The Little Shepherd

Art and Inspired by @apricot_tarte_ on X


The Little Shepherd

I saw: my eyes did not deceive me, and I trusted them utterly. I saw: there, someone! Someone… standing unclothed, bare to the waist, with hair and skin of an identical cast. Her hair was lifted and scattered by the wind, silver in hue. Her skin—about which clustered dozens of thick-fleeced white sheep, bleating and pressing close—was like snow; yet not snow that melts, but snow made whole and fastened, as though the sun itself could never dissolve it.

I beheld her from afar after a futile chase of a fleeing stag, my limbs leaden with exhaustion. I had nearly cast away my rifle, but forced myself to endure, walking on and on, until at last I came upon an open field beyond the foul-smelling, mud-choked Breton marshes. I could scarcely believe such greenness existed, such a plain beneath vast clouded skies swelling like tidal waves, hidden within that Breton forest whose geography I so despised.

When I meant to move on, the figure seated herself upon a cask, tossing her hair up into the air. It fell again. In her left hand I saw a long, grey thing, no thicker than a branch, which she toyed with: pointing, playing, or perhaps conversing with the wind itself, about matters vast and unknowable, spoken in a tongue I did not possess.

At last I gathered my courage. Drawing a heavy breath, I approached her slowly, my hopes modest. I knew I would not return home that day and must sleep beneath the open sky, for evening had already drawn near. As I walked, I adjusted the watch upon my wrist and slung my rifle across my padded shoulder. In my simplicity I had already decided that this stranger was exceedingly beautiful; and my prejudice became truth the moment I called out to her.
She turned, uncertain. She rose, as though scarcely believing a sheep might have spoken her name. Then her dark brown eyes found me, and my heart stood still. I removed my hat and pressed it to my chest, smiling with all the sincerity I possessed, while the maiden, virginal in aspect, surveyed me in silence. There was nothing upon her face but suspicion; yet I endeavoured politely to reassure her, explaining that I was utterly spent from hunting deer and sought a path toward the nearest village, or at least a hut.
Hearing me, she replied without averting her gaze,
“So you are lost, Monsieur? In this forest?”
“Indeed,” I said, “and I hope that Mademoiselle might show me the way to a village, or at least to shelter.” I told her who I was, whence I came, and that my hunt was undertaken by commission of a Duke—an affair difficult to explain—while enduring her caution, which did not lessen.
“Oh,” she answered. Her eyes fell, almost regretful. Then she raised her face again and said with firmness, “I will tell you this, Monsieur: it will be difficult for you to return or to leave. But since I am a kind shepherdess, I shall give you every road and distance there is.” She paused, fixing me with a steady gaze—eyes gleaming like fire caught in darkness, her smile strangely wide.
Then she produced again the branch-like thing I had seen before; now, more clearly, I understood that it was no staff nor twig at all, but a flute. She extended it toward me, indicating where I should look. My heart softened at the sight of her stiff, clock-like gestures, though at last I forced myself to attend closely.
Accompanied by the awkward, rhythmic bleating of dozens of sheep, she moved like the conductor of an orchestra and spoke in an odd cadence, each sentence laced with old French I scarcely understood:
“Observe, Monsieur! There are several routes you may take. From here—eastward, four kilometres: you will find a road. Follow it south and you will come upon a wheat field; congratulations, you will have reached Csiris. If you go there”—northward—“you will find nothing but marsh and river. But if you are patient, you may be guided to Ecarouh’. And beyond—”
I was lost. My mind grew fogged, and when I came back to myself my eyes had strayed from the flute’s direction; now I watched the girl herself, utterly intoxicated, scarcely conscious. I saw her smile faintly as she continued, with enthusiasm, to describe routes meant to lead me home.
My reverie hovered between being and not-being; yet my ears still heard, though dimly and with growing deafness.
At last her gently extended arm lowered the flute, and I recovered myself only because the bleat of a nearby sheep echoed sharply. She said, “Well, I do not trace the details of Balluirr too closely—except that Chateau d’Berley stands there, firm since the year 666. If you end there, it is no misfortune; Balluirr is populous, with many guilds, and most are adherents of Pure Orthodoxy. So—” she glanced at me, “which way will you go, Monsieur?”
It was hard to choose, having missed much of her guidance. Harder still to restrain myself—many have hated me for this very flaw! The blood fled my head, my mouth betrayed me, and words spilled forth without shame:
“If I had eyes, I would force them never to look away from you. If I had a home, I would abandon all I own so that we might meet each day. If I could choose, I would cast away every path but this, to remain here—with you!”
I know not what possessed my mind that such strange sentences should mingle so perfectly and emerge with such dreadful precision. I erred in nothing—not a word misplaced. The girl—who I then realised stood as transfixed as I—was stunned, her face betraying little, yet unmistakably shaken.
My eyes burned red. Blood surged through every nerve and struck me as if to punish my folly. My heart thundered; my legs nearly failed me, and though I braced myself, it seemed as though I recoiled from her.
“W-wait… A-are you truly… are you serious in what you say? Truly?” She turned fully toward me, stammering sweetly. Now all of her was fixed upon me: silver hair, snow-white skin, dark eyes—save only the flute, now seen clearly at close range, ornamented with fibres, roots, and scratched metal.
“I beg your pardon… for my boldness… I truly—truly apologise!” I declared, forcing myself to speak. Yet I turned away, replaced my hat, and apologised once more.
The bleating of the sheep that followed sounded like laughter. I gently waved them back; they retreated only a little, still watching.
“Hear that? Gllow is advising you,” the girl said.
“Gllow?” I asked, puzzled—then understood as I looked to the sheep.
“His name is Gllow,” she said. Another approached. “And this one is Shild. These sheep are all that I have to remain—they are mine, and I love each of them…” She paused, stroked Shild several times, then bade him away. The sheep obeyed like a tame dog. “…Yet I do not think they love me. Not truly. No matter how much I love them.”
“Their love? From sheep?” I asked.
“Yes.” She smiled shyly, then carefully stepped closer, telling me that what I had said was the first such thing she had ever heard from a human being. When she stopped, we stood close enough to embrace, to kiss. I was too afraid; the bleating grew absurd to hear, repulsive even to behold.
She was short, so very short. Before me, she quickly lifted her face and gazed at me with a hazy look. Her hands were clasped behind her waist; when her breath warmed my lips, she released them and wound her arms about my neck. I let my heavy rifle fall. Her eyes now gleamed white and green, utterly unlike before—now she was beautiful beyond measure.
As our faces drew near, I saw her small nipples hardened with sensation. She smelled of violet roses and lavender. My heart was ready. The sheep’s bleating faded, and the sky was no longer blue, nor yet orange. After battling myself one last time, I grasped her narrow waist tightly, like a corset. She did not resist; her eyes closed in long anticipation. When at last I kissed her, her force surpassed my own.
I tried to match her, but she was more aggressive. She broke away only to cry, “I love you too! I love you too, Monsieur B! I love you!” and she would not release me.
I do not know how long the kiss lasted—so fierce, so intimate. I loosened my hold yet still clutched her like a fool; she was no different. When it ended, I asked her to release me so we might speak more clearly. She refused, with a teasing gaze and smile.
Then my watch chimed.
“What is that, Monsieur?” she asked.
“It measures time,” I said. “You may never have seen such a thing. When I return, I will bring you one, so that you may remember me.”
“B-but… you are leaving, Monsieur?” Her arms fell heavy from my shoulders.
“I must return, my dear. But I promise I will visit you more often than my own home.”
She stared at me, eyes wide yet unreadable, and I heard a strange cracking sound from her flute.
“B-but—you promised… to me…”
I stepped toward her; she stepped back. Then I heard the grinding of teeth—impossible in such open air.
“No…” she murmured, head bowed. “I cannot… I cannot let go of one who loves me so.”
My heart raced wildly. I retreated in horror, trembling violently.
“Monsieur, if you truly wish to return,” she said at last, lifting her face, “you should never have seen me, nor spoken to me.”
There it was: the true climax! Had I forced it? I had entered this domain without suspicion, foolishly following and listening to the most harmonious melody of my life: her voice.
I leapt back, reaching for my rifle—but too late. A sheep struck my back, then others followed, ramming, trampling, biting. I did not witness the whole of it, only the end.. My undoing.
They swarmed me like sugar. One by one they bit, tore, ripped, even licked what remained of my form. The pain defies all telling. With the last of my awareness, with one sane eye still open; I saw the girl, now wholly naked. She took up my rifle, cast aside her flute, and drove the sheep away, their mouths red and foul.
She stood over me, closed her eyes, and before consciousness or life left me entirely, I heard her say “I love you,” beneath the orange sky and the silence of sheep,