The Lamb Who Loved Flowers
By Debbie Robertson
26 Jun 2009
The Lamb Who Loved Flowers
Debbie Robertson
White. Then pink. Red. Then yellow. The sky over the mountains was awake.
And in the valley, in a quiet hollow, a mother sheep gave birth to her young.
Her lamb was small and helpless, but wide-eyed and ready for the wonder called the world.
He was no different than the other lambs born that day.
Four legs that tottered as his mother licked him with her tongue.
A fuzzy tail that whirly-twirled as she fed him milk tasting of sun drenched flowers.
A wooly fluff of a lamb. No different from any other.
Or perhaps he was.
Yes, perhaps he was.
From the very first, his days took on a rhythm -- and the lamb came to know them in his heart.
The white. The pink. The red. The yellow. The sky awake with promises.
A lowing in the herd, a gentle rustling of bodies, and then a quiet, as moments of quiet are always taken when they can be had.
It was the time before the shepherd: the time for the little lamb to begin his day, the time to be alone with the beauties of the world.
First were the birds, and always in this order they came: the merles with the voices of tinkling bells and laughter; then the bec croisés who found the highest
spots on the highest trees to give a greeting the sun; and finally the
geais and the chocards and the coucous , all aflutter with
the urgency of breakfast.
Then, as the still left the valley and the tiny fingers of the sunlight trickled warmth over the tops of the high grasses, the butterflies: the citrons with delicate beatings of green and yellow, the aurores , so quick that one is never sure that they have, indeed, come and gone, and the argus bleu celeste , wings of silver-blue
and white, windows of color on a just-awake world.
All of this, the little lamb loved. The sky, the earth, all a-twinkle with life.
But most of all, he loved the flowers, especially the flowers, for all through the night and day they bloomed, radiant in their purples and oranges and blues. But the flowers he loved best were the little white ones, for they were just the color of his mother, and the first whisper of dawn, and of the moon.
Little did he know how much the flowers would mean to him in the days and months to come....
At eight o'clock sharp, the shepherd arrived, and the business of the day was at hand.
Up the mountains went dogs and shepherd, and the sheep were never far behind.
The business of the day was to eat and to eat and to eat, and eat the sheep did.
The business of the day was to become plump and fat, and plump and fat did the sheep become.
At night, a return to the fold, a sleep, and a new day would begin.
One like the other.
No different from the rest.
For all.
For all.
Except for the little lamb who loved flowers...
For him, the days were a wonder, a perpetual unfolding of glory. The mountains, to him, were alive with flowers, and the flowers spoke of a beauty he craved more with his eyes than with his stomach, from somewhere deep inside, in a place that was a mystery to the little lamb. And, as others about him munched happily away, he would not, contenting himself with the bitter clumps of green weeds the others left behind.
Each night, when the shepherd closed the gate on the pasture, he would look long and long at the little lamb who was always the last to come in. "Eh, little fellow, you've got to do better than that. You are so skinny; you will never be good for anything."
But the little lamb never heard him -- or didn't pay attention, too filled to the top he was with the splendour of the day.
Spring turned into summer, and for the little lamb, there was, every day, something new.
In June, there were the narcisses des poètes , who loved solitude and exude an air of grandeur; the silènes des glaciers , who seemed like tiny pink cushions in the last bits of snow: and the trolles , who stood up so straight under their brimmed yellow hats.
In July, there were the anémones , their fresh faces awash in happiness; the pavots orangés , heads peeking out from between rocks and amongst the scree; and the joubarbes à toile d'araignée , who fearlessly lived on the most steep slopes and
near the most jagged peaks.
And in August, the benoîtes rampantes and the gentianes dotted the high
pastures with yellow and blue.
All these the little lamb came to love, but the flowers he loved best were the little white ones, les céraistes à une fleur , for they were just the color of his mother, and the
first whisper of dawn, and of the moon.
September came, and the little lamb knew there was something different in the air. The air was crisper and the trees wore robes of yellow and red.
One evening, as the barks of the dogs signaled the final round-up for the day, the little lamb found himself far from the others, high on a ledge where the last rays of the sun were warming the earth and the last flowers of fall lifted their heads to a cerulean sky.
The little lamb found himself not lost, but found. This was his home. This was the place he wanted most to be.
The shepherd waited for him at the gate, but then the sun fell behind the mountains and a cold descended on the valley. He peered out into the dark, ready to begin the search for the little lamb, but, with a lifting of his eyes he glimpsed the first star of the evening. He leaned back against the fence and smiled. Patting his faithful dog on the head, he sighed, "He'll be all right, old fellow. He'll be all right." And with a whistle to the other dogs, he closed the gate for the night, and then walked down the road to his waiting dinner.
As the moon rose and the night fell, the little lamb was not afraid.
He had learned from the flowers to wait patiently for the morning, and to lift his head high through the darkness. And besides, the moon was the exact color of his mother, the first light of dawn, and the little flowers he loved.
The next morning the shepherd did not come at eight as was his custom. Instead, it was a large truck that appeared by the pasture gate.
Two large men opened the back doors to the truck, and with loud voices and heavy boots and with waving arms, they tromped into the pasture for the sheep.
One by one the sheep disappeared into the mouth of the truck.
Their bleats and baas were silenced when the steel doors of the truck slammed shut.
With a growl of the engine and a gravelly crunch of tires, the truck was gone.
And then nothing.
The mountains.
The sun.
The flowers.
And the little lamb...
It is years later, and hikers every now and then report of an old sheep on the side of the mountains, alone in the high pastures, surrounded by flowers, his fur shaggy and long.
They think he is alone.
They do not know any better.
For he is alone, yes, but together, with the wonder called the world.
