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Thain  by Lindelea


Chapter 12. Thain: Scattered Sheep

The days, green and glowing, melted slowly, one into another, a stately procession rather like the sheep they followed from high pasture to low. Pippin grew to love the music of the moving flock: the old ewe with her tinkling bell, the calls of mothers and their lambs, each beast with an individual voice that he came to know, the whistles of the old shepherd and the songs he’d hum as they walked along.

When they reached the pasture for that day, they’d seat themselves upon a hillside with a good view and watch the sheep scatter to their grazing. It was a time for thinking, or quiet talk, or making music. The old shepherd often took a wooden flute from his pack and played a tune that floated soft and sweet on the breeze, while the lad lay back and drowsed.

The dogs would recline nearby, reluctant but dutiful, watching the sheep with severe concentration, ever ready to jump into action at a word or gesture from the old hobbit. Their joy, of course, was to work the sheep, but they knew better than to pursue pleasure without orders. That way lay the indignity of being tethered by a rope to the shepherd’s side, or even left behind when the flock went a-journey, awaiting more sessions of patient training until they were trustworthy to fulfil their duty once more.

The shepherd showed Pippin how to carve a flute of his own, and then he taught the lad to play. The sweet wild music carried on the wind sometimes to the ears of farmers in the field, or a lonely traveller on a winding track through the Green Hills, bringing the old tales of faerie folk to mind.

The days of sun were pleasant, the days of mist not quite so, and the days of pelting rain only to be endured, huddled in a cloak of oiled wool. Sheep must graze, no matter the weather, as the old shepherd told Pippin, hauling him out of bed the first day that a hard driving rain pelted the little round window of their shelter. They ate a hot and hearty breakfast that morning, but did not delay in going from the snug warm to the cold wet. Pippin learned to greet a rainy day with “The grass be greenin’,” to which the proper answer was invariably, “Aye, may it grow e'er greener!”

The dogs worked as they ever did, even with their feathery coats plastered to their wiry bodies. They seemed to take no notice of the rain save to fold their ears back against their heads, giving even more evil appearance to their usual wolfish crouch.

 ‘They look as if they’d sooner grip than drive,’ Pippin said, huddling deeper in his cloak, hood pulled as far over his face as he could manage. He stamped his feet a bit to keep the blood going round and thought of the warm shelter they’d left and the cold shelter that awaited them ahead; cold, at least, until the fire he’d kindle took the chill off.

 ‘Nae, laddie,’ the old shepherd said with a smile. He stood stoically, not seeming to notice the wet and chill. He might have been a gnarled old tree, planted on the hillside. ‘It’s just to get the auld mams’ attention, as need be.’

Pippin snorted and shook his head, thinking about the lessons he’d learned. Sheep paid attention, all right, contrary creatures that they were. If you moved towards the head of a sheep, the dratted thing would move away from you, and you if you moved towards the hindquarters it would move towards you! It was opposite Pippin’s instinct of the rightness of things, and it irritated him no end. He was learning the shepherd’s patience, however, and no longer saw the sheep as being deliberately obstructive. The more he knew of their ways in general, and of the individuals in particular, the better he could manage them. He mastered his temper as well, having learned to use an even tone with the dogs, never to react in anger or frustration, partly by the old shepherd’s example and partly from explicit instruction, in long talks upon a green hillside.

He knew he was making progress when, at the satisfactory completion of a task, he received a muttered “That’ll do” from the old shepherd, just as if he were one of the dogs!

He learned the whistles to direct the dogs, how to bunch the sheep or to shed just the few desired, how to gather the scattered, how to recover stragglers, the likely places (and unlikely) to hunt for strays. He became expert at finding hidey-holes and hollows and all the places a wanderer might go. He watched a few late lambings, and helped with one that would have gone badly otherwise. He learned the paths and pastures, the shelters and sheepfolds, the routes that brought them every seven to ten days to the little smial where Gladdy would greet them with a song and a simple feast.

Pippin wasn’t sure how many times they’d returned to the little smial on their journeys, perhaps the eighth or ninth, when the old shepherd sat back from the table with a satisfied sigh. He’d finished recounting to Gladdy the adventures of the past week, and now he winked at Pippin whilst observing that the lad was “a keeper, i’ truth!”

Pippin beamed, while old Gladdy hopped up to serve him another slice of berry tart in celebration.

The old shepherd tamped his pipe and got it going to his satisfaction, then leaned back and casually mentioned that he’d go on to market next day, to fetch supplies.

 ‘We’re not going out?’ Pippin asked, but Gladdy shook her head with a smile.

It seemed that Pippin had learned his lessons well enough to take the sheep out on his own for a day or three. The old shepherd would meet up with him “ha’ the way”. He’d have the dogs, of course, to keep him straight.

 ‘O aye,’ Gladdy said wisely. ‘The dogs could likely take yon sheep all by theirselves, could they but work the gates on the folds.’ She and her husband laughed heartily while Pippin returned an uncertain grin. He was to take the flock out, all by himself! It seemed easy enough... what could go wrong?

He was up early next morning. There was no trouble rousing him these days. Going to bed with the sun, rising early, walking to the next pasture, plenty of fresh air and plain food, all made for sound sleep and easy wakening.

Gladdy had a hot breakfast ready and a sack full of lunch hanging by the door. The old shepherd had already gone, for it was a long walk to market, pulling a rough cart behind him. He’d risen halfway between middle night and dawn to make an early start.

Pippin felt a thrill of excitement as he walked out of the smial and the dogs fell in on either side, eager to begin the day. The sheep were singing their morning song, and he called out a cheery greeting as he unlatched the gate. The Sun was rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looked to be smiling on the day as the white woolly river frothed from the fold.

The sheep knew the way, and it was hardly any work at all to walk alongside in the swinging, ground-eating stride that came so naturally now. Mid-morning they reached the pasture, and Pippin perched on the usual vantage point on the hill, ordering the dogs into their down-stay as the sheep scattered over the green.

It was rather dull on his own, he found. The dogs pricked their ears politely when he spoke, but their intent gaze never left the sheep. Indeed, he had the feeling that they were only half-listening to him, and would only hear him clearly if he commanded them to go to work.

He sang a few songs, played his flute, ate the meal packed in his bag, filled his waterskin from a spring that trickled out of the hillside, and as the day warmed he rested his feet in the icy stream cascading down: deliciously shivery! A shining stone caught his eye and he reached into the sparkling water to pluck it from its bed. He put it in his pocket to show Gladdy on his return to the smial. She had no sons living to bring her trinkets and treasures, and was touched whenever Pippin picked up somewhat or other and brought it to her, even if it was something with a tendency to jump, a green frog or brown hopper.

He yawned widely. There were hours to go before it would be time to pick up and proceed to the next fold and shelter. He wondered if the old shepherd would meet him there, or if he would be alone this night. He lay back upon the hillside, folding his arms behind his head, watching puffs of fleecy cloud scatter in the sky-pasture above. One of the dogs sat up abruptly, and he turned an eye on the pasture. All was as it should be, and he ordered her back to her down-stay, well-pleased when she obeyed.

He sighed. Ah, but this was the life. Warm sun, soft music of sheep and bell and stream, cooling water on his feet...

He sat up suddenly, his shadow grown incomprehensibly long in the short time since he’d closed his eyes to feel the sun on his face. He realised he’d dozed, and been wakened by the whining of the dogs. They were still there, in their down-stay, but clearly uneasy.

The sun hung low in the sky, and not a sheep was in sight on the pleasant meadow below.





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