other. I was sure the culprit would return for the main course after devouring its appetiser. However, it wasn’t until the sun returned to its depths it came from that I heard some strange noises. 

Rhythmic bleats echoed across my farm from the corner of the forest where the darkness always played with my eyes. In all my years of work I had heard all kinds of lambs crying. I had gotten used to the ambient noise of my girls fussing. And yet the voice that called out wasn’t scared. Nor was it sad. It cried and cried. One bleat after the other, repeating itself in the same pattern, in the same tone every time.  

Come here. Come here. Come here, it cried, like the beat of a heart. 

I took the lantern off my porch and delved into the forest with my dogs. There was only one place they could be coming from, the old barn that had been standing longer than I. It watched over the depths of the forest like a matriarch, its land long overgrown but still guarded by its old walls. When I reached the rotten door, my boys began growling. Their entire bodies tensed up, their mouths frothing with fury. I braced my shaking hand against the door and it gave in with ease.

It was expecting me. 

With one violent gust, the fire in my lantern was blown out as soon as I could peek inside. But the trees parted their leaves for the moonlight to streak in through the broken roof.

There she was, in the back, waiting on her newborn hooves. My missing lamb. 

Except It wasn’t her. Not anymore. 

I knew the moment she turned her neck to look at me; her slit pupils held a soul wiser than time. My muscles froze, rooting me to the doorway of the barn as she began to heave. Her back convulsed and twisted, but not once did her forward facing eyes stray from mine. I watched, powerless, as my little babe tore its back open hard enough to stumble, until I could clearly see Its wet spine. There were no cries or whimpers from It, only the crackles of breaking bones and blood thickly pooling beneath Its hooves. The skin stretched till it allowed a set of moist wings to spread. Finally, It mustered the strength to stand upright and bare Its teeth at me. I assumed it was a smile. The moonlight illuminated Its fragile body in an ethereal silver glow, making the blood dripping down Its wool glisten.

It spoke, in the voice of a child, a man and a hag all at once, “Be not afraid.” 

I sank to my knees, my dogs no longer growling but cowering behind me. It walked up to me, until It could shakily rest a hoof on my shoulder. I felt It’s blood stain my skin through the fabric. I could not tear my gaze away. 

“God has chosen You, Man, to become the new Prophet.” It drawled, with a lisp not quite human. “Nurture Me till I Am grown. Bring Me My Mother. You will be rewarded.”

My fingers clenched tightly around the handle of my scythe. But then I watched It return to four legs, and gingerly wobble to the back of the barn. It curled into its wings and looked back at me, with all the charm and patience of a newborn. 

I deluded myself into believing the following three days were peaceful. The mother suckled Its strange baby diligently, in the lonely corner of the old barn which I tried to make better with fresh hay. As if to compensate for leading her to this being. And today, I returned to reap the consequences.

I found It in the early morning, when it was still dark, having woken up feeling as if I was expected. I opened the barn door a different man to the one I became when my eyes fell upon It. It was feasting on Its mother. Her body laid obediently; her face neutral as if she was still sleeping. I had found them just as everything within her rib cage was devoured.

It stood up till we were on eye level, Its mouth still dripping. “It is time, Man,” It announced, “For Your Enlightenment.”

“What do you want…?” I asked It with a whimper; my voice wavered with disuse. My legs shook but couldn’t move, as if my mind was not the one controlling them. It wiped Its mouth, smearing It’s mother’s remains.

“Take me to Your home, Man. Consume Me and gain the Knowledge of the World. Only then will God speak to You. This is Your reward. Take me to Your home.”

I obliged. 

I walked It to my hut. Its hooves trailed behind me with a steady rhythm. Its wings dragging on the ground. The lantern reflected off my ladies eyes’ as we passed my farm; they watched me parade It in silence. My dogs observed me on the porch, sitting as still as possible. I opened my door to It, and It walked in.

I waited till It turned Its head to look at me. 

My arm moved as if it was second nature.

The sharp edge of my scythe connected with Its soft, white neck.

“I shouldn’t have let you live!” I cried, my tears mixing with the blood that splattered my face. I continued creating holes in Its body till my arms became tired. Till my voice became hoarse. “You abomination! You monster! Go back whence you came, you evil omen!”

But It didn’t stop me, nor did It writhe in pain. It laid there accepting each and every jab till I sat back. 

It bared Its teeth. 

“My job is done. Your Sins shall be forgiven. Await your Enlightenment, Man. He will come to You.” It spluttered, before Its last gasp rang in my ears. It was then that I finally noticed the distinct taste of iron on my tongue.

My innards quaked and burned with dread so heavy that I emptied my stomach onto the floor.  Yet even then, the bitter aftertaste could not cleanse me from what I had tasted. And as the rising crimson eye cast my lengthening shadow over Its still, cold body, I became possessed.

Possessed with the urge to run. 

I ran till my legs hurt. I ran till I could no longer hear my dogs barking or my sheep crying. I ran until I couldn’t recognise the trees.

But He still found me.

My eyes He enveloped in light so bright beyond comprehension that my sight withered within a blink. My ears He drowned with His voice till they became severed from the world. I collapsed to what remnants I could feel of reality, but even then my body felt different; I felt with my fingertips, my skin, my soul, everything and nothing at the same time. Finally, a voice caressed the inner depths of my mind in a language undoubtedly inhuman. 

He welcomes me.

Sylwia Brooke is an author interested in exploring how the ordinary can become strange. Having moved to England from Poland when she was young, she brought the religion she was Christened into with her and now enjoys the dark ways in which it can be interpreted.