We fought like pit fighters. A mad chase around the table sent the transfusion gear into every nook and cranny. My jar became a half-congealed explosion. He stayed me with a rear kick to the jaw and when the lights went away I felt pure nausea.

At the end of it, we were covered in sappy blood, both panting. My heart beat harder at the thought that Father may have heard. Equally, I imagine, the lamb was terrified of some determined lad, with rope in hand at the opposite end of an unpleasant cellar.

It was then I looked into those black-jeweled eyes. Maybe I was being melodramatic then, and maybe I am a bit still, but this thing had the courage to fight off his attacker—like a drunken banshee—whereas I took my beatings without recourse. I’d killed hundreds of rats, snakes, cats, and dogs who put up less of a fight. It is hard for someone who dwells in the company of people and song to understand, but I felt a closeness with this creature that was beyond that of normal explanation. Up until then I hadn’t named him, but right then he became Celly. A childish, campy, spondee of a name, sure, but it signified the cellar, where I met my best friend and where, I still believe, two spirits connected.

We emerged out onto the floor of the barn. Gigantic horses glared with an oppressive over-watch. We washed at the well, and I returned him to his corral. Sneaking back inside I breathed a sigh of relief, hearing snores that would humble a bear.

After that night, Celly and I were inseparable. He followed me on my long walks through the shores of the wood-line, where I showed him all the snares and pitfalls that I used to capture wide-eyed shriekers. I’d sneak him in the house sometimes, and he would sleep next to me in bed. His smell, long-lasting, I remedied with heavy incense and constantly cracked windows. He and I both grew in stature, and we spent many a summer night sitting on the floor of the cellar, one reading to the other.

—

A night in the late spring I heard strange noises from our kitchen. It was a faint rustling, followed by a sound that reminded me of the cracking of firewood. And after that nothing more.

At the time, a banishment to my bedroom for some shortcoming prohibited me from investigating any further. The next morning I awoke to Father screaming. That was nothing particularly unusual, except this time there rang a unique desperation. I ran out to see him on his knees, back toward me. He held Mother, dead as dead could be. The rope hung without motion, tied to a rafter where our kitchen met the den.

The thought of her watching over me in some a state of…unbeing the prior night sparked the hair on my arms.