The Flock of Normandy

Somewhere on the coast of Normandy a cow began her day, opening her wide, brown eyes slowly. She awoke surrounded by her peers, all of them sleeping soundly with their heads bowed as if in prayer. Agnes prized her mornings, finding comfort in watching the Earth wake. It allowed her to see the grass unchewed, whipping in the wind deliciously, before being slowly mowed throughout the day. Seagulls and other water birds were on the Normandy shore finding their morning meals, waking her own digestive system. Birds chirped and cawed, singing the song of early workers. Sometimes Agnes imagined herself as one of the birds, but when she considered the amount of effort and travel a bird endures, she thanked the Abbey for making her a cow. She softly snapped a few blades into her mouth, and her face showed a serene satisfaction. The first bite of the morning was always perfect—crisp, fresh, dewy, and, as always, salty.

The Abbey, a towering cathedral known by man as Mont St. Michel, is located a few yards off of the shores of Normandy. Every few months, the tide rises, isolating the church into a small island. The flocks of Normandy view this church as the closest thing to a god they know. Not only is it sacred to the humans, but the salt of the bay soaks into the ground, which gives the grass its distinct taste—a constant reminder of the place’s holiness and generosity. Soon the spring tide would come, flooding the shores to the base of the island’s tall stone walls. Agnes knew the tide would rise that night. The wind tasted saltier than it had the day before, and the shores around the island were slick and shiny. She prided herself in her connection to the Abbey. Some of the animals mocked her for daydreaming, while others viewed her as wise despite her austere nature.  

And then the animals began to wake, filling the scenery with noise and gas. The other cows were friendly and never bothered Agnes; they chewed where others didn’t and only spoke of important matters. But still, if she could have roamed these fields alone, it would be a better world. The sheep, however, infuriated her with their constant baying, greedy eating, and complete lack of independence. There were around thirty sheep in their flock.  A new batch of babies had been born, and the time for adults to be slaughtered was coming. This would have delighted Agnes as it had every year, but Agnes herself had reached that certain age every cow reaches. Her mother had died at her current age, her grandmother as well. The old farmer kept a tight schedule, a system that would die with him. Every morning Agnes couldn’t help but wonder if it was her last, and she hated the sheep for ruining her last few mornings on Earth. They constantly annoyed her, asking for explanations of life and the power of the Abbey, but it was hopeless to explain anything so complex to them. It had taken her weeks to satisfy their question of how a butterfly could fly on a windy day. 

If only they could understand how important the few days we have are, thought the cow, but a sheep could never understand the sacrifice of slaughter. It would scare them to death.

Then the old cow had an idea. Her eyes squinted with thoughtful satisfaction. 

Was it a crime for a cow to kill a flock of sheep? Man does, and they are the children of the Abbey. If she were killing her fellow cattle, it might be a sin, but what value does the Abbey see in noisy sheep? No, this would be fine, and there would be plenty of time for repentance afterward. 

She approached the sheep and spoke to them, taking them by surprise.

“Good morning, friends,” she said with a motherly mix of dread and comfort.

“Oh hi, Agnes! I couldn’t tell you the last time you came over here. What are you doing? How are you? Do you like being a cow?”

Agnes struggled to hold back a frustrated sigh. “I’m afraid I have come with urgent news. I wish it were more cheerful, but I must let you all know immediately.” The sheep crowded in front of the cow, bumping into one another.

“What is it Agnes? What’s going on? Is there a fox? Where’s the farmer?” 

“No, no, please listen to me. In my time here, I had always thought that cows were made to create milk, and sheep to provide wool, but I now know that soon we will all be slaughtered for meat come tomorrow.”

“It can’t be true! The man would never do this to us! What can we do Agnes? You are so close to the Abbey. Please, save us Agnes!”

“I’m afraid so, my friends,” Agnes said, “and there isn’t much that can be done. The only thing that can protect you is the Abbey. I will tell you how to escape, but you must keep the plan a secret.”

“Yes, of course. Agnes, thank you. Agnes, what must we do?” they screamed in gratitude. 

“Tonight, when the farmer has gone to sleep, go hide behind the Abbey walls. The tides will come in, and they will take you to safety.”

“Won’t we drown?” one sheep said. 

Agnes was surprised by its intelligence. 

“Do you not trust the great Abbey to protect you?” Agnes asked, seriously. 

“Oh goodness. No my apologies. Agnes, yes of course,” said the sheep. 

“But how will we escape Hound?” they asked. This was the sheepdog. His name was an English word for dogs. 

“I will take care of him, which is why I sadly will not be able to join you.”

“We can’t leave you Agnes. You are our savior.”

“The Abbey is your savior. I am only doing as she wishes.”

“We will never forget your kindness Agnes!”

“I expect nothing of the kind from you,” said Agnes. “Tonight I will give you the sign after the sun has gone down. Be sure to be awake and ready.”

“We will! Bless you. Agnes, bless you!” cried the sheep. 

“And remember, don’t tell anyone. If the dog catches on, I won’t be able to distract him. Now go off into the fields, if we keep talking we will begin to look suspicious.”

“Very smart Anges. Yes, we will be back here tonight! Thank you, thank you, thank you. She is so kind and noble a cow. Could you believe she would put her own life at risk for us?” they said as they walked off. 

Those creatures must be storing loads of oxygen in their empty heads. How else could they speak for so long? She thought through her headache. 

When the sky began to turn purple and orange, the farmer was watering his garden with the dog—a shaggy tan Picardy shepherd. The old man only grew flowers. Money for the farm came from the cattle, but his wife insisted on an elaborate flower bed of everything the region could grow. A rainbow of orchids and primroses made up the majority of the garden, but Agnes loved one particular stretch most of all; a row of snowdrops, cowslips, and bluebells, all hanging down instead of facing up to the sky. They looked so precarious on the stem, waving in the wind like a pendulum, but the stem held them in place. Some fell, but not everything can be saved. 

Once the farmer was done watering he returned into his home, and the dog stood by the gates, watching over the flock lazily. Agnes approached the dog in the darkness, taking him by surprise.

“Oh! Hello, Agnes. What brings you over here? Is something wrong?” he asked quickly in a militaristic manner. 

“Nothing of the sort, Hound. I only wanted to chat. I just feel so lonely tonight.”

“Oh really?” the dog said, half interested. 

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to bore you with my woes.”

“I’d rather you didn’t either” replied the dog.

“Are those biting words, my friend?” said the cow. 

“No, I don’t mean to be rude. My ears need to be occupied with listening for foxes. Couldn’t you speak with another cow? Or the sheep? They are excellent listeners, and don’t remember a thing you say to them,” he said, laughing at his own remark. 

“I understand completely,” said the cow, then she raised her hoof up to her mouth and faked a yawn. “I’m getting sleepy now, anyway.” 

Agnes struck the dog’s head with her lifted hoof before he had any time to react. He collapsed on the ground and began snoring. His nose might be broken in the morning, but hopefully he won’t remember the attack. And who could he tell even if he did?

She returned to the spot where she had met the sheep, and they were earnestly awaiting her. 

“She’s here. Thank goodness. Did you get rid of the dog?”

“Yes, I’ve taken care of him. Go behind the Abbey before he wakes.”

“Agnes has saved us! How could she have defeated that mean old dog? Well, he isn’t that mean, but they do mean to kill us so they must be.” 

“Go!” cried Agnes. “For Abbey’s sake, just go.”

“She cares so much for us. Look at the concern on her face! Goodbye, Agnes. We will never forget you!” They walked off into the night, still baying among themselves as they approached the abbey, which was already surrounded by a shallow puddle. 

“Finally, it is finished,” she whispered in silent praise. 

The next morning, Agnes woke up smiling. The chirping of the birds sounded like a subtle “thank you” coming from the Earth itself. It was as if sin had been erased from the planet in that moment. The morning quiet would last the whole day. She felt a pang of guilt for ruining the farmer’s income for the season, but this season was her last so she made it her own. Then she heard a horrible sound. At first, she thought it was a flock of cotton white ghosts rising out of the bay to haunt her, but instead it was only the fearful cries of two sheep running in her directions at a speed faster than she’d ever seen sheep move. 

“Agnes. Agnes. We failed to do as you wish. The others left us while we slept. We are foolish. Agnes please, is there any way you can help us?” cried the sheep with tears flowing down their trembling faces. 

“You fools! How could you be so reckless! I risked my life for you!” she screamed. 

“We are sorry Agnes. We are so sorry. Please save us.”

“You might throw yourselves into the bay now,” said the cow cruelly. “Either way you will die soon.”

At this moment, the howls of Hound raced up to the three animals. The two sheep darted toward the water. 

“Agnes, you heifer, what have you done?”

“Nothing that can be fixed. You’ll lose your last two sheep if you’re not quick.”

“Unbelievable!” said the dog chasing after the sheep. “Hey, get back here you morons. Don’t you know sheep don’t float?” 

The sheep howled in terror once the dog caught them, and they wailed for the next two days over their lost lives. The next two nights none of the cows could sleep through the sheep’s sorrow. At last, on the second sleepless morning, the farmer took the sheep into the barn. He figured they were mourning the loss of his flock, which had inexplicably disappeared. After this, the old farmer continued the work, slaughtering the season’s cows shortly after. The next season, a new group of sheep and cattle were brought to the farm. They ate the grass greedily and loved their new homes. As the sun rose each morning, the sounds of a distant flock of sheep could always be heard, light enough to be mistaken for wind. Most figure the sound to be a far off flock further down the shore, while older, more superstitious cattle believe it to be the original flock, saved and paying tribute to their sacrificed leader at the time of day she valued most.