The Legends of old Lies

6 - Thinking

Light, curly hair that had only just started to grown back, a broad nose and a pair of dark beady eyes. The sheep ran after her as she moved. Up and down. Straw lying around rustled under her bare feet, which kept walking over trampled earth as if they didn't feel the small stones. The apathy, in which she had slipped dazed like a sleepwalker through a world in which she shouldn't have been any longer, was over. Now thoughts were rushing through her head. They flowed as wildly as if the underground river, the stream that should have drowned her and dragged her into the dark depths, had slipped into her mind.

Her lips were pressed into thin lines, her expression a single distorted mask of irritated emotions. She didn't know whether to be confused, unsettled or even angry. Somehow, she felt as if she had been betrayed. As if her peace had been taken away, her escape into a peaceful nothingness. A thief had stolen her death and she didn't know why.

A growl slid out of her throat as she again dodged the sheep wiggling excitedly behind her. Constantly it stood in her way as she turned. The wide animal, probably shorn just a few days ago, bleated, but was already scuttling on the spot and immediately started chasing again. The way it trotted after her made the image of her bustling desperation seem almost ridiculous. A dead woman in a dirty oversized shirt with equally dirty breeches, unravelled wild hair, with a sheep following her as if it had found its new purpose.

The rest of the flock watched idly. Waiting, no doubt, for when she would lose her temper and turn the meddlesome pursuer to ham. At the moment, however, her crookedly growing anger was directed first and foremost at the invisible force that had brought her back to life but then left her completely alone. It would have been easy to kick the sheep and take out any frustration on the animal.

The fact that she didn't, had nothing to do with a deep-rooted good-heartedness. Nor did it have anything to do with the fact that the lanky son of the farmer's family stood only a few steps away and kept watching her curiously while he worked hauling sacks of wool. This sheep - as nonsensically misplaced as it was - seemed like a comrade to her in a strange way. A closeness she didn't want to have around her right now, but also didn't want to lose.

A voice reached her ears. Muffled and drowned out by the hissing of jumbled thoughts jumping around in her head. Only when she heard it again did she look up and searched for the source. The boy had spoken to her. The slender guy who looked a bit like a sheep himself. His hair was quite as light and curly and his dark eyes were wide apart in a similar way. Even the broad nose matched, though it was lighter than on the animal's face.

"Breb!" he repeated what she hadn't understood a moment ago. "Her name is Breb." He pointed to the waggling sheep walking behind her. She stopped, looked down, and the animal boxed against her knee before also pausing, now seemingly looking up at her in confusion itself. "She likes you." the boy proclaimed gleefully. He slid the sack off his slender shoulder, dropped it in the back with the others on the carriage, and then stepped closer to the mismatched pair.

"My name is Brunjo!" he then declared almost proudly. He stopped with some distance and folded his fingers to knot them nervously in front of him. "What... what is your name?"

Wrinkles appeared on her forehead. "My name?" Her voice was still accompanied by freshly awakened croaks. She hesitated in her answer. Her name had been on the tip of tongues in many ways. It was as if her voice had to take a run-up before it ventured beyond her lips.

"Ioanne."

He laughed happily. No sign of fear, nervousness or even admiration. Which she didn't expect anyway. There wouldn't be many left who looked up to her after her last act and subsequent cowardly escape. Her thwarted... stolen escape. She would have deserved to die. Of that, she was sure. Whatever was going on here. It was not a rescue. Revenge?

"What year is it?" she asked then, now that her voice had already begun to move through the air, swinging. She had a theory. An impossible one. An absurd one. But it was the best one that came to mind, even if it would only settle one of her questions.

In the misunderstood assumption of having a personal conversation and getting to know each other, Brunjo hurriedly declared, "Eighteen!"

Sheep were said not to be the wisest of creatures. Gentle, weak and stupid. The boy resembled them more and more. Eighteen... what had she done when she was eighteen? Certainly not working in peace and quiet in her parents' stable. She had already been younger when she took the first life. At least at that time it had been right, at least for her. But she had not wanted to ask about his age.

She shook her head. "That's not what I meant."

Before she could repeat her question, something happened to the face that had just looked so innocently pleased. The rosy colour of a healthy young man vanished behind the light fluff and panic slid into his gaze.

"Seventeen!" he suddenly corrected loudly and frantically. He almost tripped over his own tongue.

"Not eighteen! Seventeen!"

Beside her, the sheep was crunching and chewing on something it had picked up from the ground. But she paid no attention to that. Nor to the whirl in her head any more. Irritated, she narrowed her eyes. Then she spun around as the already open gate at the entrance to the barn rattled.

The boys mothers had appeared, pursued by her husband. They were both breathing as hard as if they had been through a sprint. The woman stroked her skirt and pushed a pair of light curls behind her ear. She smiled falsely. Not malicious or devious. It was the kind of smile the weak did when they were struggling to reassure the one they thought stronger. Ioanne had seen it often enough, but had also drawn it on her own lips like a mask just as often.

The smile held for a few more moments, then she noticed her son's expression.

"I... I'm seventeen..." he stammered confusedly, as if he wasn't sure after all.

She gasped for breath. Then she jerked her head around and faced the strange woman in her stall with terror. At least until she stumbled a step forward and fell to her knees. Her head lowered hastily towards the ground.

Ioanne stumbled backwards in surprise. This time the sheep did not follow her.

"Please!" gasped the kneeling woman. "Please! It was a mistake... a misunderstanding. I know we should have cleared it up and contacted your people directly but..." She gasped as she nearly choked on her words. "He is my son after all, my little boy. And he's not strong like the others. His head is... he's so slow. He would not have survived if you had taken him. I beg you, mistress, forgive this mother. My boy is a shepherd, not a soldier!"