The Lion And The Lamb

The Lion And the Lamb, A short story by Sarah A. Hoyt

©Sarah A. Hoyt 2025

“What is a human?” the lambs asked, their little ears twitching, their moist noses turned up, their eyes full of trust. They were at that adorable age, ten or so, just short of sexual maturity, but fully in control of their vocabulary and very eager to know everything there was to learn.

“It’s a myth,” Agnes explained. “Our pious ancestors on Earth used to believe that humans were a benevolent species that had raised them from non-sentient herbivores to sentient creatures who could travel between the stars. But it’s now been many centuries since we left the Earth. Our kind is strewn across the galaxy. There are other animals, too, who claim origin on Earth. No one has ever seen a human. We’ve come to believe our ancestors created the myth of humans: kindly benefactors who loved all the species of Earth and wanted to give them the stars.”

“So they don’t exist?” Bolimbo asked.

“We have been throughout the galaxy and we have seen all kinds of beings from Earth but we’ve never come across a human,” she said. She loved these cruises with the young people, the three or four months in space to teach them about the nearby planets before they returned home, finished their general schooling and took up training for a profession. Part of it was teaching them to face the hard facts and let go of pretty ideas like benevolent humans. “We think it’s how our ancestors explained how the Earth’s chaotic evolution produced so many intelligent species.”

The children were barely done nodding sagely when the ship’s alarms went. They were strange sort of alarms, not the usual low oxygen or artificial gravity failure ones. “Please put on your seat belts, and be ready to put on your spacesuits,” Agnes said. “I’m going to see what’s happening.”

She met the rest of the crew of twenty somethings up front. Keran, Carnig, Llewyn, Tali and Nohan. They were gathered around the communications console, which made her relax, because it couldn’t be anything terrible, if the problem was communications.

Before she got close, Nohan looked around and twitched his nose at her. “Agnes, there is a ship in distress.”

“A ship?” She said.

She joined them, and looked through the finder. It showed a ship of very strange design, and small enough it couldn’t have much more than one person in it. If it was a ship, and not a cargo pod cut afloat by a bigger ship. But she said that, Keran responded, in the way she did when she felt that Agnes was presuming Keran wasn’t very smart. “Well, it’s not that, because there is someone … some thing talking from in there.”

“Some thing?” she asked. “Is it an alien.”

“An alien,” Carnig answered, shortly. “Wouldn’t speak English.”

They turned the sound on for her. “Mayday, Mayday, I have lost power to the air recycler. I have — here it paused and said in a mechanical tone that indicated the occupant had automated that part — 5 hours left, after which I will perish. Mayday, mayday.”

“We’ve been discussing whether to rescue him,” Keran said. No one doubted the voice was male, though they very much doubted it was an ovid, because the consonant sounds were so odd.

“Our primary duty is to our charges,” Llewyn said, looking all virtuous, as he had a way of doing.

“But we can’t let a sentient die. That would be a horrible thing to show the children.”

The discussion ranged for an hour, with Keran changing sides at least three times, as she perceived one of the sides was about to win and wanted to join it.

Finally they decided to risk it. They would get the children involved. The children would help.

The process itself was easy enough. They had all the equipment to rescue stranded travelers, of course, it was a matter of employing them with the strange ship. There were surprises and challenges, but they overcame them, and the children were so excited they were practically vibrating.

Once they got into the ship, it surprised them. For one, it was smaller than even they expected, a ship that carried only a passenger. The idea of braving space with only one occupant was so strange that it would normally have been the strangest thing they’d found. Until they saw the occupant.

“He looks just like the pictures of humans,” little Oona said, putting her helmet against Agnes’ and speaking so only Agnes heard. And Agnes wanted to tell her that was nonsense, only of course it wasn’t. Because he did look just like the pictures of humans.

He was not furry, or not like other animals were furry, only a little fuzz on tan skin on his face, and the rest covered in clothes, just like the legends said humans wore, not just over their privates, but over most of their body.

He received them with glad cries, and many thanks, until he got a close look at them — at Cornig’s face in his helmet — and then he said the strangest thing, “Bah bah black lamb, have you any wool.”

It was the weirdest thing, because of course all of them had wool. Though they tried to keep it trimmed like civilized sheep. And Cornig was not black.

The rescue turned out very simple. They didn’t even move him out of his ship. His air recycler was a weird variety, but it could be replaced with one of their own. The children did it, and they were so happy doing it.

The gentleman — he was male and courtly — talked to them throughout. He was fascinated that they spoke English, and they couldn’t understand why. In fact, little Anniello pointed out that of course they spoke English. Some of the other Earth species didn’t, but everyone knew Shakespeare had been a ram, and his use of the language had been enough to set it for their entire species.

The man laughed and said, “Oh, yes. Of course. How could I have forgotten that?” Then he told them his name was Bill Trefoil. And when they asked what he was doing that far out, he said exploring.

Finally, when it was all fixed, and before the man left, it was little Oona who had the courage to ask, “Sir, are you a human?”

“Of course. What else could I be?”

“Only, you see,” Agnes said. “We thought you were a myth.”

“I?”

“No, your species. Humans, I mean,” she said. “Because we never found you. We’ve met beavers and deer, and rats, and lions and hippopotami, but never humans, none of us have ever met humans.”

Trefoil had gone silent a while, then sighed. “That is probably,” he said, “that humans tend to live in planets, while your kind prefers habitats. And the planets we live in are concentrated in one arm of the galaxy. So we don’t run into each other, that’s all.”

“But you’re here, sir, all alone. Were you…. were you cast off from the herd?”

He blinked at them in confusion. “No. Just exploring. Sometimes we get tired of being around other humans.” He must have read the incredulity in their eyes because he laughed. “That’s probably the other reason you never meet us. You travel together in big bunches, don’t you?”

They all nodded, because of course, it was natural.

Agnes looked around, curiously, while the children and the rest of the group questioned the man.

There were things he said that made no sense. Such as that humans preferred planets because it gave them a chance to have herds.

The others didn’t catch it. She was sure of it. They probably thought he meant a flock of humans. Only it wasn’t that way. Agnes was sure of it. She was sure he meant they kept herds of other, non-sentient animals. Buy why would they do that?

She took the opportunity as the others were leaving, to stay behind and ask him, “You keep herds? Why do you keep herds? Do you mean animals? Non sentient?”

“Well, of course,” he said. “For protein and…. and wool and leather. Don’t you?”

She shook her head. “No. We create it, synthetic, in the habitats.”

He inclined his head. “Makes sense. You don’t mind living all bunched together. Humans tried habitats, but they went crazy after a while. So we live in planets, and yes, we keep animals for … for things.”

The idea was so shocking, she stared and said, “But you uplifted the animals of Earth. You were kindly and benevolent.”

He laughed. “Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes.”

Afterwards everyone was very excited. It took Agnes a long time to convince them they shouldn’t tell anyone about the human.

“But why not?” Nohan asked. “Everyone will be so excited. We can mount an expedition to the human planets.”

Agnes had to tell them, though only after the children had gone to sleep.

And then she explained. “They are capricious gods. They might help us or they might eat us.”

At first they didn’t believe her, but what the human had said clinched it. “Bah bah black sheep. Have you any wool.”

The stories said once upon a time the humans had kept her kind for meat and wool.

“But we’ve agreed that was horrible. And it makes no sense with them also uplifting some of us.”

In the end, after much discussion, it was decided that since they couldn’t keep the children from speaking, the young adults on the trip would tell everyone it was a story the children had dreamed up and convinced themselves of.

Agnes was sure it wouldn’t work forever. Sure, for centuries they’d stayed away from humans, but sooner or later, they’d stray in their path again.

However, they’d delay that moment as much as possible.

The ovids, or for that matter the other animals of Earth weren’t ready to deal with the sheer capriciousness of creatures who could treat other animals as either food or equals.

None of it made any sense. The humans, those strange, unfathomable gods, would be left to their own devices.

That was all there was to it. It turned out the children didn’t even talk about it, probably because it was so strange. Over time, in everyone’s mind, the story of their odd encounter seemed to fade into something like a dream remembered.

Years later, talking to Agnes, Keran said, “I supposed we dreamed it all.”

And Agnes would like to believe it but she didn’t quite. Sometimes, alone in her bed, Agnes would repeat to herself, “Bah bah black sheep, have you any wool.” And shiver.

*I’ve been meaning to do this to thank you for donating to the extraordinary, one-off Winter fundraiser. I’m going to shut it off tomorrow night. Between it, and things received — thank you, I presume Captain Comic, and whoever else sent the Virginia Editions of RAH’s works — and the donations to the other GSG (the permanent one) and the now semi-secret paypal (since I don’t want them to come poking around here and take issue) it came pretty close, if not exceeded it (I don’t know. We’re not done with the accounting, quite yet.) Anyway, I’m leaving it on till tomorrow night, so no one says “But you put one more story up and I didn’t get to donate.” I mean, if you want to push it over the top, I’m certainly not going to thwart you. If you wish to do that, the link and explanation are here: Anyway, this is the fundraiser, and the link, there’s a Give Send Go for the Winter Fundraiser and well, if you need anything else including a snail mail address and the why and all, please go here.
HOWEVER this story is MOSTLY to thank you. Thank you. Your contribution to pay for the enormous work that goes into this blog is much appreciated. Without you, I’d have quit long ago, out of sheer discouragement. You are as much a part of this endeavor as I am, and you often keep me sane even if “all” you do is discuss the topics here, or link my posts.

Thank you very much. I hope you enjoyed the short story!- SAH*