Blood of the Lamb

Quick, light-footed steps echoed through the dense forest, and with it came the sound of laughter floating idly on the wind.

Two amorphous shapes bobbed and weaved amongst the branches, their shadows darting in and out of the patches of sun which filtered in through the trees. Their progress was smooth and nimble as they navigated their way off the main path that wound its way into the dense foliage. In the intermittent play of light and dark they appeared as flashes of white and gray, and the laughter trailed behind them as they continued their playful dance. The sound—though young—held a note of cunning that was distinctly unchildlike.

The wind blew cool and fresh through the trees, and a rabbit, instinctively frozen in fear by the sudden intrusion, broke through its paralysis and went crashing off into the underbrush. In a burst of movement one of the gray shapes broke off from the group, and with a final burst of speed, it circled one of the smaller white shapes, effectively cutting off its escape.

“Cours petit mouton, cours…” Run little sheep, run….

The laughter went from playful to taunting. “Attrape-moi sit u peux.” Catch me if you can.

Light and sound coalesced as the white shape picked up speed, heading straight for the ruins of the old church which lay enshrined within the trees. There were some who were old enough to remember them from days long past, but few dared to venture this far away from the safety of the village. Only the very reckless or very young were fool enough to do that, or in the case of the shapes laughing and darting their way towards the crumbling foundation, this was the ideal location for those looking for a clandestine place to meet.

A piercing howl split the air and echoed loudly within the confines of the mossy stones. A flock of pigeons, startled by the noise, took flight in a flurry of wings and feathers just as the white shape burst into the clearing, the gray shape fast on its heels.

“Too slow Etienne, much too slow.”

A slender hand reached out from underneath the cape of fleecy shearling tied around its shoulders, fingers extended to touch the surface of the nearest stone. A snarl of frustration emanated from the shape’s pursuer as they bolted forward, their head down as if to charge their quarry.

The distinctive profile of the wolf’s pelt and head they wore over their simple homespun clothes flashed into view as the sun broke through the cloud cover, and with a shout of triumph, they lunged.

Strong, warm hands tackled the prey and they hit the ground with a dull thump, rolling end over end twice before coming to rest feet away from the broken arch of a window.

“I’ve got you now little lamb, and you’re not getting away.”

Light, tentative giggles ensued as the two shapes—a boy and a girl of around fifteen years of age—slowly disentangled themselves from the heap they had landed in.

The cape of wool was roughly cast aside as the boy bent down and captured the girl’s lips with his own. The glass eyes of the preserved wolf head he wore glinted dully as the pair embraced on the mossy ground, and for a moment it seemed as if the very trees themselves held their breath in anticipation.

“You still lost, you know.”

“Did I?” The boy kissed the girl deeper, more possessively.

The girl tried to protest but then decided that it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that yet again they had managed to steal these moments away.

The herd of sheep that she was supposed to be tending had been secured in the makeshift pen that she and her lover had constructed out of branches near the edge of the river, and no one would be the wiser.

She and Etienne, along with a handful of others, were the only ones who frequented this place. They were unlikely to be disturbed during their time together, and if another couple happened to steal into the woods for a rendezvous, they would remain just as discreet.

The boy reached up to remove the wolf pelt from around his shoulders along with his shirt, but the girl stilled him with a hand on his chest.

“Leave it on.”

He smiled down at her and then began to hungrily kiss down the line of her jaw towards the hollow of her slender throat.

“Etienne….” The sound was almost a moan as the bodice came undone and the simple chemise was roughly brushed out of the way. In her delirium, the girl stretched out her arms in which to anchor herself to the soft carpet of undergrowth on which they lay.

The soft delicate moss and ferns rasped against her bare palm, and as her skirt was pushed up, they slid in something cold and viscous. Some small part of her thought that maybe she had come in contact with a slug making its slow progress against the forest floor, but the shape was all wrong. Something soft and pliable compacted under her touch and she drew back with a start.

“Wait. Etienne, stop.”

“Sophie.” His fingers began a search of their own, delving towards the warm and moist valley between her legs. “You don’t mean that.”

His fingers entered her swiftly, and fighting back the urge to cry out, she clamped her hand down hard over her own mouth.

He leaned down and whispered into her ear, the soft fur of the wolf pelt tickling the side of her face. “It’s just us, my love—no one can hear us out here.”

His hand began to move in and out with single-minded determination, and this time she did cry out, the sound shrill and desperate. In an instant he had mounted her, effortlessly pinning her down with his body, his weight crushing the tender green ferns beneath them.

Birds twittered and hopped from branch to branch as the two lovers came together, and by now there was little that could distract them from exploring the mysteries of one another. Fur and wool blended into one as they began to move together, and when their union had reached its inevitable conclusion, they lay together on the ground gasping.

Father Benoit preached that such couplings were a sin until marriage, but the fervent and oftentimes crippling emotions Sophie felt whenever she and Etienne were alone couldn’t be further from the truth. She knew that he loved her as much as she loved him—he had told her as much the first time they had lain together—and one day they would be married in the little church. They would no longer need to steal these moments together after that.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She reached up and brushed aside the dark locks of his hair. “My fearsome wolf.”

“My gentle lamb.” She felt his mouth smile against the palm of her hand as he leaned forward to kiss it.

He drew back with a start.

“Etienne?” She gazed up at him, his profile stark against the dappled light. Something dark was smeared across his lips, and his eyes were wide with fear.

“Etienne?”

He didn’t answer her, but instead continued to stare at the space just behind and to the right of her, his expression blank.

She reached up to shake him and found that he was trembling violently. A small sound escaped his lips that was almost a moan, and frightened, she sat up and immediately enfolded her arms around him. “My love, what is wrong?”

He yielded without protest, but that same terrible moaning kept coming out of him. She tried shaking him, hugging him, speaking to him in a calm soothing manner, but there was no change. He seemed almost paralyzed by something that he had seen, and in desperation, she slapped him in the hopes that he would regain his senses.

“Speak to me, Etienne! What are you…?”

The words died in her throat as her hand came away sticky with the same dark substance that covered his mouth. In the dim light it appeared almost black, and a strong iron-like smell emanated from it.

Some small primal part of herself knew what it was without even having to see it in full light. She had assisted with slaughtering plenty of sheep, chickens, even pigs, and she knew the sight and smell of blood when she encountered it. She had bled when she and Etienne had first lain together months before, and the scent of it had clung to both of them afterwards like a scarlet mark of shame.

She had been terrified that others would notice it when they returned to the village, separately so as not to arouse suspicion, but no one had. Not her gentle, soft-spoken mother or her father who was always gruff with others but never his beloved Sofie. Not her closest friend Marie whom she longed to tell all the details to, not the blacksmith or the stonemason who worked mainly for the church.

Only Father Benoit had stared after her with cold gray eyes as she made her way through the muddy streets, Etienne not too far from her, but far enough away so that they did not walk side by side.

When she had entered through the crude wooden gate to her father’s house, she had paused to scrape the mud off her shoes while Etienne caught up. He never wavered in his sedate pace as he made his way past towards his own home, and without a word he had touched his fingers to his lips when he thought no one was looking.

She felt the heat rush to her face as she remembered the things that they had done in the woods, of the way his hands, lips, and fingers had made her feel. She knew that she would always crave his touch, and sin or no, they would find some way to steal away to the ruins so that they could rekindle this desire all over again.

Blood.

With a sudden dread she slowly turned around in the direction that Etienne was staring at. For a moment her eyes could only make out a confusing morass of grays and blacks, but as she squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, a lighter shape emerged.

The longer she stared, the more obvious the shape became, yet the more confusing. It was a person, most likely a girl based on the dress it wore, that was lying motionless on its back. The legs were slightly splayed apart, and the lower half of the girl’s dress had been pushed up towards her chest. An ugly dark stain had spread from her abdomen all the way up to her breastbone, and around her on the crushed and trampled bed of moss, one of her shoes lay cast off to the side.

In the intermittent flashes of sun peaking in between the trees, the stains on her dress went from black to red, black to red. Flies crawled sluggishly over the face and abdomen of the girl, and in the breeze which suddenly blew in from the surrounding valley, the scent of blood, death, and excrement wafted past Sophie’s nostrils.

The breeze shifted the leaves off to the side, affording more light to shine through, and as Sophie became dimly aware of a similar terrified moan emanating from her own lips, the face of the girl was revealed. The eyes were as vacant and devoid of life as the glass eyes of the wolf pelt

Etienne wore, and as for the expression on the girl’s face…. Sophie could feel the scream welling up out of her before she could stop it.

The face of Marie Simon, her closest and dearest friend, lay staring blankly up at the cold indifferent sky while flies buzzed and alighted among the ruin of her abdomen.

Whoever or whatever had done this to Marie had disemboweled her and left her to rot in this lonesome forgotten place that was known to only a select few in the village.

Marie had been coming here almost as long as Sophie and Etienne, though she had refused to name her lover, despite Sophie’s protests.

“Un jour je te le dirai, Sophie, un jour.” Someday I’ll tell you, Sophie, someday.

That day had never come, and now it never would.

Marie was dead, and whatever had killed her was out there—out here—right now, and could quite possibly kill again.

The scream tore out of Sophie’s throat and echoed up and above the tops of the trees like a bird taking flight, and amid the dense underbrush a rabbit instinctively cowered in fear, it’s small body pressed close to the earth which was the only witness to the brutal slaying that would forever alter the village of Saint-Clarice.