Foggy Ewe (Updated line 241) (Sheep, 1st PPOV)

It was a Friday night inside my boat shed.

I was drinking a Franklin stout by myself, looking at the closest thing to a woman in my life. Her name was Cauleen, and I love her. She isn’t the fastest trackster on the course. No, she was too fat and wide hipped. But she’s taken on impossible odds. Like sixty foot waves. Hundred mile winds. Even Somali pirates.

Alright no Somalis. Ethiopian Coastguard. But dealing with them drunk is a feat in itself.

Cauleen's taken care of me, and I’ve done my best in return.

I plan on taking her on a grand odyssey. Stop at the Arran isles, or Galloway, then Cornwall, and finally, London. Plundering pubs every stop, I'm drunk just thinking about it. Oh and the women I would meet on the way...

Hmm. Women. As if a boat wasn't a big enough money sink. I resent being a drifter but I wouldn't be happy married and settled down. Not now. Not when there are plenty of seaside pubs and bars to smash. I can already taste the same brand of rum in an infinite amount of glasses in various states of cleanliness.

A cold breeze tugged at my collar as I stepped outside. The air was frigid enough to turn my breath to smoke. I hate Massachusetts winters. It's because of them I rarely come home. But for Cauleen I'd weather the cold, until she's back to ship shape.

Far off in the distance, I could hear the beeping of cars as they performed the ballet that was Boston roadworks. A foghorn sounded from the west, a Mearsk liner heading towards Malden. I had a chance to work on one of those. But fuck I'm not going to a boot camp not to be a captain.

No sir-eee. I am the captain of my own ship. And SUV.

That's when I notice a man leaning against my SUV.

He was rolling up a cigarette as I approached. Big bushy eyebrows twirling up and down as he worked the burning paper. What a stupid caricature. What could he possibly-

“Hands in the air, fucker.”

I stopped walking. My hands were up, and soon my pockets were being violated by his foreign appendages. He pulled out my wallet, scrutinized the fact I lacked cash or credit cards, and then guffawed.

“No keys?” He uttered, his breath smelling of cheap whiskey.

I shrugged. Left them in my shop. If I'm locked out, so are you Ronald McDonald.

“Alright, turn around” The pistol nudged to the left.

I did so. The lantern over my shop was still a lit, casting a red light across the dark alley. Old newspapers and tin cans seemed to glow under this luminescence, like meats under a deli light. Somewhere, a rat squeaked, enjoying the best that life could offer it.

Fuck. The wharf rats. I hope whoever finds my body has enough to bury.

“Sorry.”

CRACK.

***U***

Anger.

Pure, unfiltered rage is all I feel.

Then, confusion. How can I feel anger when I am dead? Are souls real, and do they go to heaven after death? Was heaven just me, alone, with all my thoughts?

No answer. A groggy feeling amidst darkness. Like I was on the edge of waking up.

Waking up. Waking. Awake.

Light. Foggy and yellow, but light non the less.

Uncomfortable. My cheek pressed against stone, the rest of my body spread eagle. It wasn’t the same sidewalk that I had been shot on, too unorganized. The sidewalks around my workshop, although old, were well-aligned grey brick. This was a bunch of random rocks cajoined together for some semblance of a solid foundation. Smelled like ass too. At least the old streets in Boston had street sweepers.

I got on my knees, my joints cracking. In front of me, the fog cleared with a breeze, revealing the black metallic body of a gas light lamp. Behind that, a brick wall stained with who knows what. The entire area seemed out of downtown Boston.

And yet when I turned around I realized it wasn’t.

The sign was roughly ten meters in length and six in height. Its edges carved to slightly recede from the main face, like the frames of pieces at the Louvre. Some bastardization of Cyrillic and Chinese occupied half of it. The rest was a cartoon of a sheep sipping from what was a pewter mug.

I'm in Dublin. This is just some hangover induced hallucination. I've probably seen advertisements like this all the time taking the backways. It's just all a dream.

I check the pockets of my coat. Fucker kept my wallet but didn't touch my phone.

The time was 10:30. The moon was right over my head, a soft blur through the clouds. The time might be wrong but I didn't have a chance to fix it; As soon as I checked, the battery died.

I gave the billboard a once over. Noticing the sheep was pointing westwards down the road, I decided to track that way. Puddles splashed underneath as I walked, soaking the bottom of my khakis. All this plus the mange from working on Cauleen makes me want a shower.

Cauleen!

Oh god, I got to get back home!

I start jogging, following the cobblestone road until I came across an  intersection. Four lights, A single figure underneath the one in front of me.

He had long, white matted hair in a pony tail, which brushed away from the black iron of the light pole with every breeze. His clothing was modest; some khaki overalls and a stained t-shirt. I couldn’t see his arms, and his head was down. Though it might’ve been something upwind, there was a stench stinging my nostrils. Like a celery garden I picked working for a church once.

I stopped about ten meters away. How do I go about this? “Hey, I was just shot in the head and woke up here with a dead phone. Can you spare a charger?” I wouldn’t trust a person who says they’ve just been shot with my phone charger, especially this late.

Hooves clopped in the distance. Two women in dresses, a brown and a minty green, bobbed down the street. With an umbrella unfurled and pointed my way, they couldn't see me, and I couldn't see them. For all I knew, they rode little horses under their dresses. They paid no mind to me or the man in front who had straightened his back and lifted his head.

Two leather straps on either side of his face came out from under his flat cap. He didn't noticed me, choosing to follow the “ladies” as they walked by, hand in his pocket.

I glazed over the strange anatomy and focused on this man's stride towards those two ladies.

I’ve seen this dance before. In movies, yes, but I've seen it before.

Cauleen would have to wait.

Keeping a good five or six yards behind the man, I walked as the dresses waved in the breeze. A wind chime sang somewhere nearby.

He began to close the distance, not increasing his pace but rather his stride. He must’ve been a tall bastard hunched over, cuss he could cover six of my steps in two footfalls. By the time the knife was out from his over-alls I was fifteen feet too late.

There was a high pitched bleat, like someone had half-assed a spring-lamb slaughter. The umbrella was on the ground, rolling on the wet cobblestones. Their hands were up, arms a light pink and covered in white.

He saw me. The man took two steps back, putting a brick wall to his tail, and pointed the dagger at me. It was then that I came face to face with the devil himself.

A goat. A goat with a ponytail and eyes that were human, but goat non the less.

The other two were similar, but their faces seemed to be more rounded. And their hair! Like a woolen mullet continuing as a rug running down their shoulders.

I don’t know what scared me more. The fact it was the face of a goat staring at me, or the noise it was making in response. This was a solid croak, coming straight from the gullet, only silenced by my right fist.

The knife clanged against the stones, dulled by the thump of the unconscious goat man on top of it. I looked at the girls. The mint dress no longer stood in front of me, bent over the umbrella as it rippled in a street puddle. Brown dress was to my right watching as I held down the robber. I didn’t know what to do with the fool, but I’d rather deal with an unconscious goat man than a conscious goat woman.

I felt a tap on my left shoulder and i looked into a long, white-with-brown-speckled fur covered face. Immediately it retracted the hand and covered its mouth, as if “she” were from some of my father’s 50s horror flicks. It must be weird seeing muzzle faces all your life and then seeing the relatively-flat one that is mine.

“Firgive Vus.” the brown one said to me. She turned to her companion, who fiddled with the wet umbrella.

“Vrildin, Vus? Chimeri halaht vara nam!” The way brown dress spoke gave me the impression that she was the boss, despite being shorter.

“Firgive hev Gouen, min din konungdum.” Her companion looked over her shoulder at us, lips pressed in a frown.

“Sindara konungdum! Min cumma...” brown dress placed her fingers, tipped with cubes of caratin, on my nose and rubbed it. This was becoming more uncomfortable than what I'm used to.

“Eg hev ert du?” she said as slow as possible as she pulled her hand away.

I couldn't make heads or tails of what she was trying to say. I considered speaking but all the stress left me tired. I sighed and pressed my knee against the robber’s shoulderblade , using my belt to handcuff him.

Brown dress stepped back and walked to green dress. They whispered back and forth, stopping only to look back at me.

I'd kill to understand what they were saying. Is a constable coming? Can I get back to my ship? Can you point me in the direction of Boston?

Brown dress walked over and grabbed. I looked at her grip, the warmth of her palms different from the cold of her finger tips, and than into her eyes. I saw determination. To do what though, I could only guess.

“Eg Hedi Gouentine Broyne.” she said, straightening her back and brushing the underside of her chin.

Was she introducing herself or telling me to fuck off?

She repeated the phrase while doing the same hand motion. “Eg hedi Gouentine. Eg hedi Gouentine”.

"Gouentine?" I mumbled.

That must be her first name, because her face lit up. Then the sheep woman pointed at her friend.

"Og hedi Chimeri Mchouylle." Chimeri, hearing her name, waved and then went back to staring at the sky.

Goutentine started walking towards the way she came, pulling my arm. When she noticed I wasn’t walking with her, she gave me a sharp tug.

I pointed at the robber. He stirred as I pressed my boot against his back.

She scoffed-rolling her eyes as if she wasn’t just in danger- and exchanged some words with Chimeri. Chimeri, whose face was without freckles unlike Goutentine, looked ready to go.

Alright fine. I guess we’ll forget about filing a police report.

For safety’s sake I looked around. Finding no rope laying arbout I noticed a wooden bin across the street. I lugged the robber onto my shoulder, and making sure to get my belt back, shoved him into the trash bin.

Heh. Taking out the trash.

I turned back to the goat girls, and the noticed only Goutentine remained. She held out her hand, an annoyed look on her face that was cute.

Well Cauleen, it’s late. No point in looking for you now. Hopefully this sheep girl will take me somewhere safe.

I grabbed her hand into my own. With a tug that disfigured my shoulder Goutentine pulled me west, in the direction she had come from.

***U***

Chapter 2
Gouentine


	The Angel takes my hand with his naked, long fingers. His fur-less skin is calloused and dry, and I look away as he squeezes my hand. It takes all my willpower to keep myself from shaking in excitement. Good times are ahead, Gouentine.
	I give him a hard tug, wanting to assert who’s following whom. Under my breath I pray thanks to the twins. Things are going to be so much easier back home. I can’t wait to see the look on Ma’s face the moment I come through the door, this tall son of a bitch in tow.  My hooves ache a little less holding onto his hand as I turn homeward.
	I walk as fast as possible, my free hand lifting up the hem of my skirt. The fog gets paler and paler as the smell the pine-tinge of rain fills my nostrils. In school they said angels came on burning halos and that it rains after they land. Thank goodness the twins are as convenient as they are kind.
	The wooden shacks of Newtown pass us as we walk, and then I notice that the angel is looking at my hooves. My lips purse while I shoot him a look of anger. But with smug he smiles, and then utters his holy language. Does he think of me as a tart? Look forward Gouentine. Hope he doesn’t see me blush.
	Mud splashes underneath us as we pass the empty porch of Bate’s saloon. I would’ve killed to see Charlie’s friend’s faces watch me bring an angel home. Then again those idiots would probably try to take him. Imagining this godsend with the Boyes makes me want to shiver. Teeth gritted to stop myself from looking like an embarrassing wench, I take a deep breath. Good times are ahead, Gouentine.
	Then my guest starts to dig in his heels as he sees the front door of the saloon. He points with his naked digit and speaks to me in a flat tone. “What do you want?” I ask.
	 He speaks again, repeating louder what he said before. How does he recognize a saloon? I thought the twins disallowed sins within their capital. Why do boys have to be all about drinking?
	I squeeze his hand and give him my angry look. He smiles with teeth as white as cow eggs, arm still pointed at Bate’s. Drips of rain fall against my muzzle, and then tapping as my ears are assailed by the coming downpour. Why didn’t Chimeri lend me her umbrella before she left?
	I drop the angel’s hand and duck under the roof of the dry porch. “Baaaaates!” I call out. The angel snickers behind me. “Baaaaaaates.”
	Relief swept over me when the light next to the door turned on. Then the sound of a cow screaming filled the air, and then I realized it was the angel.
	I pray that the evil twin hasn’t sent his disciple, or that they killed my angel, and look over my shoulder. He’s perfectly fine, only he’s doing that stupid thing where he’s pointing again! Only this time its at the light source, a cow-oil lamp.
	Blessed with a mentally retarded angel! This is not even the response babies make to lamp light!
	I look at the lamp, its glass bulb holding the purple source of luminescence. All there is are your typical beast eyes and purple typhoons, products of the oil as it swirls and burns. I scoff at the angel. “Don’t make such a ruckus you! It is very Impolite to scream in public!”
	Behind me the door opens, and Bate bleats before closing the door. I turn around and knock on it again. “Bates! Open the damn door!”
	“I am not keen to serving a disciple of the twins, young lady. Come back when the mayor tells me he’s a good angel!”
	“Bates you drunkard! For once in your life will you be polite to a lady?”
	The door opens, and there’s bates in white silk night gown. His red eyes are wide with anger. He shoves a finger an inch from my muzzle. “I am polite you misbehaving cunt! Will you take your rude ass-”
	The angel looms over my shoulder, and Angus backs up before he can finish. I smile and pat the back of my hand against Angel’s cloth-covered chest. “We’re just looking to buy some convenience supplies, Bate’s. No need to give a costumer lip.”
	Behind him I here Mrs Bate’s screechy voice. “Daw, will you stop yelling you twit!”
	“Its the Flannigan’s daughter, ma!”
	“Does she got cash?”
	I pull out my sprig purse and jingle its metallic contents. Bates huffs, and pushes the door open before walking over to his gallery.
	 Last time I was here the saloon’s walls weren’t covered in mildew. Some cobwebs littered chairs on the far edges of the room. Those closest to the bar were scratched and cracked. Probably from the Boyes many arm wrestling matches.
	 The saloon owner pulls out his catalog and sets it down on the counter, dust spraying everywhere. I guess people don’t buy many amenities from Bates. The red tipped pages make an audible crinkling as he flicks through. Finally he settles his hoof-pointed finger on a single one.
	“The umbrella’ll be two sprigs.” He closes the book and ducks back behind the counter while Angel sits at one of the stools. He leans against the bar, and then slaps the varnished wood so hard I heard glasses tingle.
	“Angel!” What kind of house was this man raised in? Bates stands tall and saunters over to Angel, breathing hard out of his nose. Once again he points at the angel.“What do you want?”
	Angel opens his mouth and points at it, causing Bates looks at me and laugh.
	“You haven’t fed him?” He kneels behind the counter, wooden boards creaking as he lifts them up.
	“I just found him, Bates.” I breath easy and take my won seat.
	“That explains everything.” With a groan the old sheep lifts up the jar of pickled cow’s heads. Its red and blue contents jiggle as the glass hits the bar. Angel’s eyes go wide as he stares at the two-foot tall see-through basin. Bates pops its top, and pulling out a head, places it on a brown paper napkin.
	“Eat up.”
	My angel seems disgusted by the food laid before him. His face crinkles up as he sticks his tongue out. Is that the face of an angel who is happy? They’re so weird without muzzles.
	“I’m going to get your Umbrella.” Bates points at me as he leaves the bar. “Don’t let him destroy my property.”
	The angel pokes and prods the blue ball of fermented cow meat like a kid trying maize. What kind of food do you eat, Angel? Are the twins so kind to make cows that don’t need to be pickled? Have you ever farmed a day in your life?
	Oh god, a retarded angel who can’t farm.
	Maybe this is a bad angel.
	I wring my fingers through my wool in circles. What have I got myself into? I know I’ve been mean to my mom but I don't think this warrants punishment! I just want to do more! Be my own woman! Please twins be merciful!
	I bow my head, a tear coming down my eye. Then my ears flicker as I hear my angel whining. Turned towards him, I peeked over my arm at the strange creature.
	He picks up the blue ball, and brings its mushiness up to his mouth before biting into it. He chews, and then pulls away the blob. Strings of brain muscle still intertwined with his mouth and the pickled cow head.  He swallows it, and then wolfs the rest of the meet. The lid to the jar unscrews and the angel pulls out two cow heads. He scarfs those down, and then grabs more, until the entire jar is empty except brine. As Bates comes back walking into the room, umbrella in hand, the angel slaps the counter.
	“Hol-ee shit! Did he eat all those?”
	I sniff and wipe any tears from my eyes. “Yep” Twins I hope my sobbing isn’t obvious in my voice. “Your mom beheads a mean cow.”
	Bates returns to his spot behind the counter, and then jumps when the counter is slapped again. Another jar is slammed onto the counter, and then I remember I only have six sprigs on me.
	I tug on the angel’s sleeve as he’s half way through the second jar. “Come on!  We can eat more at home!” I say. I close the lid on the jar, as outside the wind howls. “How much do I ow?”
	He counts on his fingers as he does the math. “Six total.”
	I sigh and pull out my sachel. As I lay six of the shiny-black rods on the bar, I’m blinded by a flash coming from the window next to he saloon entrance. Thunder? My fur sticks up with what sounds like a thousand harpoon guns firing off. Then I remember I’m in a wooden building ,and I grab Angel’s arm.
	“Lets go!” I rasp in a whisper. Angel hesitates to get off his seat, not budging with every one of my tugs.
	“Come on Angel!”
	His heads turns left then right, left then right. No?
	“He may have a point. Not wise to run into the open while its thunderin' and lightening.”
	Bates says while leaning against the counter, a sleepy yawn escaping his face. I want to slap him for an instant, and then I realize no, he’s right. I take a seat and lean against the counter. Angel flicks the glass of the jar, producing a lovely hum. A vibrating contrast to the outside noise.
	All goes silent save for far off rumblings and the pitter patter of rain. Bates yawns once more, the glass in his hands squeaking as he rubs it with a rag. The adrenaline of the first thunder passes, and now I’m tired. Even these dusty floorboards seem like a comfortable place to sleep.
	I look at angel, his eyes stuck staring at his reflection in the jar. They’re a beautiful green. Not like Charlies’. His are putrid, like scum growing on the underbelly of a bloated cow corpse. The angels are nice, like how green bronze is after being left in the rain for too long.
	Good times are ahead, Gouentine. My shoulders slack and I hunch over. I don’t care about pose anymore, or the aching in my wrists and hooves. Just looking at this pasty godsend makes me feel safe. All that I’ve done so far is secure, knowing now that he is within my possession. At the very least, I’ll be able to get more done with more hands.
	I rest my chin on the bar. No longer do I hear the sound of rain coming from outside. Hooves thud slightly against floor boards. Then the door to the saloon creaks open.
	I don’t even realize who it is until Bates, now standing tall, speaks. “Evening, Charlie.”
	The wool on my head frizzes up.
	I feel his presence as the floorboards croak underneath his footprints. Angel spins on his seat to face Charlie, propping both of his elbows against the counter.
	“I know it’s not my usual time but would you like your usual.”
	Silence, save for their breathing: Angel’s is slow but loud; Charlies’ a rythme, deep inhale deep exhale, then two regular breaths before repeating; Bates is erratic, like hes trying to blow his nose every time.
	 I turn and look over my shoulder at Charlie. He’s about three  feet in front of Angel, leaning against the table. His muzzle is in a frown, an eye brow raised as he looks over Angel. Half of me wants to punch him, while the other half wants to grab angel and leave.
	Angel doesnt seem to mind though. He returns Charlie’s inquisitive look, though his focus is at Charlie’s hooves. Why the hell he’s got an infatuation with our lower half?
	I feel like I’ve been trapped in a hall of statues for years now. A heat is building up in my chest, while the back of my mind tightens in a vice grip. I grab Angel without paying attention to how hard my  fingers dig into his  sleeve. He flinches while turning to face me. I don’t think he needs to speak my language to get what I was saying.
	Then, Charlie spoke.
	“How long since you first fed him, Gwen?”
	My grip tightens, and I bight my lip to stop from responding.
	“Does he understand us, Gwen?”
	Glasses tinkle as behind the counter Bates shifts. I wonder what the barman’s thinking, until he coughs. Then he speaks.
	“I just fed him, Charlie.”
	Anger. Toward’s Bates and his blabbering mouth. Towards Angel, who still stares at me with a blank expression. Towards Charlie, whose holding out a card to angel in my peripheral vision.
	“Well then I hope tomorrow morning he’ll be able to read this.”
	Angel glanced away from my gaze, long enough to see the card and snatch it. For a second it looks like he can read the card. My heart thumps fast, like I’m going to have a heart attack.
	The floorboards croak. The door creaks. Soon, Only I, Bates and the angel are left breathing inside the saloon.
	Angel turns to face me, and I let go of his arm. Twins, I must look like a mess to him. All that good feeling for the future I had is gone now, replaced by that bastards scummy aura. I look down in shame and despair.
	Then the card, crumpled up, falls down to the ground in front of my skirt.
	Looked up to see Angel standing, rubbing the part of the arm that I had grabbed. He coughs, nudging his head towards the door. I stand straight and brush my skirt, then grab his hand. I have the angel in my grasp. Good times are ahead.

Chapter 3

I’m at Cauleen’s helm as she slowly trundles forward.


Black clouds streak across a scarlet-painted sky.


I feel welcomed by this.


I’m in a situation I know, facing something I have an idea of. No disgusting hagfish-like meals or arrogant goat-folk.


Just a red sky.

A cumulus or nimbus or whatever strides over another lesser cloud and gobbles it up, morphing into a larger and wider puffball.

But then again, as the big man’s son said, “Pink sky in morn, sailors forlorn.”

I keep the ships course, and watch the sun to see if its rising or falling. But its doing neither, half over the horizon half under.

Then it strikes me,

I can look at the sun without burning my eyes!

Then I realize the sun isn’t yellow.

Its blue.

Nothing to panic over. Just some heliological (I think thats a word) phenomena I havent come across in the magazine’s s’all. Sky is still red, clouds are still dark. Storm is only a possibility if its morning. I could get an idea of my bearings if I knew the motion. West, southwest or northwest if its setting. East, southeast or northeast if its rising. Not even worth panicking if its in the west. I’ve been through worse.

I look to the left of the campanionway, where the compass usually is, and see a hole. Machined. Cut with a proper tool. Exact size for caulleen’s uncharacteristically missing compass.

Then I notice that the deck is completely clear. No ropes, cushions, carpets, or friction pads. The wood looks brand new. The bronze cleats usual oxidized green scratches are missing, as if they were just out of the factory. And the pushpit’s severely lacking a dent from smacking against an ethiopian.

The sails catch my eye as they bellow in the wind. Where are her numbers? 4278 should be written in her canvas yet the sail is white as ever. Where are the rag-tag repairs I made on it? The stains from decades of use, from even before my time?

I feel drunk.

And then mad.

Has someone been fucking with my ship?

I should know instantly every little change that occurs to my ship. A seasoned sailor like me could spot a gnat shitting on the bow gunwale of a sixty foot day sailor while manning the helm. Have I forgotten all my experience? Is this just me waking up from an alcohol-induced coma? Even then I should naturally notice how things change. And I would naturally remember how things were.

Yet the only thing that feels natural is my grip on the wheel.

The sun glimmers to my port.

I turn the wheel towards the sun. As its gleam surrounds the pulpit it shifts in color from turquoise back to the orange I know. It even returns to being so bright I have to cover my eyes.

 But the wind dies, and Cauleen stops.

The sun rises and hides behind that growing black cloud, eating more and more little clouds.

Then the winds pick up, and my ears are filled with its blood curtling howl. I’m forced to make a tack as the entire sky is engulfed in a gray sheet. Rain drips down my back, then pelts it as Cauleen rises over a wave.



I try to maintain my grip but the pegs of the wheel snap off. The wheel turns freely as I fall back. She comes at a wave in a wrong angle.  I’m thrown aftmost as Cauleen capsizes into the icy cold.


I’m swamped by water thats neither salty nor fresh, but cold. So freezing i’m rendered immobile with the first touch.


Under the waves I sink, vision darkened in seconds in that icey water.


Why.


And then I wake up.



I’m greeted by the silk folds of a misquito net brushing my face to a cold breeze. I cough and brush it aside as I get up in the bed. Its not mine, at least, not my Boston apartment's. In my ethiopian holding cell there was a net but that was plastic. This one was like silk, so soft and delicate it almost moved without my touch.

Maybe I can pocket it in my carry on before I leave.


A strange taste fills my mouth.


 It was like vinnegar and and cinnamon wedged between my teeth, but parsley and vanilla on the roof of my mouth and my gums.


Smacking my lips, I let my vision adjust with the crawling memories of that dream I had.


The one before the storm.


That fucking goatman. The smug grin on him. Pestering me.


In that saloon in front of that nice lady.


Well, the nicest sheep lady I’ve met.


She was persistent in dragging me along like my mother in kindgarten days.


Maybe I’m lucky.


She’d probably end up hitting me on the ear with a wooden spoon if I hadnt woken up.


Maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing. I haven't had a woman in years. She could hit almost any part of my body with a wooden spoon so long as she followed it up with a kiss.

Almost. I'm a sailor not a masochist.

I kick off pink satin blanket and let my feet cool off in the breeze. On it carries the delicious smell of hot tea. In search of a glass I look around the room.

The bed wasn’t a twin but a california king, cornered by twisting poles holding the misquito net overhead.

The cieling’s not bare timber skeleton like mine back home. Its khaki colored, with  golden fleur de lis highlights, like something i saw before I got kicked out of the museum in Verseilles.

Gawdy for my taste, but the wallpapers’ a calming blue.

At least, where there is wallpaper visible. To my left there’s a door, ahead of me a desk, and to my right an open window.

Then I see that sheep lady from my dreams next to the window, staring intently at the door to my left. Strange how malleable their faces are. The bags under her eyes almost made her look like she was exhausted. Or annoyed.

She looks cute.

I raise an arm, knowing I can’t speak her language but a universal ‘hello’ is the polite course of action.


She sips her tea.


 What was her name? Gwen?


Well I hope she's not annoyed with how I was last night. I couldn't help chowing down on that pickled mucus like how I did. You work on a boat for hours, huffing varnish and inhaling splinters, God forbid you want something edible in your mouth.

Though ill admit I didn't feel myself eating whatever was in that jar.


I give her a sheepish grin (heh) and chuckle out “Hello Gwen. Nice to see you.”



She takes a deep breath before lifting a cup from an ornate saucer to her lips. Her eyes wondered over to me, as if to say “yes, I acknowledge that you’re still here.” Back of my head makes the funny thought about my mother giving the same look many times before.


“You cant understand me but thats alright. I’m sure theres  a reason why you look annoyed. I’m going to assume its something to do with last night, or maybe you don't like having to bed me.” I say, hoping my tone can be understood and perceived is kind and not condescending.


Her face doesn’t change. I scratch an itch on my neck and look away, towards the door.


“Well I’m greatful for your hospitality.” I Flash a grin.


I swing my legs out from under the covers and raise to my feet. She had taken off all my clothes it seems, except for my boxers. Funny, I think her current green dress is different from the brown one she war last night. “I’m sure I can make up for whatever food and bed cost once I get a telephone. And some breakfast.”

She sets the saucer and cup down on the ground straightens her back. She doesn’t have a new look. Her anger has just intensified to a crinkling of her muzzle between her eyes. An adorable look for the only woman I met with hair on her lip who wasn’t from Brockton.


I take a step towards her with some semblance of swagger, and speak like Hayden Sterling.


 “Maybe you can shed some light on why I dont remember getting in bed without any clothes on.”


“Shed your obscene arrogance you lust minded feign.”


Her voice chimed like a slap across the face. It sounded the same as when she chided me back at the salloon, but wholly different affect actually understanding the lady.


I coughed and sat on the bed. “oh. I thought neither of us could -”

“Understand one another?” Her hair puffed as she spoke, the china by her feet rattling with the shuffle of her skirt covered hooves. “That problem is no more; what you ate allows us to understand one another. Of course, you would know that unless...”


“What?”


The sheep lass slumped in her chair, not caring as the dishes beneath rolled and slid under the bed. Her hands clutched her face and for a moment she rubbed her eyes with her palms. Her tongue lulled out with a yawn. I must’ve done something bad if she’s been up all night annoyed.


“Listen Gwen I-”


“My name is not gwen.”


Its never good come off as a douchebag when you wake in someone elses bed.

A hot wind must be blowing into the room because I can feel  my balls retracting into my body.


“lady, what did I do?” I speak.

Her hands smack against the arms of the chair and she resumes her pouting at me. “You did a very bad thing, and thats why you’re here.”


She crosses her arms. Bad thing? “I was mugged and murdured” I croak.


This must be hell. Explains why the folk are part sheep or goat.


The ewe shakes her head. Her eyes, a nice shade of green like her dress, wander about thinking. About what? Well, singing I guess. Because that’s what she did.


“Twas on the Glen
"By the eastern moor
"Born two holy men
"Who grew to bear
The earth on yoke
As life was rare
And kind was folk
Who were born there."

"Then evil came in
On a crimson tide
The twins enjoyed sin
Only through his death
One saw his err
And held his breath
Becoming he who care
O'er the village Beth

And when he slayed
His brother and kin
Cleansed he wasn't made
For evil is a coin
The good twin bade
A life be purloin
Or death be aide
That evil did join

And so to repay
For his exact evils
The good twin say
To his hairless disciples
"You are from clay
And without mortal upheavals
To Beth go way
Separate wheat from weevils

And when those few
Born of his brother
Asked a life anew
He pointed to earth
"Help the foggy ewe”
"Assist those without worth"
"Support the unlucky few"
"And make jovial births."



Her voice was beautiful. Tranquil. Like the slow splash of the waves against a beach. And it seemed like she wasn’t tired at all as she sang.


The last note transitions into a yawn that vibrates her whole body. She slouches over the side to rest her chin on her hand. Now she looked bored.


I guess based on that song this place is a second chance of sorts.

I feel anger. I didnt do crap! I was robbed at gunpoint in an ally! Most I ever did was drink and cross international lines without proper paper work!

What did i do to be sent here?

I sit on the bed, and cover my face. Its slick with sweat. It takes a lot to stress me out, but I'm not the best at handling it.

Gwen takes a deep breath but says nothing, yawning again instead. I'm a little annoyed.

This place is judy some extra dimension that can be explained by song. It Wasnt a song, but wasnt there a poem about some guy going to hell and then coming back? Perseus?

Ill play along. Get on her good side. Get the information on how to leave and then I can return to the world I knew.

Get back on Caulleen before she ends up in a worse state.

Caulleen.

"Hey sh- excuse me lady?"


Gwen's eyes perked as I got her attention. “yes?”


“Whatever bad thing I did, I will try to redeem myself for.” Of course I raised to stand at attention. Copy the pose just like those krauts from the Battle of the bulge. Stoic face n all, hopefully convincing her how serious I was. “I swear on my par- er the twins, I will do whatever it takes.”


“Really?” Her hands fall onto her lap. No longer are the bags beneath her eyes scrunched in annoyance but instead sagging with relief. A jovial smile on that muzzle was all I had to see for me to stop being annoyed with her.

I think I could've been granted a worse person to help. Err, sheep ewe creature.


I kneel in front of her and place a hand on her shoulder. She winces, as if in pain, but the tired grin returns to her face. “Really.”


She leaps forward and her muzzle rests on my shoulder. I’m wrapped in her thin arms. They’re soft. Must be a thin layer of wool or velvet covering them.

I hear her whisper ‘thank you’ but I dont think it was to me. Some sort of prayer concerning the twins and redemption dribbles out of her mouth. I don’t catch it.

Instead I feel myself trip, and i end up swinging the lady so her back is to the bed, and fall onto her.

Her dress bellows and i get a brief look at her knickers as well as her started eyes before she lands. “Hey!”

“Sorry! I lost my footing! Didn't get enough sleep!" I say.

 I feel her hot breath on me as she snorts.
“Sleep?” Her chiton tipped fingers grasp the covers. “Oh twins! Its morning! Get your pants on! Shit I havent even introduced you to-

"GOUENTINE" howled a hazy old lady somewhere in the house.

"COMING MOTHER" Up and off the bead ran the sheep lassy. She swayed a little left and right as she did so. Probably light headed from all the singing.

I stretched out my hand and helped her off the bed. Need to be polite.

"Where are my clothes?"

"Check under your bed." Gwen's, (I mean Gouentine. Of course I remember her real name when her mom calls it out.) dress waved and shimmied as she ran towards the exit. She propped herself against the door way and looked at me no longer angry but invigorated and smiling. "Make yourself look handsome as possible angel! And meet me at the front door,!"

Angel? I could get used to that even if it's a little cringy.

The sheep lass disappears. I get my clothes on.

My coat seemed to be a little wet, probably from last nights rain. Belts buckle was dull and some paste (I'm guessing sheep food) was lodged inside the first eye. I must've been a little sloppy eating last night. Couldnt have been too sloppy. A lady like her would've corrected me.

Something crinkles in my pocket.

 That note from that goat I didnt beat. I swore i threw this out... must've snuck it in my pocket when I wasn't looking or something. Scummy. If every guy here is either slimy or a theif I'm a paragon of virtue.

The papers old, yellowish like books in my parents library. Crinkly and smells the same. I can finally read the damn strange script.


"Charlie Boyes, Patriarch of Boyes enterprises, 234 endover lane.”

Patriarch? That couldn’t have been more than a boy who handed me this. What did he want? Me to help? Being an angel must be a pretty big thing around here after all.

I have promised to do whatever it takes to uh make up for my sins in my past life to Gouentine.

I have made a commitment.

Commitment.

Committed.

Yeah i must be fucking committed.

To the insane asylum.

I just gave my freedom away to that sheep girl. If I change my mind who knows what she’ll do. Its not like 1900s ireland had an 8th amendment! Or if amendments applied to (un)holy beings like I'm supposed to be!  Who knows how they torture people here, never mind angels.

I am no longer the captain of my own ship.

I sit on the desk, rump wet from landing on my damp coattails.

The wind blows through the window and the curtians wave.

Outside come voices. Deep low voices, men I think or giant women. Dread the thought, I piss off Gouentine I’ll have to deal with bigger bitches.

Their feet clop and in greater numbers, and it becomes apparent what they;’ve come for as I hear the loud squeek of a door opening and Gouentine’s greeting.

“I have the angel!”