part0005

On the last day, Father came to see me in the woodshed. I wanted to scream, to beg him for mercy, to ask him to explain why this was happening to me, but instead I kept quiet and stayed in the corner. I'd finally realized that nobody was ever going to explain, at least not in a way that my eleven-year-old brain could understand.

“Are you alright there, Oline?” he asked, standing in the doorway, framed against the allotments where my brothers had been working during the day.

I'd heard them through the locked door.

The words caught in my throat. Somehow I felt as if I had to ask, even though I already knew the answer. I had to say the words, because if I didn't say them, what would that make me? Some pathetic thing that accepted its fate, far too easily? I didn't want to be like that. I knew I wasn't an adult, not yet, but I felt that I could hurry things along if I at least acted like one. So really, I had no option. I had to find my voice.

“Can I go back inside?” I managed to ask finally. “I mean, can I go back into the house?”

His silhouetted figure did not respond. Only now did I notice that he was wiping something against a cloth. A moment later I saw a flash of metal, and I realized he was cleaning a knife.

“I have chores to do,” I explained, hoping to make myself seem useful. I even began to sit up, although not all the way. I rearranged my damaged legs until I was kneeling in the corner. “I'm good at scrubbing floors. Do you remember? I was always the best at scrubbing floors. Mother said that no matter how ingrained the stain, no matter what else she'd tried, she could always rely on me to -”

“I'm very good at -”

“No, Oline. Just… No.”

There were tears in my eyes.

“Okay,” I replied, but my voice was cracking now, and I was on the verge of breaking into full-throated sobs. I'd spent the whole day, and the night before too, trying to come up with ways to keep myself from sobbing. I'd tried digging my fingernails into the palm of my hands, I'd tried bending my little fingers back until I felt the bones strain, and finally I'd thought that by biting my bottom lip I might be able to summon enough pain. Enough to hold the tears back. All in preparation for this moment.

Now, however, tears were already starting to run down my face, and I knew Father could see them. I knew it was too late, so I let my body shake .

“Did you read the book I gave you?” Father asked.

I nodded, sniffing back more tears.

“So you understand?”

“Well, then,” he continued, holding a hand out for me to take, waiting for me to join him and go outside. “There’s no need for any more of this chat, is there? Come on, girl. You're just wasting everybody's time now. You've got a job to do, little lamb.”

“Oline!” Ronald shouted, grabbing me and pulling me tight; hugging me so hard that I feared he meant to burst me. “Look at you! No man ever had a better sister!”

I tried to pull away, but he put his arms around me and hugged me even closer, almost smothering me against the rough cotton of his unwashed work-shirt. Any other time, I would have pulled away and told him he was gross, but on that evening I took the deepest breath I could manage, inhaling the mix of sweat and motor oil and fertilizer until suddenly Ronald shoved me away and laughed. He took a sip of beer and leaned back, chuckling to himself, and already the smell of his shirt was fading from my nostrils.

I'd remember that smell, though.

I knew I would, and it turned out I was right. But that part came later .

“Eat!” Oliver said, sliding another plate toward me across the table. The younger of my two brothers, Oliver seemed less relaxed than Ronald, as if he hadn't quite come to understand the significance of the night's events. Still, he was making a good show of pretending. “This is still your favorite, isn't it? Mackerel in tomato sauce, on bread?”

I nodded, although I didn't remember ever saying mackerel was my favorite. Then again, I figured he was probably right. In that moment, I was so scared that I barely remembered anything of myself, and it took fully half a minute before I could even remember my name. Feeling a little dizzy, as if my body had become light and my head had become very heavy, I placed my hands on the edge of the table and gripped the wood tight, waiting for the sensation to pass. It would pass, I knew that, but the experience was still mighty unpleasant as I felt the table anchoring me to the world. And then, of course, it did pass, and I felt a little more normal again. And I remembered my name.

I'm eleven years old and…

Suddenly I felt sick; it was the kind of nausea that strikes with no warning and pushes up through your gut like a fist. The kind of nausea that makes you think the bottom of your brain has become un-knotted and all the strings are hanging down into your neck. This, too, would pass in just a moment. I knew that. Still, after just a couple of seconds I felt pinpricks of cold sweat breaking out all across my face, and I leaned forward so that perhaps I could hide my face from the others. Now the sweat was running down from my forehead and I could feel more sweat in my armpits and my heart was pounding and I was starting to worry that I wouldn't be able to beat the feeling back.

It passed, and finally I leaned back in my chair.

“What's up?” Oliver asked, nudging my right elbow. “Having second thoughts?”

I turned to him. “No.”

“Are you sure?” This time his voice was much lower, as if he meant to keep Father from hearing. “I mean, are you really sure, Oline?”

He paused, and I could see that he wanted to ask again, but that he didn't dare. Or maybe he'd read the answer in my eyes, or he thought he had. Poor, sweet Oliver was always my favorite.

“Lamb,” Father said suddenly.

I turned and saw him staring directly at me.

“Lamb,” he continued, his dour face breaking into a smile that revealed his rotten teeth. “Are you not overjoyed by this feast we have laid out for you?”

I nodded, but I knew for sure that I didn't look happy. I couldn't remember how to smile.

“It's Easter,” he added, keeping his eyes fixed on me, “and the door needs painting. God knows this. God knows that a new covenant is required, and He knows that our door needs painting. He's seen the chipped wood, and the flakes that fall to the floor every time that door is forced shut. God sees our front door, Oline, and He recognizes that it has become weathered and ruined. He knows that I'm not a lazy man. He knows I would have painted that door a hundred times over if I'd been able, but He knows that I've been waiting.”

“God knows you were injured in the war, Stephen,” Mother said hurriedly, as if she was keen to remind him. “God knows that the Third World War was -”

“Nobody calls it that!” Oliver sneered.

“God knows how the world is now,” she added, turning to him. “He knows. He sees it all. He knows we make do with what we have, and He knows we're waiting for things to get better again.”

Oliver shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. Ever the cynic.

“I won't have you arguing,” Father said firmly. “Not on Oline's day. Her last day should be happy.”

He paused, and those words seemed to linger in the air for a moment. I still heard them echoing in my thoughts, and I'm sure the others still heard them too.

Finally, Father placed his right hand on the table, half as if he wanted me to take it in his, and half as if he was merely resting for a moment. Still, he kept his eyes fixed very clearly and very carefully on my face.

“We're going to paint that door red, Oline,” he continued finally. “Does that sound nice to you? We're going to paint it red tomorrow when the sun comes up. And then it'll dry as the day goes on. Doesn't that make you just a little proud?”

I nodded, because I knew he expected me to nod.

“How can she be proud?” Oliver whispered on my other side. “She won't be here to see it.”

“Sshh!” I hissed, turning to him.

“You won't!” he continued, his eyes wide open with fear now. “Oline -”

“Quiet!” I said firmly.

“But how can you just sit there and take this? All these crazy religions of the world are all mixed into one and now this superstitious nonsense is -”

“Quiet!” I placed a hand on his arm, and I knew that this would silence him. He always stopped talking when I touched him. He was my brother. “You're going to have a new door tomorrow,” I pointed out. “Bright red and shining in the sun. Just make sure not to touch it until nightfall. I wouldn't want it to get smudged, or to have your rotten fingerprints dried into it.”

I waited for him to smile, but he simply stared at me. I suppose he was thinking of the fingerprints that appeared in the door shortly after it was painted eleven years ago.

“I wouldn't want any trouble,” I continued. “Please, Oliver. I wouldn't want that at all, and if I can look down and -”

“Look down?” he spat back at me. “What - ”

“Quiet!” I said again, and again he stopped speaking. I could tell that he wanted to say so much more, but instead he looked down at his lap, where his hands rested. Although he was a couple of years older than me, Oliver always listened to what I said. Not like the others.

Once I was sure he'd not speak again, I turned back to Father.

“I'm sure the door will look good,” I said, hoping to steer the conversation back onto its proper course. “I'm sure the red will really stand out for miles around, and protect you all. Are you going to remove the locks and knocker, so you can paint under their edges? Or are you going to put tape on them? I think you should remove them. It's more work, but the end result will look so much better, and after all, this isn't something you do every day, is it? It might be another eleven years before you paint the door again. Well, longer even, because…”

My voice trailed off.

I was talking too much, and I knew it. Still, as I kept my eyes on Father, I felt certain that he was about to boil over with rage and send Oliver from the table, maybe even take him out into the yard and mete out some punishment. After a moment, however, I saw Father's face soften slightly, as if the weight of the evening was keeping him subdued, and he simply looked down at his plate. Father was usually a man quick to anger, and free with his tongue, yet now he seemed lost in thought. I supposed he was not used to thinking so much, and that perhaps he found it difficult .

The celebratory mood had faded now, and after a moment I heard Oliver whispering next to me, keeping his voice even lower this time.

“There should be another way,” he was saying under his breath. “This isn't right. We should be better than this.”

As soon as those words left my mouth, I knew they had been a terrible mistake. I had sensed something approaching our forest, of that there had been no doubt. Still, there had been no need for me to speak of what I knew, no need to share the burden. Father was on his knees in front of me, and he had been buttoning my dark blue coat for the walk, but now he looked up at me with fearful eyes. I had stopped his thoughts, and his concern was my fault.

“I'm sorry,” I continued, “I -”

“You feel it too?”

I paused, before nodding.

“Thundering through the air, Oline?”

He turned and looked toward the window, and I did the same. Beyond the dirty and cracked glass pane, nothing was visible except the dark of night. We both knew, however, that the cold forest was out there, and we both felt something approaching at speed. Still many miles away, of course, but always coming. Soon, it would reach us. The house's new protection could not come soon enough. The Easter ceremony had to be completed, and the sacrificial lamb had to be offered.

“Please,” I said finally, looking back down and seeing that Father's frail hands were still holding the buttons he'd been about to slip into their places, “carry on with my coat. Ignore me.”

I waited, but he was still looking at the window.

“Father? Can you please -”

“You were too young last time,” he replied suddenly, still not looking at me. “Just a baby. You heard your older sister's screams, but you won't remember them.”

“No,” I said with a dry throat. “I don't.”

“You don't remember Anna at all, do you?”

“Lamb of mine, she was,” he continued. “As you are now. I knew that day that you would one day have to take her place, but I thought the years would last longer. Instead here we are, after eleven summers and eleven winters, and now I must button your coat the way I buttoned hers.” Finally he turned to me again. “You know this is not my choice, Oline. You know that, don't you?”

“If there were any other way -”

“I was so certain I'd think of something; I had eleven years. I thought that over the course of eleven years I'd think of some way out for you, or that I'd find a way to move our family on from this wretched place.” He seemed shocked now, as if he couldn't quite believe that so much time had passed. “I should have been smarter. What kind of father spends eleven years trying to save his daughter, and still doesn't come up with anything? I had all the time in the world, but I -”

He stopped suddenly, as if the words had caught in his throat, and then he looked up at me again. “Can you forgive me?”

I waited, trying to think of the right thing to say.

“Can you finish buttoning my coat up?” I asked finally. “I don't want to get cold.”

I walked a couple more paces, before realizing that I could no longer hear Father's footsteps behind me. Stopping and turning, I saw that he was watching me from next to one of the huge old oak trees. I could barely make him out at all, since the light of the moon was mostly blocked by the dead branches overhead, but for some reason I could see the vapor of his breath in the night air.

“Do I just keep walking?” I asked.

“Is that what Anna did eleven years ago?”

“Is that what Anna did?” I asked one more time, but I already knew he wasn't going to tell me.

Turning, I looked straight ahead and saw vast, dead trees curling up from the forest floor, as if they'd died while trying to snatch something from the land. There was a hint of mist in the air, drifting through the slices of moonlight, so it was difficult to tell whether anything else was moving at all. After a moment I turned back to Father and saw that he didn't seem to have moved. He was still standing next to that big old tree, still silhouetted against the dark forest with the lights of our house still just about visible in the distance. We'd walked a long way, but maybe not as far as I'd expected.

“Does my suffering begin now?” I asked.

Again, he said nothing.

I wished he'd speak. I wished he'd tell me that everything was going to be okay, the way he used to tell me over the course of the past eleven years.

“My little lamb,” he said finally, his voice filled with regret. I couldn't see his face, not in the darkness, but he sounded as if he was crying. He couldn't be crying, though. Father never cried, I knew that. “Maybe there's another way. It's a twenty minute walk back to the house. In that time, maybe I can think of some other way for us to be safe.”

“How can you do that?” I asked. “If you couldn't think of something in eleven years, how can you think of something in twenty minutes?”

He stepped toward me, reaching out a hand.

“Father, you said -”

“I know,” he continued, coming closer and taking my hand by force, “but I was wrong.” He looked past me, out toward the darker parts of the forest, as if he was watching and waiting to see something fearsome. “I can't let you do this, Oline. I can't let you wander off into the forest like your sister and sacrifice yourself just to keep the rest of the family safe.”

“But eleven years of safety would -”

“There has to be another way!”

Gripping my hand tightly, he turned and tried to lead me back toward the house, but I stood firm. My hand slipped from his, and he managed a couple of paces before turning back to me.

“I'm doing this,” I told him.

“Child, you don't understand. ”

“It's what you need me to do, isn't it?” I replied. “You and Mother and Oliver and Ronald will be safe if I'm sent out into the forest. You've been raising me all this time, you've been treating me so well, because you knew that one day I'd have to come out here.”

“I gave you everything I could,” he replied, and now I could tell that he really had begun to cry.

“I treated you better than any girl in the whole of human history.”

“I know. I appreciated it.”

“You're the lamb of our family,” he added. “The devil can't take the form of a lamb, Oline. It's the only animal he can't become.”

“Mother taught me about that,” I replied. “Because the lamb is the only animal that's guaranteed to be pure, it's the only animal a God-fearing family can sacrifice. So you raised me to be happy and well, you called me your lamb, and now in return I have to do this.”

“And I'm just supposed to let you go?” he continued, his voice trembling with fear. “No, I can't do that. I watched your sister walk away eleven years ago, when she was our lamb, and I've relived that moment every night since. I can't do that same with you, Oline. I just can't.”

He tried to grab my hand.

And again I pulled my fingers free of his.

This time I took a couple of steps back .

“Oline, please, just listen to me. I know I've spent eleven years telling you that this is your destiny, but I was being foolish. I was letting the old religions cloud my judgment; I was allowing myself to fall into superstition. I'm your father and I'm ordering you to take my hand so we can go back to the house. You know you have to obey me.”

Taking a deep breath, I realized that while I had always, always obeyed Father in the past, now I was going to have to break free. He was weakening; his resolve was crumbling, but our house and our entire family would be at risk if I went back there with him now. Every eleventh Easter, a sacrifice had to be sent out to the forest, and that simple fact was not going to change just because Father wished it were not so. He had spent so much time over the years teaching me to be strong. Now it seemed he was the one who was faltering.

“Oline,” he continued, reaching for my hand again, “I cannot watch you walk away into the forest.”

“Okay, then,” I replied, taking another step back. “Then I shall run.”

With that, I turned and bolted, racing between the trees and ignoring Father's cries. I knew he'd never be able to keep up; that his gammy right knee would surely bring him crashing to the ground. So I ran and ran and ran, until I knew I'd be out of sight, and then I clattered into a tree before turning and looking back the way I'd just come.

“Oline!” Father's voice called out from far, far away. “Come back! ”

I wanted to go back, of course. I wanted to go home, but I knew that Father had raised me so that I might save the family on this very terrible night. I also knew that my sacrifice would guarantee eleven good years for the entire family. I turned and started walking between the trees. I felt my chest tighten and I realized my legs were aching from all the running; I stumbled a couple of times. It seemed as though my feet were sinking slightly with each step, as if the forest floor was becoming wetter and less stable. I kept going, simply because I knew that I had no choice. I'd imagined this night so many times over the years, wondering what it would be like, but now everything felt so normal and mundane. It was almost as if -

Suddenly my right foot caught in a harder patch of mud. I fell forward, landing hard on my hands and knees, and it took a moment before I was able to twist my foot free.

“Happy Easter, little lamb.”

Startled, I turned and saw a familiar figure standing just a few meters away. Despite the darkness, I could just about make out her face, and I felt a rush of hope as I saw her smiling at me.

“Anna!” I gasped, struggling to my feet and brushing some mud from the front of my coat. “What are you -”

She placed a finger against her lips, to silence me.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered anyway, stumbling toward her. “Have you been here for eleven whole years, just waiting? ”

“Not exactly,” she replied, lowering her finger and then holding a hand up, gesturing for me to stop before I got too close. “So he really went ahead with it, did he? He really sent another lamb out here, hoping that he could buy himself eleven more years of peace and safety.”

Still several meters from her, I squinted in an attempt to see her face properly.

“He looked after me,” I told her cautiously. “What's wrong with your voice?”

“He fattened you up, you mean. His little sacrificial lamb.”

“He changed his mind at the end. He wanted me to stay.”

“He only said that so he could tell himself he tried to do the right thing,” she replied. “He said the same thing to me, right at the end, and I took him up on it. Then he changed his mind again and pushed me forward, and sent me out here into the dark forest. If I'd protested again, he'd have found crueler, more unusual ways to make me keep walking. I thought the whole thing was a bluff, that the only danger out here would be wolves, so I walked anyway and I supposed I could just keep going until I reached another village. Then I thought I could go back to the house and rescue you. You were just a baby then, just a few weeks old, but I thought I'd make it back and save you.” She paused for a moment. “I was wrong, Oline.” The voice was getting louder all the time. “And eventually it…”

She hesitated, and now I could hear a faint gasp coming from her throat .

“You hear it, don't you?” she asked. “You hear the voice.”

“So what happens to me now?” I asked, swallowing hard.

“What do you think happens?”

I opened my mouth to tell her that I had no idea, but at that moment something about her face caught my attention. I'd been too young when Anna left, so I didn't remember her at all, but I'd seen a few photos. Still, as I took a half-step forward and tilted my head again, squinting once more to get a better look, I noticed that her flesh seemed to be sagging a great deal, and that her eyes were merely dark holes in her face. A moment later, I realized I could see thick stitches running through her flesh, almost as if her face was simply a mask that had been attached to someone else.

And then I spotted a human skeleton nearby; its skin seemingly long since removed.

I turned to the figure in front of me. “You're not really Anna, are you?”

“No, little lamb,” she replied.”I'm not really Anna, though I wear her flesh for warmth.”

“But I thought…”

I paused for a moment, as a cold shiver passed through my chest.

“I thought the devil couldn't take the form of a lamb?” I asked finally, even though I was scared I already knew the answer.

“Whoever told you that?” she replied, tilting her head slightly and smiling again, this time revealing the sharpest teeth I'd ever seen in my whole life. “You people really do believe the silliest things, sometimes. To be perfectly honest, the lamb is my favorite form of all. So believe me, this is one sacrifice I intend to enjoy a great deal.”

“Help set the table first,” Mother replied. “I've got to go and feed the new one.”

As if on cue, a baby let out a brief gurgle. I stepped closer to the house, finally stopping to marvel at the beautiful, newly-painted, bright red front door. Evidently I had been away for a few days by this point, although I remembered very little of my time in the forest.

Reaching out, I found that the morning air had just about dried the door, although I felt a hint of stickiness against my fingertips. Pulling my hand back, I was surprised to see that I'd left five little bumps in the red, and I remembered at that moment that Ronald had once told me that similar bumps had been noticed eleven years ago, as if there was once another hand, long before mine. Perhaps Anna had once come back, just like me.

I could hear everyone celebrating inside.

The clink of plates.

And I can smell all the wonderful food.

Reaching down, I turned the handle and gently pushed the door open. As it creaked, I slipped inside, just as Mother came over and slammed it shut again.

“I don't know when your father's going to fix this thing,” she muttered, turning away from me and heading over to the table where Ronald and Oliver were getting things ready for the big Easter feast. “No matter how carefully I shut it, sometimes it just comes open like that.”

“I'll take a look at it,” Ronald said, clearly relishing the thought that he could start doing jobs around the house. “And don't worry, unlike Father, I actually will do what I say.”

“How about starting with the table?” she asked, handing him a pile of plates. “You said you'd do that ten minutes ago.”

“I meant jobs for men!” he protested, even as he started putting the plates on the table. “Not housework!”

I moved past him, then past Oliver too, and on over to the door at the far end of the dining room. All the clatter sounded so loud and frenetic, yet at the same time also distant. The house was beautifully decorated, with candles and candy, and everything a family could want for a proper Easter celebration. Over the hearth, a wooden sign had been hung proclaiming the family's thanks to God, and noting that they were grateful not only for their health and company, but for protection from evil.

And not one of them mentioned me .

Already, my chair had been pushed into the corner and used to store a pile of grain trays. There seemed to be no mourning period, no reflection. I had done my job, the family lamb had been sent off to be slaughtered, and now eleven years of peace and safety had been guaranteed.

And I had carried their sins with me as I walked to my death.

Stepping through to the corridor that ran the length of the house, I followed the sound of the crying baby, and finally I stopped in the farthest doorway. I immediately saw a baby wriggling in a nest of sheets, but to my surprise, I also saw that those sheets were being held by a young girl who looked no older than me. She was smiling at the child, but after a moment she turned to me and I realized immediately that this was Anna. The real Anna. My sister.

“You met her in the forest too, did you?” she asked, her voice soft and velvety.

I paused, before nodding.

“And did she…”

Her voice trailed off and paused for a moment.

“Does she wear your flesh now, the way she wore mine?”

Now it was my turn to pause, although eventually I nodded again. I still remembered then, as I still remember now, the sensation of my flesh being torn away in great bloody sheets.

And yes, I screamed.

“She'll do the same to this little one in eleven years,” she continued. “Unless we find a way to save her, that is. I tried to save you , but I couldn't come up with anything. Maybe with two of us, we'll have a better chance.” She looked down at the girl. At our sister. “If we don't manage something, she'll end up the same way. She'll be sacrificed to protect the family, and that can't be allowed to happen. We have to think of something.”

Sitting next to her, I peer over at the baby, who still has her eyes shut. A moment later I flinch as I feel something touch my shoulder, but then I realize that it's just Anna putting an arm around me.

“You're cold,” she says calmly.

“We're dead,” she points out. “This little one isn't. Not yet. Eleven years ago I swore to protect you, Oline, and I failed. Now we have to swear to protect little Emily. Together.”

“We will,” I reply, reaching over and brushing a hand against the child's face. She doesn't respond. Perhaps she doesn't even know that I'm here. “She won't end up as an Easter sacrifice. I swear.”

“Do all families do this?” I asked. “Sacrifice a daughter, I mean.”

“I don't know. I think a lot do, these days at least. They didn't before the war, but now people are getting very superstitious again. The old religions are being dredged up, and in some cases merged. Easter in the year 2025 is very different to Easter back in 2015 or the late 1990s. People take it more seriously now. Or a version of it, at least.” She paused, looking down at the crying baby in her arms, and then she set her down in her crib. “I don't know what that thing is. The thing in the forest, I mean. Not really. But the sacrifice seems to work. What's that old saying? Even a stopped clock is right twice a -”

Suddenly she fell silent as Mother came into the room. Ignoring us, Mother went straight to the crib and picked up little Emily, and then she began speaking to her in a silly voice as she carried her back out of the dark bedroom and toward the light of the hall.

Anna and I sat in silence, each of us trying to think of some way that we might save that little girl in eleven years' time. And now, with those eleven years having passed, another baby is cradled in Anna's arms, and another little girl is standing in the doorway, staring at us after her encounter with the creature in the forest.