Greener Pastures

Sunshine, a cool breeze blowing, an endless expanse of rolling hills and knee-high grass, the flock wandered through it all. The sheep grazed under the watchful eye of their shepherd. The shepherd looked out over the hills, crook across his back. He smiled. The flock was whole. The sheep were safe. The grass was filling, and the world was simple. The shepherd liked the simple things. His crook took his weight. Lily, his dog, kept the flock nice and tight. Mostly white as a cloud, a few dots of black sheep nestled in the core. They all followed the whistles and the bark. They moved as a single rolling unit, circling the shepherd's hill with lackadaisical ease. They bleated. The shepherd smiled and sat on a smooth patch of grass. Lily barked again and a rebellious spirit fell in line.

He trusted them. They trusted him. The herd drifted with the clouds above. The shepherd checked the sun and saw that it was late enough to indulge. Not responsibly indulge, but the day promised to be long. He rummaged in his satchel and found his snuff box. The motion was practiced and easy. He fought back the urge to sneeze and let the hit run through his body. A calm to the edges, a sluggish urge to move as the actual motion lagged behind the thought to move. The shepherd put his legs long and stretched back.

The grass embraced him and all that was left of his sense lingered on the clouds. White puffs curling and swimming. There was a rose in one, a face in another, and a tower to throw down lightning bolts in the last. A soft smile and a head full of clouds and nothing more to draw the attention away. The sheep kept bleating and Lily kept barking. That was almost, not quite, a problem. Lily barked when there were problems. That was why he kept her around.

And it didn't stop. She had a problem for him to solve and the snuff made it hard to care for a second. Even now, it was more of annoyance than a bit of panic. But there was enough through the muted mind to get up and away from the crowds. The crook came back to take his weight. Lily was irate. The problem was not solved. A quick glance of the flocks showed a good number, but Lily's count was off.

She led him down the hill and the flock milled about, spreading away from one another without that invisible fence to pen them in. The shepherd picked his way through the grass. Bleating, not the placid jostle for the better blade from the masses, but desperate and frightened. He overtook the dog and ran towards the noise. A misplaced step and a trapped limp, that's all that was.

And the shepherd was right. There was a sheep stuck in the earth like a crop. The experience was the same. Evey other day, the same thing, a wayward hoof through the earth and the panic rolled through the poor animals. The thing broke his heart with cries of pain. Lily barked again and set up a protective march to ensure no one would break through.

"Oh, poor baby," the shepherd sighed, "You got yourself in damn fine pickle. Let me see what I can do."

The sheep kept thrashing. it felt a presence stalking it in a circle. Things only circled when they meant to pounce. The shepherd clicked his tongue and set the work. The sheep wasn't one of his. The amount of wool suggested the thing had been feral for a good long while. A year at least, thriving with the wildflowers and the grass of the glades.

The shepherd pounced. The sheep kicked and thrashed, but that was the worst of it. A hand came to part the wool and a soothing rhythm came with the touch. The sheep bleated and thrashed. The hand was nice, but the snare around its hooves was tight.

"Easy, friend, easy," he purred, "We're here to get you out and back to where you need to be. You've stepped in a sinkhole and got tangled up in some roots. Happens to the best of us. But take it easy. That's how we get out of this."

The meandering bleats from the shepherd kept the sheep calm, even as he pulled a knife from his belt. The sharp metal slipped under notice, even right when the blade touched the ankle. But the hand was calm and the voice was song and the knife was nothing, nothing at all. The shepherd worked through the roots and they fell away. The sheep went back to kicking and thrashing. Freedom was so close, so close. The shepherd backed away. The sheep had it under control. The last of the roots fell away and the poor sheep was no longer poor.

It was just hurt. The weight and the torque went down to the bone. The sheep couldn't take the steps. The shepherd dusted off his clothes and clicked his tongue again. The sheep went back to being poor. Despite the luscious grass and the balmy day, the sheep could not survive without an ambulatory way of life. He sighed. Lily barked a little bit more. The sheep were starting to scatter and run. The shepherd grabbed the sheep's legs and lifted. His arm burned. His strength knitted to his core and he started walking. The sheep on his back was laden with wool and that was the only thing he allowed himself to feel. The sheep had to get home. The flock needed water first. He would corral them earlier than he probably should, but he suddenly had a very good reason to come home early.

"Alright friend," he said to the sheep on his back, "We're going to the river now. We'll get you something to drink and head home. I'm afraid the shearing will have to wait until tomorrow. I imagine that I'll be a bit too knackered to do anything about it tonight."

---

The shepherd was right. He was tired when he returned. The sheep didn't fight after the second or third time he had to pick the poor thing up. He set the sheep down under a roof and let the rest of the flock mill and turn through their pen for the night. Lily went to her little home and the shepherd retired to his cottage. The moon was only a sickle in the night. The shepherd did not dream.

He ate a leisurely breakfast and finished off the set of scones he picked up from the village bakery. That was another bit of choring to do when he had the time. Chasing down Dammon for an actual fair price for the wool, checking on that new set of shears that Dammon said he would make, and generally avoiding Dammon as much as possible outside of those two things. But for now, these shears would work. The wool was still on the sheep. He still had enough food for a good long while. He'd be fine. He whistled as he left his cottage and lily took the order to start corralling the unruly.

The new sheep did not need the bark and threat. It was already waiting for him at the station, injured leg not even a thought in its head.

"Friend," The shepherd sighed, "If you were faking it yesterday to get carried around, I'll be rather upset."

The sheep gingerly lifted a leg and teetered a bit. It was not the same leg.

"You are a funny one, aren't you friend," the shepherd sighed, "but I'm not really here for funny right now. You have a bit of problem and I'm here to help."

The sheep baaed and brayed and shuffled over, hobbling along on a shifting set of three legs. The shepherd clicked his tongue and started peeling. Despite the age and the feral nature of its existence, the sheep was clean. An errant twig, a spot of dust, a bit of matted down knots, but no more so than anything else in the flock. If anything, the poor thing was cleaner, like it hadn't been sleeping outside, wallowing in the dirt and bedded down on old straw. Might as well have just rolled through a fresh spring with layers of soap and a good hard brush. And the sheep was very, very good for him. Only soft bleating and the occasional kick and turn when the motions were just outside what would be comfortable.

And the sheep did his favorite thing. When the large swathes were laid out and he just had to go back over the finer hairs and give the whole thing an even cut, the sheep pressed into him, eyes smiling with a placid innocent and everlasting gratitude for doing such a simple thing well. He dug his nails in the sheep's scalp and pulled another happy bleat from the sheep. He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Poor, funny, and now affectionate," he murmured, "And maybe even deceitful with that leg of yours. How dare you be so complicated. Next you're going to want truffles instead of grass and a good bottle from Lorelai's vineyard. I'm afraid I am not prepared to shower you with such luxuries, friend."

The sheep butted its head into his side. It did want truffles and wine and endless sunlit glades to nap in. The shepherd could only supply the last.

With a gentle shove, the sheep was right side up and trotting away. Not back into the pen, but right onto a hay bale and laying down for a nap. The shepherd whistled. Lily barked. The flock slowly milled through the station, adding to their growing pile of wool. Each sheep felt better, light, nothing from the shears and off into the pen to frolic as best they could. Nowhere near enough space, but better than the strong grip and the sharp metal.

The morning turned to afternoon. The afternoon stopped as the last sheep was free from its coat, naked and free as a jaybird. Lily barked and the sun gave its presence out to the earth freely. The shepherd stood and stretched and worked out the fatigue as best he could. His knuckles cracked and that was a straight shot to arthritis. Tark, the huntress told him that. Herod, the baker, thought it was a complete and utter fabrication. But still, he shouldn't do it. It was unseemly.

But the new sheep did not seem to mind. If anything, the noise was curiosity it could not match with its own body. The shepherd looked to the naked sheep, hits feet clad in black sock and clicked his tongue.

"I'm afraid I'm not going to take it in anymore," he said, "you best run along. See if you can make friends with the others. I know they seem a bit rowdy but they're a good bunch. I've known them most of their lives. I even knew their parents. A few grandparents even, although that was more of my uncle's domain."

The sheep said nothing, because it was a sheep, and gently made its way off the perch, all four legs perfectly whole. It remembered its terrible accident and picked yet one more to hobble its movement.

"I'm afraid I can't carry you around again," the shepherd said, "Granted, you're much lighter now, but I don't want to spoil you. Go frolic or play or nap some more. I have to get this packaged for when Dammon comes around. Unless you want to help with that?"

The sheep bleated its annoyance at the mere suggestion of work. The others were not quite as good company but they were still more or less pleasant. The sheep trotted off and the shepherd rested for a moment longer than he strictly needed.

It was a cloudy day, more so than yesterday and the day before, the sky turning slate gray. The black anger of thunder and lightning was still a long, long spell off, but the suggestion was there. Or it could be a lie. He didn't know and he couldn't change it either way.

---

The rain was an empty threat. Or they were intimidated by the swarm of stars cutting away at the edges. Or they were bored by being clouds and turned into nothing. The shepherd did not know. He just gazed out his window against the void sea and watched the lights. A streak and then another, a few stray tears from the heavens wept for their loneliness.

It was late. The shepherd should be asleep. He knew he should be, but the urge evaded him. Heat in his limbs, a buzz in his head that refused to die. So, he had a cup of tea that was supposed to soothe his head and pull him back down. It didn't work. His second cup failed. But it was a nice night to be awake and silent, the witching hour on the horizon where the darkness reigned and all of him was just as quiet. Lily had no qualms in her house outside. The sheep also had no such issues, such was their nature.

The cup was dry and the kettle was empty and still the shepherd had nothing in him that wanted for sleep. That was it. He'd nap in the field with his flock. Lily wouldn't appreciate the lack of assistance, but that would just be. It all would just be. The shepherd gave up the fight. There was enough of his need to actually get up and get something done. Maybe move some hay bales into a more pleasing shape or get some water from the well. Nothing that actually would tax his exhausted mind.

The night welcomed him. The moon was gone, a closed eye beyond the veil, but the stars did more than enough to give him exactly what he needed. The sheep clustered together as the lone cloud left alive, descended to the safety of the earth. Except the newest member. It too had ignored the urge of the night, staring at the gap left behind the moon.

"Friend," the shepherd yawned, "you and I seem to have the same problem. Count the others. I've heard that works wonders. Never had it work ob myself, but that's just how things are."

The sheep was almost silver, almost the same color as the moon and the stars. Light, scant light from beyond the sky, silver and pale and just weak enough to be ignored. The shepherd stood at a respectful distance and waited. The sheep turned to him with a curious gaze. With catlike grace the sheep twisted and moved. It baaed at him softly, and it almost sounded like hello if his ears squinted. It was just fatigue. The restlessness and the exhaustion in him, but he decided to just let it all play out. The sheep turned and bled away right to the gate. The hinges swung open and the shepherd clicked his tongue. He knew. He thought when he first saw the silver wool unblemished in the sun, but now he knew. Following a fey sheep on a moonless night was not something to be ignored, no matter how poorly it could end. The sheep called to him again and that was it.

He strolled over the night lit grass, following the moon mote of silver. The thrum in his head numbed the exhaustion. He had stepped beyond the boundary of the day to day, the glimpses of dreams and nightmares now skated along the surface like a dragonfly on a pond. The wind was still. The night was cool. The shepherd followed the thrum of silent song and pale light, not feeling the chill, barely feeling the grass. Every part of his skin was pale and ghost just as the now vanished moon. He didn't even feel his heart hammering in his chest.

The sheep led him along the path to the village at first, but veered into the trees as the valley came in to view. A day's walk turned into barely a quarter hour, all at the whim of a humble sheep insistent that the shepherd stayed close behind, despite the wonders, there were nightmares in the woods. The shepherd knew this and felt his steps as light as wind, the horrors and the fear not even a concept. The sheep bled into the night. He followed. The path was clear. And he followed.

The open grass turned to heavy tress and that turned back into a small nook of open grass. He couldn't see the sheep. But he did hear running water, softly pulling through the glade and tumbling over itself on its way to the river down the way. Wildflowers caught the scant starlight and bounced it back as multiplications of the day. Blue and purple and yellow bibles of suspended glass fresh from the kiln. Flecks of gold and silver and platinum from the flitting pollen dust, the stars overheard turned from the ink milk light into something more vibrant. Quietly at first, before shedding eh plain skin and bursting with dizzying color, more than the flowers on the ground could ever hope to hold. The shepherd merely looked up and spun, already losing himself in the color.

Something entered the water. The hypnosis ended. Th real world here, right at his fingertips had its own wonders. The river swelled in a small pond right in the middle of the glade. The ripples reached the far edge and started their return journey, just to mee the others halfway. Rain, cool, clean rain fell from the pond and into sky, taking the void of the moon and filling it once again with calming silver. Sheep to water to celestial egg, already hatching. A leg first, then an arm, then a few strands of curly white hair came tumbling down. The bits dissolved into dust and a woman hung suspended int the starlight, bright as the moon, naked save for the cloud of curls tumbling down her back, circling her waist. She turned. The shepherd watched. Either he did or he didn't and he took the one that seemed to please him the most in the moment. The die was cast from the time he pulled the sheep from the hearth. It had finally stopped and he could not see where it landed.

The woman of moonlight hung upside down, hair glancing across the pond's surface, disturbing the lily pads and the creeping grass with gentle ripples. She smiled, teeth brilliantly white and wide as the horizon.

Her hair was cloud white, fading into storm gray in the shadows, dancing with endless curls. There was a sheep with curling horns above her ear, a full pine tree on her forehead, a waterfall cascading down to pool on the water. He took his eyes up, down her body. Her chest followed gravity, but only just. It was a mere suggestion to obey the obvious weight she had. Like a streak, she flowed, the lines of her body never stayed still. She even breathed, throwing off the terrible idea of stillness. All of her was round and full and splayed under a vacant sky shining with the reflection in the pond. He could just make out the other side, the cinch of her waist, the mound of her hips, the way her shoulder blades moved the suggestion of farm hardened muscle with her idle suspension. The hair was natural, according to that little tuft up below her navel.

The shepherd tried his best to look away. He tried his best to be the gentleman he should be, but there was always an urge to glance back. The goddess of the still night did not mind. She should be gazed upon and admired. It's what she was made for. It was harder to tell the full view of the shepherd with his trailing coat, but there were broad shoulders there, strong, even hands over there, a general heavy-set form all grounded down into reality. So heavy, so solid, so absolute even as the trepidation crept up his gaze and looked for anything more interesting in her realm. He failed. She tittered and the stars danced with her like a flock of songbirds just uncaged.

"Do you have a name, my good shepherd," she asked, "I feel that we have gone on far too long without one for you."

"Forgive me," he said, "The sheep don't particularly care for names. Lily, now she loves hers. But me, I am called Conor. If I might ask the same, I would like to know."

The spirit laughed, void dancing along the grass and into the trees like platinum lily bells. He waited for the song to fade and the stars to turn back to the white of his knowledge.

"Divna," she said. The word ran back and forth in his mind rattling in his skull, running through his senses like the wind over the glade. He bowed slightly.

"Thank you," Divna said, "For caring for me and mine. That one tends to wander. Keep the wool. That was your work. More can grow. I have time."

"Thank you kindly. Going to have a tough time convincing Dammon its real, but I'll try. "

"Then this Dammon is a fool. At least you know something precious when you see it."

He looked away from her hanging chest and made the respectful choice to meet her gaze. Divna had moonlit eyes. Pale light spilling from them, taking in the world and giving it back. Her hair bounced with her motions. Skin just as pale as clean wool, unblemished and smooth as glass. Conor's eyes wandered. He did not want them to, but they decided to settle on the swell of her hips and the weight of her chest again, the gap of her thighs. He only had a moment to himself before the eyes found something else to draw him in. The water did not help. That just had her reflection and all the trappings of the real thing. Divna cocked her head and listened to the world on the other side of the water.