They say the Lambs are Fleetingly Gorgeous

Appetizer - A Guest in the Night

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Odette watched from the patio. The distant candlelight reflected in the irises of her mauve eyes. The cabin adjacent from their quant little house had always been lonely. Creaking, shuddering, and groaning to itself in the cold. But now, the delicate curtains flailed to reveal the outline of a man. Watching her watching him.

Odette only caught a glimpse of the man before the curtains were closed. But he had inspired a feeling of unease. Like a smile with too many teeth.

The man was not the only guest to arrive that night. In the gloom, she heard engines roar and pop. Three black trucks accelerated through the snow. One by one their great shadows passed her by. They followed the cul-de-sac beyond the cabin. Hidden in the secrecy of the forest leaves. The only thing of interest there was an old depilated barn. Odette wondered at what possible creatures they could be bringing. Up here in their little woodling dwelling, the cold was not a haven for most animals. Its bite was too cold for their tiny hearts to endure the winters wraith. An inferno to those who craved the affection of the sun.

Her Papa joined her outside, smoking his signature tobacco pipe. He had the familiar, earthy scent of the woods. It was as though he was a part of the forest. His soul belonged here. To the rustling of the trees. To the crackling of the harth. And the bottomless cold of the snowfall.

“We have a new neighbour it seems.” He sighed wearily, lost in the fog of thought. He was not welcome to strangers nor idyll chatter. You only live in such a place if you prefer your own company. And he was a perfect testimony of this. A man hiding in nowhere land.

“Do you know what was in those trucks Papa?”

Papa exhaled. Releasing smoke that pulsated in delicate clouds. He tilted his head back and inhaled deeply through an oblong-shaped nose too big for his face. “Smells like sheep,” his words were gruff, laced with broken sleep.

Odette’s heart pricked with excitement. She was not like her father. She adored company in any form. But out here the only friends she acquired were the silent trees and laughing lustre of stars. There was not another child her age for miles by.

“Do you think the man will let me play with them?” She pockets her half-chewed fingertips. Tilting her tiny Aphrodite face towards him, with her doleful eyes, and cherubic cheeks, she watches his response eagerly. Hoping for a wishful answer. The way the gods crave ambrosia.

“I don’t see why not. But tomorrow. We must wait till tomorrow to ask.” Papa made a motion to usher her back into the house. Away from Winters glacial chill. Before going in, Odette looks once again to the cabin in the woods. She recalls the strangeness of the figure. Even without catching their face. Something about the man had chilled her to the marrow. And if they asked what she meant, she would tell them that his presence was as cold as the unforgiving snow.

Entrée - The Virgin Lamb

Dread tumbles up her gut. Bambi eyes wait with bated breath. She is just a lamb on the threshold of the lion's den. She knocks twice and then a third for good measure. The door’s hinges are so big and antiquarian, yet the wood shudders behind her gentle taps. The cabin remains as uninviting as ever. Not a soul seems to whisper from its heart. There is the stillness of a dead carcass to it. Odette wonders if the strange man is not at home.

Snowmelt has gotten into her boots and the lobe of her left ear. Rosy-cheeked from the cold she hugs her buttoned coat closer. Maybe he is in the forest? Or tending to his sheep? She will have to come back and ask later. As she turns to leave, her nose catches a new scent on the breeze. Like fresh blood.

Odette decides to spend her morning venturing the forest. She does this often. Ploughing through the cold expanse with her tiny satchel. Inside she keeps her leather-bound notebook and pens for drawing. So far she has filled its ivory pages with withered, naked trees, a red-breasted sparrow and the hollow ribs of wooden trunks. Today Papa has packed an apple and a brown paper bag of sugar-dusted cookies, cut into little stars. Unbeknownst to him, she has snuck a bottle of kitchen sherry. It warms her belly from the inside and she guzzles it greedily. Fuelled by hedonistic glee and mischief. Some dribbles from her lips onto the virgin snow like droplets of blood.

After lunch she treks back home. In the lulls between her footfalls, she can hear chirping. The world seems to gently sway back and forth. Boughs shudder in the breeze. Branches look like bony fingers reaching in desperation to the heavens. The trees murmur in their strange delicate tongues. She has the curious, creeping feeling of being watched. But when she turns the void behind her remains as desolate and empty as ever.

Soon darkness is falling like velvet. Her vision is webbed by the cracks of night. Nearing the barn she heard the soft, glacé-like mewling of a baby lamb.

“Baaaaaaeehh. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaeeehhhhhhhh.”

Sweet excitement holds her in a chokehold. Tonight her nerves are daring and bold or maybe it is just the sherry. But she wishes for nothing more than to catch a glimpse of what may soon be new friends. She pauses outside the barn door, tottering on indecision. The moon pokes through her blinds. Odette's will wavers. She pushes open the door.

“Hello?” her voice makes a faraway, desolate cadence. There is no human response, just the soft bleatings of startled sheep. There are hundreds, their bodies pushed together like a sea of clouds. Odette wonders through them for her caller. Cocking her head to the side and listening. The tiny cries of a baby slowly awakening to its new world.

"Baaaaeehh. Baaaeehh."

She pats the creature's heads gently on her way past. From the sounds outside she suspects more cold, stiff younglings out in the snowy paddock. The lamb is nestled at the back of the barn, graced protectively by its mother's embrace. Spotting her, the lamb crawls from out its mother's soft underbelly to meet her gaze. Her eyes are trusting, hazel. Her hair is soft and curled and perhaps even whiter than the virgin snow. A white, cotton, as rich as milk and as soft to touch as silk. Odette has savoured some of her apple and offers it now respectively. The way worshippers offer treasury to their gods.

The Lamb grazes on the apple from her gentle palm. Its tongue is light and tickles.

“Hello, my name is Odette. What is your name?”

“Baaeeehh.”

“Nice to meet you. I shall call you Delilah. I hope we may become the bestest of friends.

“Baaeeeehhh.”

Odette kissed Delilah gently on the forehead, and rose once more, promising to return the next day.

Hors D'oeuvre - The Cries of the Dammed

True to her words Odette returned the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

Soon her daily visits were habitual. Odette would watch Delilah bleat and run to greet her on ungainly feet. Like a new-born gazelle. It filled her heart with delight. The beat of her chest humming like moth wings, fluttering. Her spirit was sweet, drunk on the nectar of a sugared heart. Her dear Delilah always had much to say.

Odette had never seen a creature so beautiful. Alluring and gorgeous. A presence that glowed like pearls. As if God-sent. Her eyes were so trusting. Her smile and gentle tail wags were gleeful. And often she would sneak her best friend with her into the forest. Among the falling, unending snow. They were two explorers, searching the world of its mysteries together.

But still, she had the sinking, creeping feeling of being watched. She wondered if the man that lived in the cabin knew of his secret visitor.

She had never seen him up close. Only from a distance.

And at night she would often see the lights flicker on in his cabin. Strange thudding noises could be heard from the barn in the dead of night. Loud enough to worry the sheep into startled bleats. Odette had assumed he made his business from their soft wool but she was very wrong. As the number of sheep began to dwindle with each visit, Odette felt the sick truth curdle her brain. That perhaps her lovely friends were turned to fodder. Papa said there was nothing she could do to stop it. The lives of her friends did not belong to them.

But still…

At night she would try to bury her doubts and fall asleep. But the cries of her friends would rise. And she would picture Delilah among them. Scared and confused. As the man sought out his next pillaging. And soon her bed sheets would soak up her tears. In sweet honeyed grief. As she wept. Feeling faithless as the cries would end and the night was as quiet as a grave.

Her prayers were not enough.

And so….

One night, she could no longer bear listening to their anguished cries. Weak and Wavering. Wrapped in warm winter wear and carrying nothing but a dainty lantern, she snuck out. Creeping past the old cabin, she found it empty and still and so meandered her way to the barn. The night was stark and strange. Her footsteps dug tiny holes in the snows carpet. Ahead, the scent of blood once again wafted on the air.

From in the barn she heard sharp thuds. An axe hacking down harshly into bone. She tapped on the barn door. Three times. She could not dream to go in and see for herself what remained. Her lovely friends all gaudy in blood.

There was a pause in the idyll thumping. Soon the rickety door crept open, and the man leered down upon her. His gloved hands were fresh with blood. His eyes were hawk-like. Cold and predatory. The smile that carved his face didn’t meet the eyes. But was slippery like an eel. Odette could feel terror pulsing inside her. Like a living thing. Her heart beat in her ribcages like a bird pelting against an iron cage.

“What Tis yerr name sweet child?” his voice was like the coming of winter. It made her shiver so deep it touched marrow.

“Odette.”

“Odette. What a pretty name for err pretty, young lady ehh. My name is Hector. What brings you here so late pet? Are you here to break into my barn again?”

Odette's eyes widened in alarm. So he did know of her visits afterall. She shook her head frantically. “No. No. I promise I’ll never do it again….i just..just…” her voice trailed off at his expression, oscillating from calm to cold. Now angry, irritated with a touch of cunning. The pallor waxen and brows lowered, dangerously so.

“Just what errr!” he glowered “ya pesky children are all the same. Meddling in things that don’t concern ya. Now tell me what ya want or scram!”

“Please. Please... if you have a heart, spare Delilah and her mother. I will do any chore you ask of me. For as long as you want. I’ll sweep the ice off your patio or fix the holes in your clothes or—”

“Delialah ehhh? Which one is she? The little lamb you’ve been sneaking out into the forest everyday I suppose.” He answered the question himself and inspected her thoughtfully. A smile slivered onto his face. Odette did not like the gleam that entered his eyes.

“Let’s make a deal eyyy?. You and your father come join me for dinner tomorrow and the little lamb will be all yours.”

“Really?” Odette felt almost speechless. It sounded too good to be true from such a cynical drawl.

“Really. Really.”

“I can keep her?” Odette asked, breathless. She had not expected the man to have such a kindred spirit. “and the mother? Will you spare her too?”

The man gave an annoyed huff. “Greedy child. Tis one of my stock not enough! I give you the lamb and the lamb alone. Yerr precious Delilah. I’ll save her for you. I promise. She will be all yours. Now be gone yerr interrupting my work with yerr righteous demands.”

Odette did not need to be told twice. She scampered away as he slammed the door. Her inside were a bundle of kindling emotions ready to spark. A touch of pathos. Feeling of relief and sadness intertwined and danced inside her. She had saved Delilah but had let down so many others. Her friends left as prey to the beast's bowels.

Desert - Grief is a Dish Best Served Cold

“This dish is called Langue d’Agneau en Papillotte. Supplemented with err Duxelle of Oyster Mushrooms,” Hector spoke smugly as he layered Odette's plate with food and served it to her, steaming. It was the next eve and Odette and her papa were attending dinner at the strange, creaking cabin with its even stranger host. Up close, she saw the veins creeping under his skin, and the sallowness of its colour. His hair was oily and greasy and dripped onto the tabletop. Though his table manners were surprisingly eloquent, with folded napkins and ornaments decorating a lavish feast.

“I can’t thankyou enough,” Odette murmured nervously. “I will look after Delilah as if she were my own.”

“Yes, it is very generous of you.” Papa quipped in gruffly.

Hector smiled coldly. But it was a poor façade. Like hiding the smell of rotting in lavish silk. “Eat child before the food is cold.” The table lapsed into silence. Only the tinkering of cutlery and clinking of knives on plates could be heard. The food tasted very strange and foreign on her tongue. But Odette was too scared to offend Hector for his cooking. So she ate. Restlessly eager to bring Delilah safely home. She was terribly scared that Hector would change his mind last minute. And tread back on his words. He did not seem like a man of principles.

“What did ya think of the food?” inquired Hector, with an arrogant drawl.

“It was very good. May I ask what is Lange pap..or whatever it was called?”

Hector grinned. “It’s a dish inspired by Escoffier. Usually, Tis made of cow tongue but I used eh lamb tongue for the meat instead.”

Odette dropped her fork and it clattered jarringly on the plate. “Lamb?”

“It was a particularly chatty lamb,” Hector smirked.

Odette had frozen. Her blood was as cold as the falling snow.

“I killed em myself. Tis Fresh from this Mourn. Ya can’t get finer meet then from the days killen. It's most refined then and supplementary to the palette.”

“Lamb you say?” Papa asked, glancing worriedly at her pale expression “But surely you don’t mean Odette’s little lamb—”

“Delilah?” Odette quivered.

“You said she was yerr favourite. I prepared her just for ya missy.” The gleam in his eyes seemed to feed off her growing horror.

“No!” Surely no one could be so cruel. Are humans born so rabid? Feral? With the blood of lambs dripping from milk teeth? It wasn’t possible.

As if gauging her disbelief he laughed and continued “I said I would giv errr to you eyyyy! And I did just that!!” Hector cackled sinisterly, laughing as the horror filled her fawn eyes with tears. “Teach ya pesky kids a lesson.” Odette knocked the chair down as she stood and fled the cabin.

She did not stop running until she reached the barn. She had to confirm for herself. That Delilah was truly dead. That this was not some morbid hoax from Hector to startle her.

Inside, upon Hector’s workshop bench, was….

What remained of Delilah turned her blood to ice. The world became as quiet as a churchyard. The heavy inertia of time seemed to slow and stand still. And when Odette screamed it was like the first piercing sound to enter the world. It was shrill and startled the ravens outside. They flocked away in a squawking fury.

Odette struggled to process what she saw.

Of Delilah’s decay so soiled by her death. Her beauty so fleeting, so short. Her bloodshed cruel. Innards spilled like red wine. Stained sin coloured like merlot. Odette could not get rid of the taste in her mouth. Tongue. Of her sweet, angelic friend. Now gone.

She had been just a bundle of innocence. Of hazel eyes that sparkled with wonder. Of steps that were clumsy—still learning. Of an excited babble that would talk no more.

She was just a baby… just a baby… just a baby. The words reverberated in Odette's skull. The echoes long and distant like a choir in a hollow church.

Her sweet Delilah was… Something beautiful turned morbid… like broken stars and rotten rosebuds. Above the night streams and stars burn. Her heart grows cold. Odette feels it slicing in two. The way a knife cuts through the apple’s core.

It is only then she notices. The barn is completely empty. Its archways laced with delicate cobwebs. The ground christened in a carpet of dust. An eerie stillness. Like not a soul or breath had touched its premise for years. The clouds of huddled sheep had simply...

…v a n i s h e d..

Confusion slipped into her mind like eels. Where Delilah had lain only moments ago the space was empty. The only sign of her life was carved into her memories and stained in dark velvety ichor blood on the chopping board.

She felt lost, dazed. Unable to process her surroundings.

When Papa found her she was shaking from cold. Porcelain face tear-stained and confused. Wandering through an old slaughterhouse that had been abandoned for years.

Mignardise – On Fleeting Fodder

The weather broke, and the wind shifted from south to east. It brought rain first and then hail, and snow. One could hardly imagine any life. Gardenia's were decaying, hidden under winters sighs; the larks and grosbeaks were silent. And dismal was the chill that crept over the land.

But still, perched on her windowsill, her breath paling against the glass pane, Odette could make out the phantoms of the dead lingering on in the silence of the evening snow. The ghost of the lamb haunted her. At night she still hears the cries, the axe hacking, and then the silence. It is as if her friends are trapped in their own limbo. Dammed to relive their last breaths. Unable to seek peace. As milk-teeth bite down into the flesh of innocence.

The lifeless Lamb. Whose carnage was unwarranted.

Papa says some nights he hears them too and sees the ghost of old Hector lumbering up to the slaughter barn. Still soaked in bloodied nails. Still laughing from a crooked smile and skewered heart. He says we are not the only ones. That the people who lived here before also spoke of strange occurrences in the night; sightings of dying sheep in the fresh snow, the old barn master starring from the cabin windows, the cries of the lamb.

We found Hector’s grave, so we know he was once real. Which means what happened here was also real. That Delilah once breathed life into this world.

Sometimes, some nights Odette would see Delilah in the snowdrift perfectly still. No blood trickled from her broken skin. Her fur soft, and unspoiled. Alone in her desolate death.

Above the lustre of stars like thousands of lanterns, carving a home for themselves in the hollow spaces of the night. And Delilah would stand, knee-deep in the snow. Those deep brown eyes staring into her own. Her beauty, so fleeting.

“I'm sorry Delilah,” she whispers to the night, praying her friend may one day find peace. “I'm sorry for what happened to you.”