Sacrificing the Lamb
The sun rose over the Eastern hill, casting gentle rays on the meadow below. And as far as one cared to look, a banquet of wildrye and goosegrass beckoned the large flock of sheep, who grazed with little care beyond satisfying their stomach's demands.
It was only the smallest lamb who noticed that high above them, a stone's throw and a half away, there was a fox, who had taken more than a passing interest in her flock. And after some thought, she broke away from the herd and climbed the hill to where he lay.
The fox eyed her curiously as she bounded well into the scope of his prospective lunge. She greeted him kindly. "Good day, to you sir."
"Indeed little one," the fox smirked, "It is a good day."
"I always find mornings to be most agreeable," said the lamb.
"Well, as luck would have it," said the fox, "I find myself in agreement with you."
The two creatures laughed together, and the lamb found a comfortable patch of greenery in which to sit. "Might I be so audacious as to ask you a question?"
"Audacious?" The fox stretched, shaking off the dewdrops from his red coat. "Yes, you might very well be."
"Seeing as how you are a fox, is it fair to assume that your intention is to make a meal out of one member of my family?"
"That would be a safe assumption," the fox snickered, "It is in keeping with a fox's nature."
"Well, sir," said the lamb, "you have so many sheep to select from in size, health, and number of seasons. How does a fox's nature choose?"
"A fox's nature chooses the same way the nature of all living things chooses; the greatest amount of reward for the least amount of effort."
"I see," said the lamb, losing herself in thought.
Perhaps out of curiosity, the fox made no motion towards the vulnerable lamb, opting instead to wait for whatever droplet of reflection her innocent mind constructed.
"Is that wise?" she asked.
"Wise?" the fox sneered. "It's effective. How should wisdom factor into it?"
"Foxes are known for their cleverness. What is cleverness, if not wisdom as tactic?"
A curl appeared on the fox's mouth. "You know, I was wondering why you approached me. Being as small as you are, you were already easy prey. And now you've made my task all the simpler."
The lamb smiled, allowing a gleam to appear in her eye. "And despite the minimal amount of effort it would take, you haven't eaten me."
"All right then," the fox chortled. "I'm intrigued. Why I haven't eaten you? If you can give me a satisfactory answer then I will let you go. And I will also leave your flock alone."
"What a delightful challenge!" The lamb sprang to her feet and scampered up next to the fox; closer than any lamb had ever dared on their own volition. She sat down next to him and gazed out over the landscape. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Truly. I'll not deny it."
"Did you know that where you and I are sitting so peacefully is in fact a battleground?"
The fox shook his head. "I'm not familiar with the history of these hills."
"Oh, I don't mean a battleground of the past," said the lamb. "I mean the one happening right now."
"This battle of wits between us?"
"Not at all." The lamb sniffed a lavender blossom between them. "The jaws of a predator are gruesome, but they pale in comparison to the murderous aggression of the grass. As far as you can see, there are seedlings strangling each other for territory. These peaceful hills are absolute carnage that you and I see as serene, because we only see a single moment in the eons of chaos."
The fox nodded. "That is both fascinating and insightful, but how does it answer the question at hand?"
"Because the grass doesn't have a choice the way animals do. The ability to choose surely must indicate that something beyond self-interest motivates one such as yourself."
"I agree with you little one," the fox winced. "But all you're doing is supporting the claim that there is an answer, not what that answer may be."
"Well for that," grinned the lamb, "I should tell you a story. There was a vain centipede who was so proud of its magnificent length that it would walk all over the land, drawing attention to itself, making sure everyone saw the immaculate way its many, many legs functioned in unison."
"Yes, I'm familiar with this story," the fox interrupted. "Somebody asks the centipede how it manages to get all of its legs to function in harmony."
The lamb continued, "And the centipede, who had strode so gracefully before without a thought, suddenly thought about it. And as such it was unable to walk the way that it had ever again. What does that story tell you?"
"That some questions can be harmful."
"Maybe," said the lamb, "but maybe questions only serve to awaken us. Maybe we sleepwalk through our lives and strangle each other for our own self-interests, until we start asking ourselves why. You see, there's an ending to this story that very few know. That centipede loved walking. So much that being robbed of that activity that had brought it so much joy drove it to keep trying. And failing. And trying. No, it was never able to walk the way it had before, just like you can never unask a question. But the centipede was able to walk a new way, learned from pain and effort. And in the end, it could do more than just walk. The centipede could dance."
For several moments the two of them didn't speak. In the distance, the lamb's flock bleated, but the fox could barely hear it over the rustle of the grass waving in the breeze. After some time, the fox spoke. "Why you cunning little mutton scrap. How could I possibly eat you now? It would make me too sad." He glared at her. "Was that your plan all along?"
"I had no plan. And no answer," she insisted. "I only thought, if I were to die today I would make it mean something. And be remembered."
The fox stretched back out in the grass. "You know, little one? Today truly is a good day."
The lamb curled up next to him, and together they fell asleep.
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