Eat the Poor

XXXVI

I slept on the daybed that night.

In a dream, I walked through a field with grass tall enough to brush my palms, hills on the horizon that kissed the cloudless sky. A hot, dry breeze ruffled my hair. My eyelids drooped low, sleepy in the heat, in the hazy field where I seemingly both walked and floated. My legs dragged, heavy and light at the same time. When I looked down I saw that I was barefoot.

A soft bleat. Sheep. A flock of them, lovely white coats dotting the hillside like clouds. They stood in the grass, heads bent to graze. They were soft, plump things, bellies hanging low, eyes black as night.

Delirious, I lurched closer, hoping to pet one. The sheep moved away from me, slowly at first, then all at once. The herd parted down the middle like the Red Sea.

Despair overcame me. I chased after them, hands outstretched, yet each time they bounded away. Just out of reach. Defeated, I sank to the ground.

In the center of the herd, a lamb stood, head cocked toward me. Ears sticking straight out, eyes little black dots. My breath caught. The other sheep made way as it walked to me.

The edges of my vision pulled and wavered, tall grass turning to green ripples, then a senseless blur. I blinked and the lamb was before me, the rest of the world fading away. It was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.

Its head bent to me, as if beckoning me closer. I lay my cheek in its wool. Soft. Warm.

I sank deeper, weary eyes closing. Heat. Burning.

I struggled to move my head. Mouth full of wool. Suffocating.

I screamed. Silent.

Liquid filled my mouth, metallic and sticky. I wrenched my face away from the lamb and stared at the gaping wound in its chest. Red soaked through white, dripped onto green. All the colors swirled together. Green grass. White wool. Red blood.

Red. Red. Red.

I awoke. Gasping, palms leaving smears of sweat on the daybed. I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth. I fumbled for an empty wine glass and spat out a string of blood and saliva. I must have bitten my tongue.

Philip slept soundly, and I breathed a sigh of relief that my thrashing had not woken him. I checked to make sure the covers were still up to his chin. I wanted to give him a kiss before I left, but thought better of it.

Most nights, when I had these dreams, he would wake up and hold me. Sometimes he would rock me while I cried into his chest like a baby. But now, with the wound in the lamb's chest painted across my mind, the thought of being close to him horrified me.

Outside, I shivered in the night air. September was nearly past its prime, and soon the trees would turn and shed their leaves.

Brownie-Paulo snorted indignantly when I slipped him from his stall. The stable grooms slept in the hay, their snores loud enough to cover my footsteps as I snuck out the back door.

A figure sat outside, barely distinguishable in the pale dawn. Amadi.

His brown eyes flicked up as I passed, then back down in silence. Perhaps he had given up caring what I did.

"Can't sleep?" I asked lightly.

"You should know better than anyone why I can't sleep."

I turned my eyes to the east, where the first rays of pale orange peeked over the horizon. "It is today," I realized. The wedding would take place at midday and be followed by a night of feasting and celebration. For days, the cooks had been working tirelessly to prepare the food.