Young Writers Society

Chapter 13

~812 words

“Well that’s a shame,” said Shep, looking at the pile of dust that once had been the dragolinx, “we never really got to know her.”

“Yeah, a real shame,” responded Fleta, rolling her eyes. “How do we get up to the sheep?” The sleeping sheep was high on a pedestal—too high to reach. “I swear, if we have to stand on each other’s backs or something, I’m going to lie down and sleep until my body stops hurthing.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, thank ‘eavens.” Godfrey, sho had been poking around the room, had pulled back a tapestry to reveal a wooden ladder.

Shep climbed up, after the ladder had been rested against the stone pedestal. He picked up the sheep and slung it over his shoulders. The dais started sinking into the floor, and Fleta grabbed the ladder before it could fall.

As the platform got lower, sunlight peeked through a doorway like a child allowed admittance into a room previously off limits for him. When the pedestal was flesh with the floor, Jay could see the sea crashing against the rocks on the other side. The group filed out, one by one, into the setting sun.

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Shep and Jay sat outside the inn after a long trek down the stony beach. Jay was relieved that they didn’t have to climb back up the rope. Jay sat back and enjoyed the pleasant evening and the breathtaking beauty of the island. “So which royal is this sheep?”

“This is his majesty, the king!” Shep jerked his mouth into a half-smile, and bowed a little bit. The sheep in question looked morosely at him.

“What have you named him?”

“Well now, I think I’m all out of good names. How about you name him?” His half-smile blossomed into a toothy grin.

Jay raised his eyebrows in surprise. “So the names are just that? No special meanings behind them? No magic?”

“None at all.”

“Then why not call them by their real names?”

“Do you really think I want to look at a sheep and call it the name of our king? Do you name your dog after your wife?” Shep was incredulous.

“I don’t have a wife,” Jay laughed, “but I see what you mean. How about we name him Reyus?”

The sheep looked appraisingly at Jay, then trotted off.

“Sounds pretty good. Reyus.” Shep savored the name. “You may have a talent for naming. I hear naming babies is a pretty good business in Mystor.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Jay smiled. “So where are we going next? Where’s the next sheep?”

Shep thought for a minute, but before he could say anything, the serenity of the evening was shattered with a scream. It didn’t sound human. Shep shot out of his chair and ran around the side of the inn. Jay followed close behind.

In the alley way between the inn and the tailor’s shop next door, a horrific scene was unfolding. Tart, the yellowish sheep that Shep had said was the prince, was standing over Reyus, blood dripping from his mouth. There was a gash in Reyus’s neck, looking ugly and serious. Shep wasted no time: he flung Tart aside and started tending to the wound. Tart hit the wall with a loud smack and a pitiful bleat.

Jay was sickened. He couldn’t look at Tart with the blood drying on the sheep’s lips, or at Shep and Reyus. He felt useless, and disgusted that something like this would happen. Jay looked at the ground, keeping Tart in the corner of his eye in case the sheep tried something. But Tart was looking at the ground too, if not looking ashamed at what he had done, at least looking guilty.

When Shep had finished doing all he could to stop the bleeding, he gathered Reyus up into his arms. He turned to Jay, tears in his eyes, and said, “go get the bag with the red cord on it. It has all the medical equipment. I’m going to have to take Reyus inside and stitch up the wound.”

“Yes sir.” Jay hesitated. “Will Reyus be alright?”

Shep’s face was carved from stone. “I don’t know.”

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The process of stitching a sheep’s neck closed is not a pretty one, and Jay fervently wished he would never have to witness it again. Reyus was breathing—it sounded a bit ragged, but he was still breathing, which comforted Jay. Shep had collapsed onto a chair.

“Why did he do it?” asked Jay, gazing at the pitiful form of the sheep.

“Envy, and selfishness,” Shep responded. “Tart was the prince, Reyus was the king. I suppose Tart thought he would be king if he killed Reyus. Once the sheep are restored of course.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It’s a cruel world. Especially in politics. Even if politics involve fluffy, innocent sheep.”