'Epilogue with the lamb' by Leonie Swann

Cold.
And bright.
It punctured the eyes. Eyes? Eyes! The eyes were at the top. In the head. The head was also able to breathe and smell, thousand things, sweet and spicy and warm and cold and blue. All mixed up. And hear: a soughing outside and a pulsing inside. Erstwhile there was no outside. Now it was. Being cold could be all over, even further down where no head was any more.
The lamb was shivering. It wanted to go away. Away meant in the first place away from there further down, the coldest place. The lamb strechted things - legs? -, and really: the cold bottom disappeared. Then something went wrong and yet the bottom was there again, cold and pretty tough. Once again! The back at first. The back was where there was no head. Back was easier. Then the front. Everything was staggering but the bottom remained where it belonged: below.
The bright converged into circles. Into circles and colours. Next to it was standing something, darker than the above, but not so dark and was smelling good. And it mumbled deep calming sounds which chased away the shiver. Closer! Closer to the Good Thing, head first!
Then suddenly something smelled different then before. Hot and pungent.
The shiver was back.
The sounds of the Good Thing became shrilly and were not calming any longer. The smell changed as well. This was standing for something. Something got to be done. The lamb snabbed it's eyes open and tried to see more. There! Something Red was flickering through the grey. Before there was only grey, light and dark, blueish and rosy. Lots of greys.
The Red was new. The Red was different. Faster. Surreptitious. Dangerous.
The lamb had a whinge. The whinge frightened the lamb. It tried to get closer to the Good Thing.
The Good Thing moved.
The Red flickered.
Circled.
Whipped forward and flowed back into the grey.
The Good Thing baaed.
Then all of a sudden the Red was in front of it, with yellow eyes and white in its mouth. The lamb screamed. And then the Red was flying through the air, away from it. The Good Thing following with kicks and hits and fury.
Before the lamb was even able to start shivering the Good Thing was back again and it wasn't a thing, but warm, warm, warm and moving, with a black face and horns and the best smell and the most beautiful voice.
And a promise.
Suddenly the lamb had a mouth and the mouth had something in mind. Along the warm fur, to a secret hollow, deep into. And sucking sucking sucking.
And life was sweet. And warm.
And it tasted good.
Zora was satisfied with her winter-lamb.



[My first dog "Radjai", an Afghane, helped "Lisa" deliver her lamb "Puenktchen"]

I love the books from Leonie Swann. They are not really grandiose literature but very entertaining. Her first novel about Miss Maple, Mopple the Whale, Sir Ritchfield, and all the other sheep was called:



In her second publication the author wrote about the ongoing adventures in France and the mystery around a werewolf, the 'Garou':



It always reminds me of my own sheep: 'Lisa' and her son 'Puenktchen' who was born 28.06.1985 (1 day old on this picture!):



The last two pages in this book describes the birth of Zora's winter-lamb and I will try to translate this tale in my next post.