The shepherd was born blind. His mother gave herself away before marriage, rumor had it, cursing her first born. He felt her betrayal every time he walked through the village, children skittering away at the sound of his walking stick. If he could see, he’d find the marks of his father defacing her skin and know he’d have been blind anyway.
In his advancing age, he took over his father’s pasture, which had been his father’s father’s before him, and so forth. Amongst the sheep, he learned the slopes of the hills, the feeling of the grass beneath his feet, the smell of the breeze as the sun began to set. He left his land rarely; his existence became a ghost story, remembered when whispering a prayer, or when two newlyweds found themselves with child.
Alone for so long, he had taught himself the language of his animals, listening to their bleating. His favorite was a strong ewe he’d had for half a decade; he knew her through the curl of her wool, twisted tightly into a wave along her back. He had found her as a lamb, collapsed in the corner of the paddock, a nail stuck in her side. He still remembered the warmth of her soft wheezes, how light she had been in his arms. In another life, she would be inconsequential.
Yet she survived the week. He felt her now, as he milked her. She would follow him when he filled the water trough and sheared the others, after he had collected her fresh coat. He beckoned her to eat, as she was several weeks pregnant. Any day now she would go into labor, he could tell from the tight swell of her sides. He could feel the press of the lambs when he placed his hands on her stomach; he hoped they might push back, the pulse of a new friend’s heartbeat.
The ewe let out a cry, as his hand pressed lower. Was she early? He prepared himself to check, feeling for the head, the tangle of limbs, anything. The ewe kept bleating softly, squirming away from his invading hand.
He pulled away, rubbing his fingers together, unaware of how bloody they were.
The next day, he found her in the same place, lying on her side. She let out a surprised yelp when he touched her, kicking her leg and hitting his shin. He felt his eyes tear, letting out shallow breaths as if they could protect him from his worries. He ran his hands over her belly, checking for the lump he had felt yesterday, but it had split in two, one above the other along her side. Each was hot to the touch.
The cold blew in fast that night. She had begun contractions, wailing as he helped her along, pulling one baby out and then another, steaming wet masses. He fumbled with their spindly legs, the sharp odor slightly more sour than he remembered. One coughed and cried while the other breathed quietly in his hand. It was smaller than its brother, its ribs pushing out of its sinewy skin where the other was plump. The agony of birth, thrumming through its brother’s weak body, was absent. It was as if it had not been born at all, stuck in that nonexistent dream of its mother’s womb, alive yet never awake. He ached for the day the lamb would open its eyes.
He stayed with them through the night, holding the small lamb as close as he could, rubbing warmth into its body. The ewe had taken to the healthy one but had nudged the other away as he tried to place it near her belly. Perhaps he had coddled it too early, covering it with his human stench. Part of him held it close to spite the ewe; he had seen her at her most broken and yet she didn’t trust him with her child. She had fallen limp in his hands just the same as the lamb did now.
The other sheep gathered around her, speaking their silent language that he would never be permitted to hear. Their faces away from him, they stood vigil with their kind. The shepherd stood back, turning away from his herd. The ewe’s stark indifference had already been pardoned, blindly. He tried to remember, through his disgust, that they were just animals, selfish and impulsive, living for their survival. They had no forgiveness to offer but their knowledge that she was one of their own.
The lamb he held, though, was not. The lamb’s wisp-like wool barely guarded it from the shepherd’s bare skin; its eyes had barely opened. Perhaps if he held it to his belly, it would feel as though it had returned to the womb, spared from the violent reckoning of its birth. His arms began to ache, as if it had gotten heavier.
He held it to his cheek, its warm fur beginning to gain the telltale fluff of a sheep. It had four rounded hooves, two blinking eyes, soft with lashes. Its small, wet nose moved gently with its breaths. He could feel its heart thump, a rapid beat like the bump of a rabbit’s foot. He put two fingers in the little one’s mouth. Tiny teeth felt rough against his skin, though not sharp enough to scratch.
One finger slipped slightly too deep, the lamb choking lightly, the first noise it made. The shepherd held it away from his body. He knelt next to the ewe. She was dying, he could tell from the way her breath had turned into pants. She felt cool to the touch. Though he looked down on her neglect, his heart ached for her. He remembered the weakness of her youth, born like her child, broken. She would die just the same. He had stitched up the gash of the nail, all those years ago, but perhaps it had never healed, her silent shame buried beneath that white coat.
He left the shed, feeling flecks of snow melt onto his skin. The sky wept. The lamb was tucked into the folds of his cloak. In the frigid air, he walked to the edge of the pasture, where he knew the fence was cut off and the road to the village took shape. He felt for the latch, knowing that beyond the gate he could not remember the gravel of the road. His mind began to wander into darkness.
He feared venturing further, knowing he was ill equipped to get back in the weather. The lamb squirmed, feeling his uncertainty at the crossroads he faced. He muttered a quiet prayer, breaking the silence of the storm, and placed the lamb just outside the gate.
Before he could question himself, he shuffled back into the pasture, latching it behind him.
The lamb could cry but he wouldn’t know better—he had covered his ears.
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