Short story: The Shepherd

Yiorgo the shepherd stood on a high boulder, silhouetted against the sharp sky of Crete, and looked down upon the terracotta roofs of Kato Vouna. He avoided the village as much as he could, a place of argument and conflict. Yiorgo was as thin and tough as the rock-strewn soil and hard light of Crete, but he was also as anxious and timid as the mountain hare. His narrow eyes and curved nose made him look like the great mountain eagle, and, in truth, when he stood on a high place like this, with the haunting silence of the mountains and the pine forests encircling him, the scent of wild rosemary in his nostrils, he felt like an eagle.

He was searching for a lost lamb. The village priest was always fond of reminding him that “a good shepherd cares for his flock.” He knew which lamb had gone astray and he was determined to find it.

Suddenly he heard the unmistakeable bleating of a lamb, and smiled to himself. He was a good shepherd, just like they said of Christ. Then the smile disappeared. A man emerged from the shelter of the rocks, a burly black-haired man with haughty eyes and ferocious moustache. It was Vassili Makellaris, the village butcher, and he carried the lost lamb cradled under his arm. Whenever Yiorgo saw this man, he could think only of a wedding feast in the village square, many years ago, with the music of the lyra and the circle of dancers, the aroma of roasting meat and flowing wine, and a beautiful bride, who should have been Yiorgo's wife. Vassili had not only taken his heart's desire, but ever since had relentlessly bartered him down in price whenever the old shepherd had a lamb to sell.

“Vassili,” he shouted, keeping a note of harmony in his voice. “Where are you taking my lamb?”

“Your lamb?” Vassili spat on the ground. “Go to the devil.”

Yiorgo scrambled down and stood blocking Vassili's way. “You cannot take my lamb. Its mother is already cursed with a swollen udder. Give it to me, for the love of God.”

Vassili glared at him. “Get out of my way, shepherd. Go back to your flock.” He pushed Yiorgo aside and continued to stride down the mountain.

Yiorgo stood for a moment, his heart pounding with suppressed rage and his eyes moist with tears. Damn him. Always it was Vassili bringing curses to his life. The lamb bleated again, a sound that tore at his heart. He suddenly stooped and picked up a rock. “Scoundrel!” he shouted. “Thief!”

The rock struck Vassili square in the middle of his back and he let out a yell of pain. He turned to face Yiorgo, dropping the lamb with a curse.

“You'll pay for that,” he roared. He strode towards Yiorgo, his face flushed and his eyes aflame. As he grew closer he suddenly lowered his head and charged Yiorgo like a bull, hitting him in his belly with such force that Yiorgo flew backwards and stretched out on the rocky ground.

Vassili stood over his fallen foe with a triumphant grin. “Never meddle with a butcher,” he growled, drawing out his knife. “I'll slit your throat one day,"  He strode towards the lamb, now curled up and shaking uncontrollably. "In the meantime, I'll make a start on this creature.”

Yiorgo scrambled to his feet and picked up his shepherd's crook. “Curse you!” he shouted, and smashed the heavy crook down on Vassili's head. The other man staggered, then turned to face Yiorgo, blood streaming into his eyes and moustache. “What are you doing? You've killed me, you devil.” He dropped to his knees.

A shiver ran through Yiorgo's mind. What had he done? He stood beside Vassili's kneeling form and put a hand on his shoulder. “Vassili, I'm sorry. Here, let me help you.”

The lamb struggled to its feet and gave another quavering bleat. Suddenly, without any warning, an eagle, bigger than any dog Yiorgo had ever seen, swooped down and seized the animal in its talons.

“No!” shouted Yiorgo. He threw himself on the eagle and grabbed the lamb. The great bird began to flap its wings with enormous strength, and Yiorgo felt his own strength inadequate. “Vassili, help me!”

Vassili, his own mind whirling with pain, staggered over and took hold of the lamb, one arm around Yiorgo. Together they proved too much for the eagle, which released the lamb and flew off, its indignant cry shrieking and echoing amongst the hills.

They stood together, panting with fatigue, and watched it disappear into the towering mountains.

“Oh, no,” cried Yiorgo, staring at the body of the lamb. The soul of the little traumatised creature had fled.

Vassili put an arm around the shepherd. “Never mind, shepherd,” he murmured, wiping the blood from his eyes. “Damn you, let's share a glass of raki.”

Yiorgo's stone bothie stood not far from the place of drama. A fire flamed and crackled near the little hut as he poured two glasses of the fiery spirit beloved of all Cretan men, tsipouro or raki. Vassili, on the other side of the fire, was dismembering the body of the lamb, dividing it equally into two shares. It was a fair result, thought Yiorgo. They had both earned a reward. He looked up at the dark outlines of the mountain. Struggle and conflict are part of the nature of this land, he reflected. We must work together. He glanced across at Vassili, busy dividing the lamb into equal portions. On the other hand, he mused, if I can get him drunk, perhaps I can take more than half