Saturday, February 12, 2011

The Boy Who Knew the Sheep and the Wolves

The herder of the sheep was small for his age, and pale, with dark eyes and a voice that nobody, save the sheep farmer himself, and his mother and father and sister, had ever heard. They all knew him well though, as the boy who walked to and from the fields twice a day, always along the same path, and always with the same frantic expression about him, darting his eyes this way and that as though startled by objects that appeared only to him. His mother and father were sociable, amiable creatures who, besides in sharing the boy’s same dark features, bared no likeness to the son they had together. When the townspeople gathered at the square for seasonal celebrations, or when a neighboring family came to visit, they’d ask, Where is the boy? Is he not well? and his mother would reply, Oh, he must be off somewhere, enjoying the outdoors no doubt. He has always been more fond of nature than of man. They were always contented by this explanation, until the next time came, and his mother would provide another.

It was true that the boy could most often be found roaming the hills, tending to the sheep in one way or another, but there were days when the forest that bordered the edge of the field would call him, and he would spend entire afternoons exploring its contents. The two landscapes, field and forest, felt to the boy like two worlds, each endlessly entertaining, and each evoking entirely different emotions in him. Out in the open, on the field, the sheep were soft and pleasant, and would often say to him, Boy, you are so kind to us. If only there were some way we could repay you for all the things you do. This would make him smile, and confide in them like he could do with no one else. He would tell them of his dreams, and bring them little trinkets or flowers he picked on his walks, to which they would always reply, Boy, you know we have no use for such things. We are simple creatures, who do not know the pleasures of man. But because we know kindness, we love your gifts nonetheless.

In the forest, the boy’s interest was of a different nature. An anxious feeling erupted within him the moment he stepped off the field and into the shadows of the trees. He always felt as though there were some voice calling him deeper into the forest, but whenever he followed it, a new, more distant voice would call from somewhere else. It did not scare the boy. It only raised his curiosity, compelling him to return to the forest each day in the hope of meeting the one who spoke to him.

One day, as the boy poured bags of coarse grain into a deep trough, and the sheep came rushing to feed, they brought a message: Boy, you mustn’t go in to the forest as you have been. The wolves, our enemy, know that you have been walking amongst them. If you continue seeking them out, they will kill you. But why? he asked. Because they are hunters, they said. That is what they do.

And so, that afternoon the boy avoided his most tempting urges to enter the forest, but allowed himself to walk leisurely along the edge so that he may gaze upon the trees in all their complexity and beauty. As he reached the clearing, where the forest ended and the path toward town began, a sharp and snarling voice halted him. Boy! It said. Why do you seek out that which does not belong to you? The boy turned and met two large yellow eyes, emerging from the darkness of the forest. He could barely make out the figure that addressed him, but the boy knew, from the warnings of the sheep not hours before, that the eyes belonged to a wolf. He did not reply, but only cried, Wolf! Wolf! as loud as he could, and the armed sheep farmer came running from his little shack to where the boy stood by the edge of the forest. But by the time the sheep farmer arrived, the wolf had returned to the darkness, and the boy, as he was accustomed, said nothing. He only walked on, leaving the sheep farmer speechless behind him, searching and searching for the terrible creature who dared threaten his livestock.

The next day the boy returned to the field as usual, and brought with him a tiny gold thimble he had found resting near a line of low shrubs near his house. When he presented it to the sheep, they said, Boy, you know we have no use for such things. You are beginning to make us restless, by reminding us of our limitations. We are sheep. We are meant to roam, and to keep ourselves healthy and docile; not to be burdened by the passions and problems of men. And they all fled from him, to the far end of the field and down the hill to the other side. The boy wept at the sudden loss of his friends, the only creatures who had ever let him speak of the things in his mind. He could not understand why his own flock had rejected him, after all this time.

While the boy lay in the grass alone for some time, searching his young mind for a remedy for his troubles, he was overcome with the feeling of being watched. A great fear came over the boy, and he made himself look to the forest, where he knew the fear must have had its source. A large grey wolf, allowing itself to appear plainly in the open sunlight, sauntered slowly toward the boy, rousing an uncontrollable interest in him that he did not understand. Boy, it said. Why do you wish to disturb the ways of things? It rested its harsh yellow eyes upon the boy, and seemed to hold him there with its gaze, until the boy began to whimper and shake as though cold. He did not know what to say. The wolf changed its focus from the boy onto the alluring sea of white sheep, shuffling about the hillside beyond them.

Wolf! Wolf! the boy cried, knowing that the sheep farmer’s gun was the only defense he could provide against such a powerful creature. But the wolf was far faster than the sheep farmer, and disappeared into the depths of the forest before the sheep farmer could even reach the second hill. The sheep farmer scolded the boy for having tricked him. When the boy began to cry at the farmer’s severity, he mistook the boy’s tears for remorse, and gently instructed him to go home early and return the next day.

That night, the boy dreamt of a strange place he had never been. He stood alone at the top of a great precipice, where a powerful wind pricked at the flesh of his arms and face. Below, he could see all the places he had ever known: the town, the field, the forest and the path, like a thin piece of pale thread, separating and winding around each part. He could see tiny figures moving about in all directions, but for a long while none of them ever crossed the path into other sections. Suddenly, the wind stopped and everything was calm, and the boy watched as a swarm of black figures moved quickly from the forest into the field. They obliterated the white figures and then returned to the forest as quickly as they had come. The boy watched this scene silently and without emotion.

When he awoke, and began his short journey along the path from his house to work, the boy recalled the dream over and over in his mind, picturing the blood-stained field, empty of sheep, as vividly as though it were right before his eyes. By the time he arrived the sheep were already gone, and the farmer sat on the ground just as the boy had done the day before, crying and pounding his fists into the grass. Why, boy? Why has this happened? The boy said nothing in return, and felt no sadness. He only looked down at the sheep farmer, and out onto the green expanse of the hills, and then beyond, to the forest, which called him more powerfully than it ever had. Leaving the sheep farmer behind, he ran, as fast as he could, to the forest, and allowed the profound darkness of its unknown depths to swallow him whole.