Joan of the Flock

Because Joan is a sheep, it is her instinct as prey that recognizes danger. It comes from the same place as the instinct for food, for sleep, for seeking safety in her flock.

It was a prey instinct to recognize the wolf as a threat, peering as it was, from between the bushes with its yellow eyes—but it was not prey instinct that drove her to stand her ground and fight.

That was a predator instinct, and it did not belong in sheep.

This, however, was not an issue any longer because now, there was a dead wolf lying at her hooves.

Joan remembers the kill, the stroke of luck that had her finding her face right next to the wolf’s neck, and how she didn’t think, not at all, before biting at that area of vulnerable flesh. Angled right, even flat teeth will pierce the meat of an animal. After that, it is not much of a fight.

The wolf slowed, and Joan watched it try to retreat back into the woods from which it had emerged, but it bled out before it could escape.

Joan had killed the wolf, and it is a reason to celebrate.

Joan bleats, a loud sound meant to call the others to her location. She cannot hide the excited tone of her voice, and it is perhaps the reason why her flock of twenty-nine (not including herself) rushes over so quickly. She imagines they think that she has found a new patch of grass, one more delicious than the last, or a sunnier spot to sit and soak in the sun’s rays.

Ewe, today’s leader of the flock, pushes forward first, a female only a few years older than Joan herself.

Joan likes Ewe. On days when Ewe is not the leader, Joan and Ewe soak in the sun together. They are good friends.

The flock draws near, slowing as they see what lies on the ground in front of Joan.

“Joan…” Ewe starts, eyes wide as she stares at Joan. Behind her, the flock approaches closer, bleating in curious confusion, until they see Joan. Their jaws drop open, and their eyes widen in horrific terror. “What have you done?” Ewe asks, whispering, but the flock behind her echoes the sentiment, and it becomes a cacophony of Joan, Joan—what have you done, what have you done?

“I’ve protected us, Ewe,” Joan answers her friend. Her eyes flicker from sheep to sheep, watching their shocked expressions in confusion. Why are they not celebrating? Joan had done what no sheep ever dared to do—she had successfully killed a wolf.

“There was a wolf, you know, the same one the boy shepherd always has to shoo away?” Joan babbles, trying to make them understand. They must understand. Do they not get it? If Joan hadn’t done what she had, none of them would be alive right now.

“The wolf attacked me, almost got me,” Joan laughs forcefully, trying to remain cheerful, “but then I bit it back, and before I knew it, I had killed it.” Joan watches their expressions, trying to understand why they are not happy about this amazing feat. “Sheep, I have killed the predator that always comes to bother us.”

“Joan,” Ewe begins, stepping close carefully, “We are sheep. We do not kill.”

“And that’s why Aner and Polk and Trass and Liko are dead. If they had fought back, they would still be alive. I killed the thing that always kills us, and now we don’t have to worry about anything trying to eat us when we’re just minding our own business.”

“Joan, we cannot kill.” Ewe insists, like that is any different from what she has already been saying, “It is not in our nature.”

“And if we did, maybe all the sheep we lost would still be alive,” Joan says, and her argument is perfectly sound, she knows it is. “I did this to protect us, Ewe. We have nothing to fear anymore.” Why are they not understanding? She did it for them, she did it for the greater good, she did it to protect them all.

Joan takes a step forward, and the flock behind Ewe withers back like Joan is a wolf come to attack them. Ewe takes a hesitant step towards Joan, “Maybe you should clean yourself up, Joan. When you are back, we will discuss what to do.”

Joan furrows her brows and stomps a hoof into the ground, “What is there to discuss, Ewe? I killed the wolf. I saved us. We are free sheep now.”

“Joan,” Ewe’s voice is hard, like she has no more patience for her, “clean yourself up. We will discuss this after.”

Joan looks down at herself, noting for the first time the way her wool is red with dried up blood, blood of the wolf, she killed a wolf, she cannot believe—

“Joan,” Ewe says again, and when Joan snaps her head up to look at her once-friend, she finds too many fields of distance between her and her flock.

“I’m going.”

The trek to the watering hole takes her near the woods again, where she spots the carcass of the wolf and finds herself drawing close to it. The wolf has stopped leaking blood, its life drained into a puddle beneath its matted fur, a stain on the grass meant for the flock to eat.

Joan draws closer anyway, teeth bared in case the wolf isn’t dead, but she’s ready, she will kill it again if she has to, there is no other option—

Oh.

In its death, the wolf’s jaws have gone slack, and in the sunny afternoon, the glint of its sharp teeth is not something she can miss. She steps into the puddle of blood, blood that has not completely dried yet, and leans in to take a closer look.

A sheep’s teeth line only the bottom of their jaw, ideal for tearing at grass in fields, and nothing else. The wolf has teeth on both sides of its mouth, sixteen sharp points sitting in their mouth in a way that Joan’s will never be.

But the wolf is dead, and it no longer needs its teeth. If Joan had the teeth, she could have the means to protect the flock against any other wolves that might stray into their field of peace.

The wolf is dead. There is no one around to stop Joan from taking its teeth.

Decision made, Joan steps even closer, willingly putting herself close to the very thing that could have killed her. It takes her some time, but she manages to pry eight teeth out of the wolf, and insert them into her own mouth; now she has sharp teeth lining the top of her jaw as well, just like the wolf.

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to get used to the new weight in her mouth. The teeth do not fit in her mouth, but for her flock, she is willing to make this sacrifice.

She has to go back, show the flock that her dedication to them is real, that she has protected them today, and that she will protect them in the future. Joan puts speed into her legs, and before long, she can see the gentle hill where the flock is gathered.

As she prances closer, the flock’s voices hit her. They are speaking in a rippling murmur, and only the echoes of their statements reach her.

“...a wolf…”

“...believe her?”

“...Joan…killer…dangerous…”

They are talking about her, she realizes, discussing what she has done, but the victorious tone in their voices is missing. Why are they not happy? Why are they not frolicking with joy, rewarding Joan with the best patch of grass, celebrating their new saviour?

Joan pushes into the circle of sheep, shoving her way through the flock until she reaches the middle, where Ewe and the other flock leaders are standing, worried looks on their faces.

“Joan. You didn’t clean yourself up.” Ewe stares at her, and Joan doesn’t see the way her legs are braced for quick movement. The other leaders around her take a step back at the sight of Joan. “Is…is there more blood on you?”

Joan opens her mouth to ask about why they aren’t celebrating, but her mouth is heavy, and speaking is not so easy anymore—

Ewe gasps, and the other flock leaders around her do the same, and the gasp echoes through the throng of sheep, and they all collectively take a step back.

“Joan, what have you done?” Ewe asks, and there is an expression on her face that Joan only sees when there is a sighting of a wolf. Why does Ewe have that expression now?

Joan surges forward, tries to explain, but the only thing that escapes her mouth is a garbled mess. These new teeth do not let her speak.

Behind Ewe, Miku squeezes his eyes shut and cries out, “Joan, you’re not a sheep! You’re a killer! You can’t be a part of this flock anymore!” And Joan’s flock of twenty-nine nods.

For a single moment, everything holds still.

Joan, you’re not a sheep.

Joan, you can’t be a part of this flock.

Can’t be part of the flock.

The flock she fought so hard to protect? That flock? The flock that now wants to kick her out? The flock that wants to take away her right to be a sheep? The very definition of her being? That flock? That flock?

Rage spills into her like nothing she’s ever experienced before, red, hot, bubbling, and she feels so so angry, how dare they, how dare they, how dare—

Joan returns to awareness with the unmistakable feeling of something wet dripping from her mouth. She looks down, and Miku’s body is beneath her hooves, his throat torn open, red, red, red, red as her anger, and the rest of the flock is backing away, but they agreed, they agreed, how could they—

—

When the villagers come to take the sheep away in the rosy evening, they find not a flock of happy sheep, but a field of slaughter.

They count the bodies: twenty-nine sheep, one wolf, and a blood trail leading into the forest.