Agnus Dei

As Father Sawyer Specter crossed the rolling green hills surrounding St. Clare’s sprawling grounds, his steps were as slow and deliberate as the steady beat of a drum. With each step, he moved gently as if the ground beneath him was a living, breathing being. His soft yet authoritative voice pierced the silence of the wilderness, calling out to the creatures of the herd and offering them a sense of comfort and peace. The wind brought his voice out towards a group of sheep grazing before him. They all raised their heads towards the scrawny figure approaching them, some darting over to the priest and crowding around him. The bucket at Specter’s side stopped swaying as he bent down and threw oats onto the grass. Some brave sheep stepped forward, licking the extra oats of his dainty fingers, leaving a wet coat of saliva in their wake. Specter, ever the one to be clean, grimaced and shook his hand in a meager attempt to clean himself off. He avoided wiping his hands on his cassock to avoid suspicious eyes once he returned back to the rectory.

Father Specter was an odd figure. Quiet by nature, he barely spoke beyond his duties during mass. His small frame, exacerbated by a limp, gave him a perpetual hunch, making him appear even smaller. His brunet hair was always meticulously combed, and he carried a scent that blended lavender with frankincense, occasionally masked by a hint of smoke. Yet, what captivated most about him among his fellow clergy were his eyes: deep bags beneath them hinted at nights lost to insomnia and study, and his left eye, murky white and accompanied by a burn mark trailing down his face, remained a mystery to all who knew him. These imperfections seemed to guide him to solitude in the fields when not conducting mass. There, amidst the grazing sheep, he found relief from the judgment of others. Unlike people, the sheep never judged him for his differences; they simply knew how to love unconditionally.

As Specter wandered through the wooly, four-legged beasts, a small, fluffy lamb bouncing about with seemingly carefree abandon crossed his path. The lamb had a spring in its step, its hooves barely touching the ground, carrying it forward with a youthful energy. Every now and then, the lamb would trip and stumble, its legs giving out for a moment, but it would always bounce back up as if it were a puppet being pulled by strings. Specter looked around, assuming the creature had a mother overlooking it, but none of the other sheep seemed to bat an eye at this member of their herd.

The priest’s steps grew lighter as he drew closer to the lamb. When he knelt down to pet it, he smiled at the sheer joy and innocence that radiated from the tiny creature. It was as if the lamb was a glimpse of something pure and true, a reminder of something he once possessed but lost long ago. But then, as he gazed down at the lamb’s right forearm, his eyes widened with shock. The leg was missing.

Specter’s brow furrowed with concern. Had a wolf or something else bitten the leg off? The skin, where there should have been fur and bone, was bare — a plaque of what could have been. Specter gently inspected the lamb’s forelimb, running his hands over its delicate fur, searching for any sign of injury. To the priest’s surprise, the lamb jumped back up on its hooves and danced around him as if nothing was wrong.

“Ah, poor thing…” Specter whispered, scooping the lamb into his arms. “I shall carry you home, and you shall be well again. We shall pray together that your leg may grow back, just as God caused the shepherd, Simon, to walk again.”

Through the fields and up the winding steps of the rectory’s campus, Specter moved cautiously, ensuring none of the other priests noticed the lamb nestled against his chest. The rectory grounds were a serene expanse of well-tended gardens, ancient, gnarled trees, and cobblestone paths that dipped and rose. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot and the gentle rustle of leaves accompanied his steps. He cradled the little creature close, its soft, warm body a comforting weight. The faint scent of straw and earth clung to the lamb’s fur, mingling with the fresh aroma of the early morning dew. Specter hastily tucked it under his coat, making sure it remained hidden. His head bowed, bangs falling over his eyes, he avoided eye contact with his fellow priests who moved about in quiet contemplation. As he walked, the sounds of his footsteps echoed softly against the ancient wood floor of the rectory halls, mingling with the distant murmur of prayers and the occasional tolling of a bell. The rustling of his coat and the lamb’s occasional soft bleat were the only other noises breaking the sanctified silence. Specter’s heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the secret he carried, hidden from the prying eyes of the world.

As Father Specter rounded a corner, he collided head-on with another priest. He stumbled backward, almost losing his grip on the lamb. But, nimble as a mouse, Specter regained his footing and tightened his hold on the small creature. The lamb let out a pained bleat but was soon pacified by Specter’s soothing pats.

“Ah, my apologies…” Specter stammered, a phrase he was all too familiar with. The lamb stirred, and he had to gently press her head down to avoid drawing attention.

Specter’s heart sank when he saw who the other priest was — his overbearing superior, Monsignor Parsifal. The man was tall and gaunt, his cheeks sunken, and his dark eyes perpetually furrowed in anger. With his pallid skin and deep eye bags, he looked more like a specter than Specter himself.

“Where have you been, Specter?” Parsifal demanded, plucking a few stray white hairs from his short, shoulder-length black hair.

Specter gulped, shrinking in place. He glanced around nervously.

Parsifal squinted. “If you were truly perceptive, you would understand that there is a strict ‘no leaving St. Clare’s’ policy in effect. There is a stomach bug circulating, and we certainly wouldn’t want it to spread among our parishioners, would we?” He crossed his arms, ready to launch into a tirade. Before he could continue, a distant rumble of thunder followed by a light drizzle interrupted him. The lights flickered and then went out completely, eliciting a collective groan from all around.

With a dismissive shake of Parsifal’s hand, Specter retreated to his room, a small cell adorned with only the bare essentials. The lamb’s fluffy body rested on the cot, its soft fur contrasting with the clean white blanket that softened the rough wooden frame. Under the flickering candlelight, Specter examined the lamb’s shoulder, finding no signs of damage or trauma that would suggest the missing limb was anything other than hereditary.

Specter gently cradled the lamb in his arms, feeling the warmth of its soft fur against his fingers. The lamb’s quiet breathing and gentle movements provided a soothing rhythm, calming his ever-anxious heart. As the little creature drifted off to sleep, Specter felt a newfound sense of contentment and purpose. This innocent, helpless being needed a friend who would always be there, and Specter was willing to take on that role, no matter the cost.

~ ~ ~

Specter had lovingly crafted a collar for Hope using fragments of old altar runners, stitching them together with care. The collar, a blend of frilly burgundy fabric adorned with delicate golden bells, was designed to prevent Hope from scratching herself. As he gently fastened it around her neck, Specter tapped one of the bells lightly, causing Hope to tilt her head in curiosity. “So you don’t startle me, mon agneau,” Specter chuckled softly, a rare sound from him. He affectionately tousled Hope’s head before inspecting the multiple tiny pricks on his fingers from the sewing needle.

~ ~ ~

Every Sunday, as the other priests went to their respective churches to preach, Specter was left alone in his dormitory, writing a note in his best cursive handwriting. He had grown quite adept at avoiding his duties, always finding some new, creative excuse for his absence. This time, he claimed to have “sprained his ankle” and requested a day of rest in his bedchamber. Specter signed the note with a flourish, then placed it outside his door, where the head of the monastery, Monsignor Parsifal, was bound to see it once he made his daily rounds through the sanctuary.

The monastery was quiet, with a sense of serenity and peace that only those who lived there knew. All except for Specter, whose room was often the site of Parsifal’s investigations. He always suspected that there was something that the young father was hiding, and it was his duty to find out just what it was. As Parsifal made his rounds, his tall, imposing figure casting long shadows along the stone grounds, he always made it a point to stop by the door to Specter’s room first. His curiosity grew even more when he first saw the note excusing the younger priest from his duties. How could a priest be so clumsy to constantly sustain injuries that prevented him from preaching? Parsifal burst through the door without hesitation, only to find the room empty. He scanned the room, trying to find a clue as to why Specter was absent once again. He looked closer at Specter’s bed, his brow furrowing as he saw clumps of white fur muddled with dirt. He plucked up the wool with his long, spider-like fingers, a scowl growing on his face. 

Parsifal sniffed it. The distinct, floral perfume that Specter often wore was nowhere to be found. Instead, the scent of something wild and untamed drifted into his nostrils. It smelled of dirty grass and weeds that grew in the cracks of the sidewalks. The thought of Specter keeping an infestation of wild animals to himself caused Parsifal to fume angrily. Parsifal grabbed a clump of fur, letting it guide him through the monastery like a map. Once, in the past, the monsignor had found out that the priest once went fishing and thought he had discovered a new species of fish. Letting the “fish,” roam in the koi pond that was kept in one of the parts of the rectory, it turned out to be a frog. It laid hundreds of eggs of its kin, taking weeks to get rid of the vermin from the grounds.

The scent led Parsifal to the courtyard, where the smell was even more pronounced. He carefully stepped onto the balcony overlooking it, keeping to the shadows to avoid detection. Under a large willow tree, Father Specter sat with a sketchbook, focusing all his attention on a small, bouncing lamb. The lamb was no larger than a housecat, but how it pranced around Specter with its innocent stride was almost enough to make Parsifal vomit. He could never understand the priest’s obsession with the creature, and seeing it only made him angrier. To him, it was a worthless specimen, a waste of time and resources that would be better put towards more important matters. Parsifal gripped the rail with his bony fingers, watching Specter reach into his pocket, pull out a piece of bread, and hand it to the lamb. Its bright pink tongue darted out, licking the bread like it was the most delicious thing in the world. Parsifal’s blood boiled, watching as this small creature seemed to have a hold on Specter that the monsignor could never get.

Specter threw his sketchbook to the side and jumped to his feet, eager to play with the little lamb. He let out a playful “baaa,” mimicking the sound of a sheep as he chased the lamb around the courtyard. It was as if the priest had forgotten entirely the troubles and responsibilities of his duties, consumed with the joy of playing around with the little creature. Specter’s laughter filled the quiet, serene courtyard as he chased the lamb around, acting out parts in a little play of his creation. As he finally caught up with the lamb, he looked up to the sky and smiled as he decided to name the tiny creature.

“Hmm… What shall your name be, little lamb? You have been through many trials in your struggle to survive, and yet you have remained gentle and kind. As such, it is only fitting for you to be given a beautiful name that reflects your strength and dignity.” Specter looked up as if to get God’s approval. “How about… Hope, little lamb? Yes, I like that very much. Your name shall be Hope.”

Specter cradled the little lamb with a deep sense of pride and affection. Feeling safe and protected in the priest’s embrace, the lamb nuzzled against him, gently headbutting his chest. Its soft “baaa” was a sign of trust and gratitude, as if the animal could sense the good intentions of its savior. To Parsifal, watching this display was nothing less than nauseating. How could a priest, a man of God, stoop so low as to care for an animal in the same way he would for a fellow human being? Parsifal’s anger towards Specter grew stronger as he saw how the priest treated the lamb with more care and tenderness than his fellow men. It was as if the priest had forgotten his place in the world that he was made to serve the greater good, not the whims of a pathetic, useless creature.

~ ~ ~

The morning of May 15th was dreary and unremarkable. Thirty-eight years ago, on a similarly rainy and gloomy day, Specter had been born. He was a silent baby, never crying and was quickly labeled as odd among other detestable names. His mother, who had passed away since, left him with a peculiar sense of relief, an emotion he knew he shouldn’t feel.

Specter saw Hope less and less these days. His duties had increased, with Parsifal greeting him every morning to remind him of his purpose. The lamb, clever as ever, hid under his bed whenever Parsifal entered. Specter gave Mass, listened to confessions, cleaned the dining hall (a task that made him question Parsifal’s motives), and repeated the cycle in the afternoon and late at night. Why people journeyed all the way up the mountains to St. Clare’s remained a mystery to Specter, but their presence kept him occupied, preventing him from dwelling on his sorrowful thoughts. At the end of the day, Specter would return to his room and cuddle Hope until he fell asleep. 

This morning was different. There was no knock at the door. Specter, curious about the unexpected silence, found himself with rare free time. He indulged in his favorite activities: sketching with the charcoal he had bought at the market, jotting down notes on his favorite Bible passages, and reflecting on their meanings. He even took a nap, an extraordinary luxury for him. Normally, sleep eluded him, but today, he drifted into a deep slumber that lasted until dinner in the evening.

The dining hall was a cavernous room, its high ceiling supported by thick wooden beams darkened with age. Long, rough-hewn tables stretched across the stone floor, their surfaces worn smooth by decades of use. Flickering candlelight cast shadows that danced along the walls adorned with faded tapestries depicting scenes of saintly deeds. The remnants of a simple, hearty fare from the afternoon still lingered in the air. Specter was surprised to see Parsifal seated at the head of one of the tables. Typically aloof, Parsifal never dined with the other priests, deeming himself above such communal activities. 

Parsifal clinked his glass, the sharp sound cutting through the murmur of conversation. “Ahem, ahem!” he began, clearing his throat. All the priests turned their heads toward him. “I would like to thank all of you for your duties this evening. You have been working so hard to please the Lord, and I thought tonight would be a grand opportunity to do something special for you all. I have hired the best chefs from the local village to prepare tonight’s meal.” A collective “ooh” of awe spread through the room, including from Specter.

Parsifal clapped his hands, and the large doors of the dining hall swung open. Chefs streamed in, each carrying meals hidden under gleaming silver caps. They slid the dishes onto the long tables, and as the lids were lifted, the rich aromas of spices filled the air. Specter’s eyes widened at the sight of the various dishes — colorful spring rolls, creamy mashed potatoes, and an array of other exotic meals cooked to perfection. When Specter took his first bite of the spring roll, the flavors burst in his mouth; savory, sweet, and a hint of zest, all blending together in his mouth. He had never eaten so much or tasted such richness in his life, each mouthful a revelation.

Specter’s thoughts wandered to what he could bring back to Hope. She had been unusually quiet today, hiding under the bed with her favorite blanket. He had left her undisturbed, absorbed in his drawing.

Then the main meal arrived. It was placed at the center of the table, surrounded by a garland of greens and flowers. As the chef lifted the lid, a thick cloud of steam billowed out, briefly obscuring the eager faces of the priests. Specter’s mouth began to water, but his smile quickly faltered. There, in the middle of the table, lay a three-legged lamb, its skin crisped to a deep, dark brown. Its weak legs were tied up with a soft string and gently undone before being torn off by his rabid brothers. A small garnish rested on its belly, adding a final touch of pretense. The sight made Specter’s stomach churn. The once-tempting meal before him now seemed cloying and repugnant.

As the other priests eagerly dug in, the sounds of tearing meat and the squelch of juices filled the room. The feast turned Specter’s stomach. He dropped his fork with a clatter, the sound sharp and jarring against the ambient murmur of satisfied eating. The sudden noise drew Parsifal’s attention. The Monsignor approached, his hands resting heavily on Specter’s shoulders. “What’s the matter?” Parsifal asked with a feigned cheerfulness. “Aren’t you hungry for more?”