Sylvie walked down to the lower pasture at dawn, leaving a note for the boys that she’d be back after checking to make sure there weren’t any other injured ewes or lambs. She had slept badly—she always did, as this stage of pregnancy, and finding Flora and putting her down had troubled her mind—and she felt fuzzy and disoriented. The sun was just peeking up above the line of trees and the thought popped into her head that it was like a glowing egg yolk. Sun. Yolk. The sun of the yolk. The egg is a son and has a son … She laughed. Silly. Ah, well, she’d have to think that one out a bit more.
The lamb, fat and nearly as tall as the grown sheep were now, was lying near the tree line. It had been disemboweled, some of the entrails eaten. Whatever had killed it had likely been feasting on it when the boys came down and saw the wounded ewe, and it must have waited in the trees until they were gone to come back for its meal. She had heard what she thought were coyotes calling at night sometimes, their howls and yips echoing around the valley, multiplying themselves endlessly.
Sylvie stood for a moment, looking at the body, then bent to hoist it by the rear legs. She dragged it to the gate along the fence line, the remaining entrails behind it like a strange tail. With difficulty, she pulled it through the open gate and then closed it again behind her. Dr. Falconer would be furious if he saw her, but she knew that this kind of exertion wouldn’t hurt the baby. Being active, moving her body, had always made things easier, something that Hugh at least had understood and not bothered her over. She was able to drag the big lamb, by the front legs this time, a hundred yards into the woods. The coyote—or whatever the creature was—could have it; it had been out in the warm air and it wasn’t good for much else now, but she didn’t want to draw the beast into the field where the sheep were again; there must be a place in the fence where it could get through. I’m sorry, she thought, watching the lamb’s still form for a moment, as though it might move.
She was about to walk back to the field when she caught sight of a bright flash from the trees. It was a metal cup, she saw when she walked over to it, and it was not the only strange thing in the woods. Someone had suspended a red canvas tarp in the trees, forming a makeshift tent. Inside was a bedroll, and a small paper bag. Next to the cup, which was sitting on a low stump, was a knife, the knife she’d seen the day he’d surprised them at the swimming hole.
She would have to tell Warren that she had found the boy’s camp. Warren was already suspicious of her, because she hadn’t told him about the boy before, and she knew she’d have to say something.
Such a strange man, Warren. She had felt a sense of recognition the first time she’d met him, as though she knew him, as though she’d seen him before, though of course that was impossible. He had sad eyes and she’d guessed he’d had some sort of tragedy even before he’d told her about his wife. He … unsettled her.
Yes, she didn’t like it, but she’d have to tell him.
She took the cup off the stump and placed it upside down on the ground a ways away, a kind of message. Maybe he’d understand it as the warning she intended. She would tell Warren, but the boy might be long gone by then. He would have a chance to flee.
He had been so hungry when he spoke to her the first time, so hungry and weak that he hadn’t realized at first that he was holding the knife. When he saw her terrified look, he dropped it and apologized, explaining that he was just wondering if she had any food. That’s all he wanted, he said, just something to eat. He wasn’t going to hurt her. He’d told her his story, the same one she’d told Detective Warren, and she had promised to send one of the boys out with a box. She’d explained where they would leave it and he’d been so grateful he’d practically cried.
She’d left him another box, a few weeks later, and wondered if he was even in Bethany anymore. But when she went to check the next day, it was gone.
They had been busy the next few weeks and she was startled and surprised when she’d gone to check on the sheep the Sunday of the fire and he had come out of the trees, apologizing for scaring her, but asking if he could have some more food. “I tried to wait as long as I could,” he’d said. “But there’s nothing left. Even just a coupla cans would tide me over.” They had stood in the field, chatting for a few minutes, and then she’d promised to leave a box at the end of the barnyard later. When he disappeared into the woods again, she’d looked up toward the house, feeling suddenly that she was being watched, but only the sheep were there.
At least, that’s what she’d thought.
Sylvie sighed. She looked one last time at the ram lamb, remembering suddenly the night he’d been born. Hugh had been tired from three nights in a row of being up with the ewes, so Sylvie had taken the middle of the night barn check. It had been a chilled, crystalline night, early March, a sparkling layer of hoarfrost on the grass as she walked across to the barn under a moody half-moon. Flora was already laboring, a long ropy line of the water sac already visible, and Sylvie had checked the other ewes and then watched until the big single ram lamb was born. He came fast and stood quickly. She’d seen him suckle and she’d cut the cord and been back in bed within the hour. A nice, uncomplicated one, she’d told Hugh the next morning.
Well, he’d been born, he’d lived, he’d died.
She felt oddly sad. After one more look, she started for the house.