A Shepard’s Story

It was known throughout the mountains that the best grazeland for sheep was in the northern territory of clan Wahlund. The winter snows were light, the storms broken by the surrounding peaks, and the clover so light and plentiful that it was softer than the finest feather stuffed mattress.

The Wahlund’s knew this as well, and so they picked the best shepherd for their northern grazings. Carlus was the son of a shepherd, and his father the same in turn, going back to the founding of the clan. Each learned their trade at their father’s knee, and could take a hawk on the wing with their sling by their seventh birthday. 

Carlus’s life was easy, up there. The wolves and cats that preyed on the more southern grazings had been driven away after generations of Carlus’ family hunting them. The sheep were placid, and didn’t wander far, since they were not curious about the world around them. This was a trait they shared with their caretaker.

The only predators Carlus had to fear came on two legs.

Though he was known as the best of their shepherds, Carlus was thought of as odd in the clan. He didn’t participate in the raids, the counting coup against the other clans. He ignored the maidens of the clan who wove garlands of clover for him to wear. He seemed to only care about his sheep.

This worried the clan elders, for they knew his bloodline was the secret to their safety. He needed a son to carry on the turning of the sheep. Every month, when he would return to the clan village with his sheep in tow, they would try and nudge more maidens in his path. It didn’t work. They grumbled and harrumphed at his odd behavior, but Carlus wasn’t affected. 

Carlus noticed their behavior. It didn’t feel right to him, the way they paraded around. He didn’t feel the emotions he was supposed to feel when they bent to lay their flower garlands at his feet. He knew the people of the clan thought he was arrogant, but it wasn’t that. He just did not feel like marrying any of them.

It was getting towards the end of winter, when the wool on the sheep was thick and fluffy. Carlus was thinking that he had two more weeks before he had to drive them back to town when he heard the faint sound of pebbles sliding on rock. He was on his feet instantly, sling loaded but slack in his hand. He waited, trying to find the sound again.

A clack of stone on stone and Carlus had the sling spinning. The sounds were coming from the west, where the rival clans lived. He had often thought of going into those peaks and ruining some of the simpler paths, but his own clanmates used them in their raids. They cared more about those games than they did the sheep.

The stone split the air as Carlus released it. There was a sharp crack, as of metal, and a figure stumbled through the sparse bushes he had been trying to sneak through. Carlus stone had taken him dead center in his chest, though he hadn’t fully seen him.

The man stumbled forward, his hand pressed to his chest. The overlapping plates of iron that made up his armor had absorbed most of the blow, but his ribs were tender. There was a spear in his other hand, which he was using to hold himself up. Carlus loaded another stone, but did not spin. His eyes were moving, searching for any other raiders.

Carlus heard no other sounds over the man’s gasping for breath. The man must be alone, just there to count the coup. He turned to examine the raider. He was young, about Carlus’s age. He went to one knee, head down, bearing his weight on his spear. Carlus stepped closer, sling still slack.

When the man raised his eyes to Carlus’, he felt like a stone had hit him. He gasped, stumbling so the stone fell from his sling, a slight no one in his family had made in generations. The piercing gray eyes of the raider were still confident and strong, even on his knees gasping for breath. Sweaty blonde hair poked out from under his leather helmet. He saw the look on Carlus’ face and gave a grin, even around his pain. He held his hand out and spoke a word in a language Carlus didn’t recognize.

When Carlus didn’t move, he shook his hand and repeated the word. Not knowing why he did it, Carlus reached out and grasped the man’s hand, helping him to his feet. The calluses on his hands were unusual to Carlus. Harsher than his own lanolin softened hands. Carlus was fascinated by the texture, and didn’t realize the man had stood back up, still hand in hand with Carlus. He dropped the stranger's hand, embarrassed. He was taller than Carlus.

The large man just laughed, and said something else in the unknown language. Carlus smiled sheepishly and shook his head, looking down at the stranger's chest. The man said something else, again unrecognized. Carlus kept his eyes down, trying to find where his stone had hit the armor. Anything to avoid meeting those eyes again.

The laughter was still in the stranger’s voice as he said something again, shaking his head. Carlus just remembered that the larger man was armed when that callused hand went around his throat. 

He panicked for a second before he realized he wasn’t being choked. The man instead moved his hand up, cupping Carlus’ jaw. Feeling his face against those calluses, Carlus leaned in as the man guided his face up. Guided him until their eyes met again, and Carlus’s heart skipped another beat. The man leaned in for a kiss and Carlus lost all sense.

The soft clover under them, the feel of the rough calluses on his skin, the gray eyes matching the storms over the peaks, those were all that was left to Carlus.

In the morning, he awoke. The stranger was gone, along with his pouch of sling stones. The counting of coup was a tradition in the mountain clans, and taking an opponent’s weapon was a great ritual. He dressed, and started to gather stones at the edge of the cliffs, knapping them against each other to better shape them.

The day passed in the stillness Carlus was so very used to, but it didn’t ease him like it had before. He ate his lunch in the peace and quiet he loved so much, but it didn’t satisfy him. The sheep rubbed against him, seeking comfort and trying to comfort in turn, but it wasn’t enough.

When the sun was setting again, there came the same tumble of pebbles down stone. Like a flash, Carlus was standing. His sling was unloaded, but ready to hand. None of the stones he had were as perfect as the ones that had been taken, but they were good enough. If they were needed.

The stranger, though it was odd to think of him as a stranger now, came forward again. His spear was strapped to his back this time, but his hands were not empty. In one was another sling, fine golden leather with beadwork along its length. In the other was a pouch much like the one that had been taken from him. Carlus couldn’t take his eyes off his hands, knowing that the gifts they carried were not all they would bring.

Days passed in that manner, the stranger vanishing before the sun rose only to appear again as it went down. They didn’t speak, just laying in silence when they were spent. Curled in each other’s arms, the last fading chill of winter wasn’t a worry to either of them.

The days turned into a week, and more. Carlus began to worry that he would have to leave, but couldn’t tell the stranger. The streams were running higher with meltwater from up higher in the peaks, and before too long it would be dangerous to take the sheep across. He needed to leave on the morrow.

His head was nestled on Carlus’ chest, and the sight of those sweat darkened curls rising and falling was comforting to him. Whenever he drew a breath to speak, though, the stranger would feel it. He would reach up and press a single finger to Carlus’ lips, urging him to silence. The night passed this way, and Carlus knew that even if he could speak, the language barrier was too great.

In the morning, Carlus gathered up his equipment, his tent, the last of his food, and prepared to set off. Before he left, he took a single stone from his pouch, and placed it where the stranger emerged each sunset. He hoped it would be enough.

The path back to the village took three days longer than normal. The higher water made the crossing difficult, but Carlus’ skill was in his blood. Only two sheep were lost to the grim currents, and he made it back just in time for the shearing festival.

Everyone celebrated his return, as they had feared he wouldn’t make it back in time for the biggest part of the celebration. Everyone came to clasp his wrist and shake his hand, grinning from ear to ear. For the elders had decreed that he was to marry, and the culmination of the festival would see him wed.

Carlus’ protests fell on deaf ears. His chosen wife was beautiful, demure, everything a Wahlund woman should be. She had dreamed of a great warrior, one decorated with trophies for a husband, but she knew that being a shepherd’s wife was worthwhile work. She hid her disappointment. 

But Carlus could not. He fought it every step of the way, until one of the elders drew him aside and told him he was embarrassing his betrothed. There was no choice but to accept it and move on. The elder handed Carlus a cup of the local mountain brew and threw a companionable arm around his shoulder.

With a sigh, Carlus threw back the drink, then the next that followed. Days passed in a blur, always with another drink in his hands. He barely registered standing in front of the priest, wearing a clover garland. The small, hesitant smile on his wife’s face as he clasped her hands didn’t register.

He was thinking of other hands. Rougher hands.

The festival ended but there were traditions to be had. Two weeks of ease and freedom from toil were promised to the bride and groom. Carlus protested as other shepherds took the duty to drive his sheep to the northern fields. The villagers laughed and said it was the blood of his family calling to him. They stopped him from following.

Time passed in a daze, as Carlus drank more. The elders said it was just him adjusting to being home, it was just him adjusting to being married. His wife moved into the small shack he kept in the village for when he wasn’t with the sheep, and started to turn it into a homestead. She seemed happy, even if she wasn’t sure Carlus was.

He would sit on the stoop outside, a cup clutched in one hand, watching the pathway to the northern pasture. The elders assured his wife that this would pass with time, that he would know the duties of a husband. Each of his fathers had figured it out, they laughed. She smiled, not sure of what they were laughing at.

Those long days of waiting for the time to end, for him to be able to go back to his flock, back to his peaks, were a mess to Carlus mind. He couldn’t think clearly around the liquor, but he didn’t want to. Each time his thoughts would clear, he would drink again. This made the time pass faster for him.

He was watching the path towards the peaks as usual when he saw the approaching commotion. There was a small parade down it, children singing and dancing beside an approaching figure. The songs were martial, old war songs of the clan, sung when returning from victorious raids.

Carlus had never sung them, he had never been on the raids. He had his sheep and his duty, and that was enough. That had been enough. Before.

Others came out of the village upon hearing the song, smiling as they approached the mob of children. Carlus stood, swaying softly and started toward them. The center figure was bearing aloft his shepherd’s crook, bellowing the song to the sky. He was triumphant, victorious, even if he didn’t have his sheep with him. Carlus’ sheep. They had been left behind as this shepherd carried a message back to town.

He began to run, stumbling his drink as he recognized the shepherd as one of his replacements. The others laughed to see him fall in the mud, but it was one of endearment. They thought he was excited to see how well protected his sheep were. He only had eyes for the decoration on the shepherd’s crook, the trophies he had taken.

A pair of rough, callused hands dangled from the crook, tied through their palms.