Isaac’s Sheep

I love Isaac. Baaa. Every morning, as the day baaagins, I watch him leave his tent with sleepy eyes. He yawns and stretches his arms, and as he sees me standing by the trough his eyes glitter. Baaa. He runs to me, hugs me, and peels a stray bug that got caught in my wool during the night. He then brings the bucket, sets it under me, and milks me with his small fingers. I do my best to stand still even when he pinches me. Every day I hope that I will give more milk than the previous day, so that his parents will complement him for his success. We then go to the meadow with my sisters and brothers, where we play and eat. Baaa.

One morning his father called us when we were about to leave for the meadow. You have never seen his father: he has a long white beard, long white hair, wrinkled face, and he often strolls alone around the encampment muttering to himself, flailing his hands, and glancing at the clouds. His most impressive quality is the eyes: dark like the depth of a well. These eyes read your thoughts, pierce your soul. One day, after I gave an especially large amount of milk, he told me “you are happy today.” And indeed, I was overjoyed because my sister gave birth the previous day. When I was shivering after the shearing he said, “you are cold”. And once, after I licked Isaac’s cheek, he caressed me and said, “you love Isaac so much”. When his father reads my mind, I run to Isaac, tell him what his father said, and bury my muzzle in his lap.

“We are going for a journey,” his father said when Isaac and I got into the tent, and my heart bit wildly. I was always wondering where Isaac’s father had been going and what he had been seeing.

“What about the sheep?” asked Isaac.

“Ishmael will take care of them.”

“Will mom join us?”

“No, it will be just you and me. And God.”

God. This was Isaac’s father’s mysterious friend, to whom he spoke and with whom he consulted. Many times he mentioned God during meals, but we never had the opportunity to meet him.

I nudged Isaac’s hand, and he patted my head.

“Can Shippi join us?”

Isaac’s father seemed to notice me for the first time. He hummed to himself, and after a long minute he nodded.

 “Go and get ready,” he said, “we will leave after breakfast.”

And so, I said good baaaye to my sisters and brothers, and sprinted back to the tent. I helped Isaac stuff his sac with dates and bread and water, and when his father called us, we left the encampment.

The three of us walked along the desert road – an old man, my Isaac, and I. When the sun reached its zenith we stopped for lunch under a lone tamarisk, and afterwards we continued marching to the east. When Isaac was tired, I supported him, and when I was tired, he hugged me and told me stories until I gathered my strength and we moved on.

Late in the afternoon we got to the foot of a hill. Isaac was cold and tucked his feet under my belly, and I licked his face to warm him. His father muttered a few words, as if discussing something with an invisible person.

“Up there,” he finally said.

“I am tired, dad,” Isaac said, “can we rest a bit?”

“God is waiting for us.”

Excitement washed me, baaa, and I licked Isaac’s leg.

Isaac held my face in his hands and rubbed my nose. His eagerness to talk with God was not less than mine.

“Let’s climb, Shippi,” he said.

Baaa, I was so happy to hear these words. He gripped my fleece, and we took the path uphill. White flowers decorated the bushes, chrysanthemums and hyacinths bloomed between boulders, and far away stood ominous mountains. God lives in such a nice place. After an hour or so we stopped at the summit.

“Where is God, baaa?” I asked Isaac, who fell to the ground panting.

He looked around and, like me, saw nobody.

“I am sure he will come,” he said, and so I sat next to him, my muzzle on his thigh, his fingers brushing my fleece.

His father, though, did not rest. He started playing with rocks, putting them one on top of the other, mumbling to himself, crying to God now and then. When he was done with his game, he called Isaac. His eyes were black like those of vultures, and his voice was coarse. I wanted to tell Isaac to be careful, baaat he already got up and went to his father.

“Lie here,” his father pointed at the heap of stones, and Isaac obeyed.

I was puzzled. The rocks were not a cozy bed, like the one Isaac had in the tent, which was been covered with a thick woolen bedspread.

Isaac’s father got some rope out of his pocket and tied Isaac.

“Baaa!” This did not look right.

Isaac’s father took a long knife that sparkled in the last rays of the day and put it next to Isaac’s throat.

“Baaa!” I cried, “you are mad.”

I looked around, hoping to see God. No one was there. I must find help, I told myself and ran away. My fleece got caught in the branches of a thorny bush.

Isaac’s father raised his hand.

“Baaa!” I shrieked, “God, please come and help us, baaa.”

Isaac’s father’s hand dropped to the side of his body, and the knife fell to the ground. He looked as if coming out of a dream.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered and for the first time in the last ten minutes I could breathe normally, “baaa.”

Isaac’s father untied Isaac, who ran to me and freed my fleece from the thorns. I licked his hands, making sure that he was fine, that his father had not harmed him. After a moment or so his father came to us, raised me in his muscled hands, and put me on the rocks. His eyes were once again dreamy, and he did not watch me. Instead, he gazed at something bigger behind me.

“Baaa,” I shouted. “Leave me alone. Leave us alone.”

He picked the rope from the ground and tied me.

“Daddy, why are you tying Shippi?” Isaac asked.

He was so naïve. I remembered the fate of some of my poor brothers and sisters, who had been taken to the kitchen tent and never came back.

“Baaa!” I squealed. “Baaaaa!!”

Frantically my eyes searched for God. Except for the three of us, there was no one on the hilltop. Why didn’t God come?

Isaac’s father raised the knife.

“Daddy, no,” Isaac shouted.

“Baaa! I want my Isaac; I want my Isaac.”