The Shepherd

One might hazard a guess at his age by way of some kind of wager, but you would  certainly lose your money, he was eighty-eight years old. He was certainly no spring chicken and in some countries he was nearly twenty years over the retirement age. But then you might ask yourself when is the exact retirement age for a shepherd? He was dozing on a concrete plinth of a railway signal right next to the tracks. If you saw him from  a distance you might think he was a possible suicide case and  desperately run up to save him. But no he was deep asleep; indeed you could from down on the road hear him snoring. He had a large noticeable wart on his nose and a long scar that ran down from  his left ear lobe to the edge of his jaw consistent with a  knife wound. His eyes when open were a muddle between black and brown. He still had a thatch of grey hair. As for his mouth it had seen better days – he wore dentures that shifted sometimes of their own accord. His breath smelt of thyme and honey for some inexplicable reason, maybe it was a natural remedy for congestion. Needless to say he was a confirmed bachelor. Below him there were twenty three sheep of an indeterminable breed which would need some further research. Legend has it that they were from a Phoenician stock. Whatever the case, it was certain that he and his family had been shepherding for hundreds of years and that there was no man more knowledgeable on the subject of sheep in the whole of Galicia than this man who was fast asleep. His hands were tattooed with scars and calluses demonstrable of hardship and experience, as were those thick bow-legs of his. Quite a character you would judge and yes, it was perfectly true. To add to the mystery of the man, and for all those doubting Thomases, and it is in the public domain accessible through the civil registry, he had a typical Galician boy’s name followed by of all things a Roman praenomen and then his parents surnames. All the men in his family since time immemorial had the inclusion of a Roman name. One local historian had done some research that took him to the walled city of Lugo and the archives there. He traced a Roman ancestor who had come over to Spain with Pompey and had the rank of centurion. The centurion had taken to farming later on in life, and his sons took over later. Later they migrated but always within the confines of Galicia. The shepherd’s nose was what you would call Roman. You can make out the silhouette even from the road. To make it even more baffling, the shepherd and his father, his grandfather, and the great-grandfather as far as the oldest habitant of the village could remember, sprinkled their daily conversation with Latin expressions. It was exceedingly odd to say the least. A holiday plane scorched the sky above as he slept on and the sheep grazed on the bank. There was no dog in sight. Throughout a walk in the countryside you might encounter shepherds of all types, and in the main there was a dog that was used to filter the sheep across bridges and into folds. But the dog was absent. One might imagine that there was an invisible sheep dog somewhere, but that would be crazy, wouldn’t it? So how did he manage it? How long would he go on sleeping? It did not look at all comfortable sat on the plinth, but at least he had more leg room than a seat on a bus. With patience and sitting on the other side of the road it was possible to determine the shepherd’s system. Here perhaps Ivan Pavlov and B.F. Skinner might be proud of him, for his power over the sheep was all to do with a type of operant conditioning, although one was not so sure whether he was subject to the same influence. At a certain time a train destined for Portugal would drop by and the signal clanked. Passengers looked on in surprise at the strange figure below that they could almost touch. The sound woke the shepherd and as he yawned and expectorated the sheep would glance up at him; not a single one of them had budged before when dogs, bicycles, noisy jets and trucks went past, but all were now nevertheless looking up at the shepherd. For guidance it seemed. What now? They had all heard the signal and now saw the tell-tale signs of the shepherd preparing to go. One ewe in the know it seemed bleated and there was a chorus of bleats afterwards. All the sheep were preparing for the off. There was a considerable agitation among them. Shuffling of feet.With some considerable effort as he was tired, he got up into the vertical position, and with the aid of a stick he made his way down the bank through the tide of sheep down to the road. He looked across at you and ignored you; he had other more important business to attend to. The sheep heads turned to the right, he was walking away from the station. As if they knew their positions in a procession, four sheep including the smart ewe walked in front four abreast and they were joined by others which  in a higgledy-piggledy fashion followed suit. En mass they took over the road for several metres. Following at a distance behind you could see traffic  had stopped on both sides. He took the curses in his stride. He was oblivious to their curses. The law of the countryside was on his side, he knew it, and they knew it. Whilst one might think reasonably that the shepherd was bound for home, it became apparent he wasn’t at all. He uttered something in Latin and suddenly the sheep went into single file. They followed a path toward a bar which was situated up a tiny hill; on either side of the path were rows of flowers. Not a single sheep trod beyond the path. They were cognizant of the destination. At the back of the bar café was a lawn that was overgrown. The shepherd ambled up the same path and headed directly into the bar. He was greeted by the owner who was already pouring out a glass of tinto. The shepherd went to a window that overlooked the lawn and tapped on it. The ewe looked up and bleated. Some dated music played as the shepherd settled himself on a stool near the poured wine and a plate of tapas. “I never know how you do it. How do they know where to go?” “Family secret.” That was the only explanation he ever gave. They were so well trained you might have them in a circus. Yes it was incredible. You watched him from the security of a table and after ordering  a beer, you waited. Again the sheep seemed unconcerned by anything; even a Galician wolf would not startle them. At this juncture there had been a recurring thought, like number carried over, and it was a question about that scar. It was obviously a  knife wound and a significant one. Here as with many other questions about him, the local villagers  who were a fount of gossip, hearsay and some truths told you that it was a wound of love. So he did have a love interest once. Almost seventy years ago just after the Second World War ended, and in the year when the banks were to be supervised by the government in law and the Philippines were to become independent the shepherd and his best friend were involved in a heated row over a local girl who was of singular beauty as testified by the elderly witnesses now in their nineties. She was attracted to both of them. One old timer claimed she manipulated the whole situation. By the time they met to fight both were raging drunk. At first it was by the Queensbury rules. Good solid boxing, and in this the shepherd it must be said excelled. He had very strong forearms from carrying sheep and his work on the farm in addition to the regular fights with his brothers and this had paid off handsomely. However some elements needed to be taken into account. The primary one was that as much as he loved her, he was not keen on fighting his best friend. When he floored his friend several times he became somewhat morose. Yet his friend kept on charging and wildly threw punches into the air. Down he went again. In the ring the referee would blow the whistle, but the crowd of young men urged him to get up and fight like a man. Up he got and down he went.  Blood was now pouring from his friend’s nose and his eyes were puffed up. Soon he would be the victor and it would be such a sour victory. Things were to change however. One might think of Julius Caesar and the surprise that Brutus might be involved in his assassination, because secreted in his friend’s  jacket that lay on the straw in the stable they were fighting, was a knife. Caught completely off guard he felt the streak of the knife as it slashed down the side of his face. He buckled in pain and fell to the ground as his friend punched and punched him into unconsciousness. There were shouts and gasps of horror. The girl ran out screaming. When he came to, his friend was gone, all he could make out was his older brother who helped him to his feet. “That’s some scar you will have there, here hold this cloth, you need to see a doctor.” “No, just let it be.” That evening he lost his first and only love, and his best friend. They say out of fear his friend emigrated to Mexico. Yes 1946 was a remarkable year. Everyone remembered the girl’s name, it was Dulce. They recited the full name, but in fairness to her it would be unkind to repeat it here, however like his friend she fled and eventually according to a cousin married an architect in Madrid. Did he like Dante with his Beatrice, dream of Dulce every time he fell asleep next to the tracks? Tom Jones was singing Delilah as the shepherd sipped his tinto to  a conclusion. He coughed a little and another glass of the best tinto miraculously appeared in front of him.  Clustered around the window a group of pilgrims from assorted countries were busily snapping pictures with their smart phones of the sheep munching on the lawn. One of them motioned to go out through a back door, but the owner whistled and waved his finger admonishingly. The other pilgrims frowned at the delinquent. “Leave them in peace.”  Two of the other pilgrims felt a warmth in that expression. You took a gulp of your beer and ordered another one. Thankfully the pilgrims stayed put at the table near the window. They were anxious to get on the trail and after a short while they exited. The shepherd was on his fourth tinto. He showed no signs of drunkenness. Was it sixth or seventh tinto when he excused himself and somewhat giddily made his way to the window. It was dark. What now? He heard the sheep bleat outside. As the shepherd walked to the door, the owner gave him a wad of cash. You went outside to a starlit night which was quite cold. You followed him to the back. All the sheep were bleating. He went up to them individually as a priest might in communion. Each of the sheep had names. After he called their names he pressed on a band around their necks. Lights lit up.  All twenty three sheep were now walking constellations. He had one light in his lapel and off he went presumably to the privacy of his home. You decided enough was enough and headed back into the bar for another beer. “Remarkable man.” Uttered the owner. You nodded in agreement.