The Lamb That Rocks The Cradle
By Eoghan Lyng
In every particle on the planet, there is a level of darkness, indescribable, but certainly nameless. A threatening deluge of cacophonic hatred, a hatred so pure and evil, it questions man`s integral purpose. The veins of repugnance and utter contempt are thrown at these figments of unadulterated disgusting creatures, making them the characteristics behind a simple author`s fascination with the macabric and perverse.
The Jones family were victims to such an abuse of madness. Their generational pride had dissolved in hours, reducing them to the remnants of neophobic yeomen. Brittle people who withheld their tears, I have rarely seen such a brave and astute couple maintain such composure and strength throughout their interview.
I arrived at their farm diligently and promptly to enquire about their horrific loss. The Jones`s reported that the entirety of their flock had died a vicious and horrific death. They did not need to report this to Scotland Yard. Sooner or later, gossip hungry Norfolk citizens would have spread the word to the local media, much to the chagrin of both the Bobbies and the Jones`s. Sighing, as I left my automobile; I walked towards the door of their erstwhile house. Five generations of Jones had never witnessed the massacre that Gerald and Pam had seen.
A secretion of death lay all around the farm yard. Bloodied wool crock from the tree branches and the briers. A stench of rotted lamb blew in from everywhere. I felt nothing but sorrow for these broken corpses. A lifetime of love and devotion had ended with the thunderous eruption from one horrible night. The Jones used sheep for their daily lives. Sheep were their companions. Their livelihood. It would not surprise if Gerald had been cradled to sleep by his father`s lambs, the sheep he now witnessed die. It was too much to bear.
I went in to pay my respects as much to investigate the scene. Another wolf attack, we assumed. These wolves had roamed the hills for years and years, but they stayed to themselves for much of the years beforehand. Now, they viciously struck farms like a plague, leaving nothing but broken hearts and un-comidifiable properties. Miserable creatures, with no care for anyone but themselves.
After a brief discussion with the couple, I received their permission to circulate the farm yard to write my report about the scene. I wasn`t expecting anything other than a quick perambulation amongst bodies of imitagated disgust. Just another day in the office. The emptiness found in any creature, great or small, when they die is awful to any person inexperienced from such matters. Me, I`ve seen my fair share of carcasses. But even after all this time, I receive an unpleasant chill down my spine.
The broken ligaments. The gashed jaw. De rigeur drool. Nothing new here. It was a shame that this magnified all across the yard. Sheep, small and large. Motherless. Childless. Suffocated to endure an endless comatose by the hands of others. I rubbed a tear away from my eye and avoided further contemplation. This is the job I chose. This is the life I lead. There is no time for poetic resuscitation.
I wandered around, investigating all I found. There was little to distinguish one sheep from another. Their posture were equally mangled, their necks similarly gorged. Another line of lifeless flock. Clear evidence to write the event off as a wolf attack.
I rose to walk away, when suddenly I noticed a giant footprint, beside one sheep. The size surprised me. It was surely too large for a wolf to produce. I checked it carefully, before realising that my instinct was in fact correct. That was the foot of a human!
The print caused me to re-evaluate my line of thinking. Mr. Jones stated that neither he nor his wife had not left the house in twelve hours. This print was too fresh to have been him. Manslaughter was not possible, was it?
I walked around again, more anxiously, in the hope of finding some evidence to disprove my callous fears. If the morality of a wolf was esoterically obscure, then man slaughtering sheep is horrifically wicked. No Norfolk individual could be so cruel to their neighbour.
My feet happened upon the first of the hapless creatures. I thoroughly investigated the area around the sheep for evidence, when my hand felt the sharp edge of a bloodied blade. My hands shook with complete fear.
A sheep killer in human form! An erudite type of disgust filled the solvents in my veins. There are some unfathomable devils on this earth, but their inner spirit tends to dictate a reasonable amount of compassion. There are the few scum on the earth that writhe in the complexities of their intangible evil. A spirit so damned they hide in their heart of pure darkness. The horror of it all. I looked at the at the hollowed sheep and cold inside.