A Lost Sheep

Once upon a time, there was a sunset. And the clouds were melting.

It was not a hint of the vast, open space. It had nothing to do with it. Instead it shone its stars and fluttered its gills. The bright, starlight scene splashed with short bursts of light. Small and delicate. A constellation in a jar.

There used to be a horse and a kid. The horse galloped around, when or wherever it goes, it leaves. And when it leaves, it’s gone. And then the young one, the little child, was left to fathom the starry night, wondering why, oh why, did he leave. Lying on the empty field of nothing.

He was there for a long time, waiting, waiting, and waiting. Lost in the stars.

A bit later, there was rustling next to him, a strikingly orange fox appeared with quaint curiosity in his eyes.

“Child,” he asked in a deep, resonant voice. “Why are you crying?”

He tilted its head to the sky, and a colossal drop of oceans rained. The fox opened His mouth and swallowed it all down in one gulp. And now the storm rests in his stomach, not quite gone, but not quite subdued either.

The fox said, “A storm doesn’t know its own strength. It only is what it is. And it will be what it will be.” He sat down just above the kid’s shoulder, where his head rested rather comfortably over his hand.

Together, the void rippled by the gazes of the fox, and the child. Fishes stirred up in the bleak, powerful night, alighting the cooling dark. Somewhere far off, a clock rumbled the void by striking midnight. None of them said anything. There was only the swirling sense of silence among the rows and rows of grass.

A moment of quietness turned into peace, the night air filled the youngster’s lungs like nectar, coaxing slumber.

“Is the rain gone?” He asked, rather sleepily.

The fox looked at the youngster. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s gone.” He stood up to leave, the boy’s hand reached out and touched his soft tail.

“Wait,” he pleaded—honest, simple. “I don’t like the rain.” The youngster watched into his almond-like eyes, and thought to himself, but I like you.

He lightly nudged his hand back with his snout, and rested it back on the child’s chest. “Follow me.” He whispered.

The child blinked, and blinked again. He was torn between waiting for his horse and the warm curiosity for this fox. But alas, if he followed the fox, who would wait for the horse? He laid back down, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Fox.” His voice hitched ruefully. “But I have to wait for my horse.”

The fox nodded as if he understood, and left.

The kid laid there for another sometime, head still buzzing with his words. Maybe he should have followed him? He didn’t have anywhere to go. It’s nice that Mr. Fox had somewhere to go.

The grass blades surrounding him were a giddy form of warmth, even though they’re pretty itchy, he buried his nose in them and sighed, closing his eyes.

And so our little hero slept, with nothing whatsoever on his quiet mind except the yearning of his horse, as if he could still hear the hooves thudding in a systematic rhythm throughout the expansive field.

Morning did not come, instead he woke up to the streaking lights of dusk. And for that, he was grateful. He propped himself up and gazed at the abstract mixture before him, pondering, how lucky is he—to wake up every day to the streaking lights of dusk.

Sometimes he wondered if the horse would actually come back, and if they would ever play with each other again. Mr. Horse always liked to run. The youngster would laugh and giggle at the sight of him, jumping and neighing and sniffing with his soft snout. Once, Mr. Horse let him ride on his back, he climbed on and instantly fell over. He’s got scratches on his arm to prove it.

But now those scratches have long healed. The boy almost wished they hadn’t.

By now, the sun had completely set. The stars hurried about themselves to take its place, each piece blinking with intimacy.

He turned his head, the fox was sitting next to him again, his tail wrapped around his body like a blanket.

“You’re back,” the child said. “Where did you go?”

The fox gazed out into the void, then he replied in the gentlest manner, “If I tell you, you will not know the place that I have gone. Why are you asking me when you do not know the place that you are in?”

The youngster thought about it for a while. “I don’t really know this place.” He admitted.

He felt the Fox rest beside him, they listened to the crickets chirp for a long time before he commented. “Then you must not like it here.”

The child’s voice was small. “I know. Mr. Horse made it better, though. He made this place seem like home.”

The fox gazed at him inquiringly. “What is home to you?”

That made the boy smile. “Well, I really like this little flower with tons of other tiny flowers on it,” He said fondly. “Every time you blow on one, the little flowers fly! They used to be everywhere, but here the grasses don’t have any. But I guess plain grass isn't too bad either.”

“Ah, dandelions. Is that it?”

He thought about it. “Mother always sings me to sleep when the night is getting loud. Mother always says not to wander about, but I can’t help it.”

The fox let out a little humming sound. “Then why are you here?”

The kid opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out of them.

Instead, they watched as the stars fell throughout the abyss, each twinkling shard disrupting the peace. It was beginning to get late again.

The fox spoke. “Many people waste themselves, waiting for something that is never to come. That never will. And many people work themselves weary, sweating for something that will never stay.”

He stared at him. “For their entire lives? That’s an awfully long time to be waiting.”

“It is indeed,” he agreed.

“But then it’s all… useless.” The youngster’s voice got quiet, shoulders sagging. “What would be the point?”

The fox raised his brows knowingly. “I never said there is no hope, child.”

“Hope…” He echoed. “I do hope Mr. Horse will come back one day. Does hope make it better? I don’t want to be let down if he doesn’t. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You must’t worry. There is nothing to worry about.” He smiled reassuringly. “I know the plans that’s in store for you, plans not to harm you, but to give you a hope and future. I shall take my leave now.”

The youngster stopped him. “Mr. Fox?”

“Yes?”

“It’s raining again.”

He smiled. “You will be fine.” A beat. “Will you follow me?”

Again, the child hesitated. He hesitated a minute too long. The fox nodded with compassion and tiptoed away.

It was indeed raining—a pleasant drizzle that made the grass dance under the moonlight. The boy didn’t move from his spot. Comforted by the fox’s words, he shut his eyes and curled up to sleep. Maybe one day he will follow the fox. But right now…

Night by night, the fox would return, the exact same spot, the exact same time. They would sit in that patch of grass, sharing stories, and gazing at stars.

“You sound awfully familiar, where have I heard your voice before?” One night the boy asked.

“I’ve known you long before you were here.” The reply didn’t make much sense, but it had a tranquil warmth to it.

At some points the endless void would shower them in rainfall, the child would ask the fox to swallow it. The fox, having held him in a dear place in his heart, did. Every time the fox stood up to leave, he would say— “Follow me.” And every time he does, the youngster declines. Not out of rudeness, but because it felt like betraying Mr. Horse. Even though he’s very fond of the fox, who took nothing to grudge.

One night, the fox stood up for the final time.

“Child,” he said in a tone that made the boy look at him. “The hour will not be my last, but it will be yours if you don’t make up your mind. I want you to come home with me.”

He rubbed his arms around himself. “Mr. Fox, I can’t.”

“No, you can’t,” the fox agreed. “But I can, and you will. I am not forcing you. Nor will I push you. I only hope you will wake up from this dream in which everything is shrouded in black. Maybe then, will you finally let go.”

“Let go of what?”

He smiled sadly. “When I am gone, you will no longer have anyone to swallow the storm the horse has caused. But I can guide you to the right path. We can leave this field to find home. Do not be dismayed, for I am with you—never will I leave you; never will I forsake you if you follow me.”

The child stared at the grass before them. A low rumble shook the abyss above. Each bead of a star disappeared, fogged behind by ashen clouds. The grasses are bent by the immensely abrupt wind, catching bits of creation by its grasp. At last, the present was shifting.

The fox offered his paw, and the current picked up.

Gingerly, the boy stood up. His movements were uncertain, but steady. “You,” he hesitated, his words dripping with uncertainty. “Promise?”

And a promise it was.

He took a step, then another, then another—until the two souls were far from the spot they had stayed many times before. The boy is gone, and now the world must do its thing.

A shockwave flashed across the sky like roots, splitting the night into two, and slicing into the ground they were mere minutes on.

“No.” The fox cautioned firmly as the child glanced back. “Do not look at them, look at me. Focus on what I am about to do, not on the past.”

After a minute, the boy tore his eyes away. He focused on the fox, but instead stared up in absolute awe.

As great as the sea is to a grain of sand, is the grand Lion standing before him. Every flick of sunlight is equivalent to His fiery mane, every blade of grass bows to His presence. At this exact moment, something clicks.

The boy couldn’t move. Shouldn’t. It didn’t feel right. It wouldn’t feel right. Every nerve in his body is frozen. But suddenly something inside him felt clearer—lighter. The fox just turned into a lion in front of his very own eyes.

“… Mr. Fox?” He blurts. He couldn’t stop gawking. “Who are you?”

The Lion tells him, His gravelly soft voice rumbling through the valley. “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”

“The Father?” The child stared.

He smiles with a fierce gentleness. “Yes. The Father.” He turns to continue. “Come on now, Child. Let’s go home.”

The boy did not hesitate; he scurries over beside him, and the exposition began. The sky bleeds into an awakening, a portrait of electrifying gold, making the Lion look more magnificent than He already is—and for the first time, everything feels like it’s going to be okay.

I wouldn’t say this is a happily ever after—it could potentially be one, just not right now. But as the image of a child trailing after a Lion, with the glow of a half incandescent orb behind them. Even the birds would agree—it is the end of a beginning.