THE OTHER SHEPHERD
Avram was terrified when the light and the noise burst out of the night sky. He was eight years old, and his uncle Samael had taken him along for the first time to tend the sheep for a full night’s watch in the hills above Bethlehem. Avram had been helping to look after the family’s flock since he was old enough to walk, but only during the day, when the wolves slept. But Avram’s father Yeshua had sprained his ankle the day before, falling as he chased a lamb who had spooked away from the flock for some reason only God, who knew everything, could understand. And Yeshua was back in the family’s tent on his sleeping rug, grumbling with pain as Avram’s mother Rachael tried to ease the swelling by bathing his ankle with woolen clouts soaked in cool water from the stream that ran behind the encampment.
Uncle Samael had warned Avram that a pack of wolves had been spotted the night before, ranging along the slopes above the high pasture, and Samael’s sons, Avram’s older cousins Gideon, Lemuel and Aaron, carried slings for launching rocks, along with their heavy crooks. Avram had made a sling for himself, so that if the wolves came he could be like David in the Torah. David had been a shepherd-boy too, and he had killed the giant warrior Goliath with his sling. But his own sling was a toy, nothing but a little leather strip that cast only pebbles, if they didn’t fall out as he swung it. His uncle and cousins set him to work keeping the little campfire burning as they made a final circuit around the grazing flock. It was a clear night in the uplands, with a bite in the air, and Avram busied himself gathering brush and branches and feeding them carefully into the fire, one bit at a time, to keep it burning slowly through the night. The fire would scare off wolves, he kept telling himself.
But he fell asleep despite his nervousness, and he was jolted awake by the noises in the sky. His cousins and uncle had come back, and they were on their feet, staring above. To Avram it sounded like a thunderstorm, complete with flashing bolts of lightning. But there was no rain, and he could see the stars. He knew the pattern of the stars very well, the one that told you where north was so you could find your way, the ones that were arranged in patterns you could connect with your eyes and make into pictures of beasts and heroes.
However, there was a new star that moonless night which didn’t fit the patterns he knew, brighter than all the rest. He realized that his uncle and cousins were praying, chanting the Shma Ysrael, their eyes shining in the light cast by the too-bright star. And the strange noise went on, not like a thunderstorm after all, but a confusion of voices, almost like singing. Avram listened hard, but he couldn’t make out the words, or even the tune. He loved music and carried the flute his father had carved for him out of a hollow stick of olive-wood everywhere, especially to the high pastures, where he made up little tunes and played them softly to the sheep to keep them calm. He loved the sheep, not just because they were his family’s wealth, but because except for the rams in rut-season, they were sweet, affectionate creatures. He always hated slaughter-time.
But if there really was music in the strange sounds coming from the sky, Avram couldn’t make any sense of it, and he didn’t like the way his uncle and cousins were acting. Their prayers went on and on, as if it were the Sabbath, which it wasn’t, and they even fell to their knees at one point, as if they were listening to the voice of a mighty being, perhaps God Himself, or at least one of His Messengers. But Avram could hear nothing he could understand in the ongoing roar, and he finally realized that although the sky remained clear and eerily lit by the new star, a big wind had come up, the khamsin out of the desert, arriving before its time. The khamsin always sounded strange when it began to blow, making odd sounds that almost sounded like music as it swept across the crannies in the rocks of the highlands. He shouted to the others to herd the flock into a tight bunch near the stream, in case the khamsin brought a sandstorm with it. But his uncle and cousins ignored him, so he ran off to circle the sheep himself and drive them to the bank. It took a long time to bunch them close enough to the stream that even the stupidest of them – and sheep, although he loved their gentle natures, were amazingly stupid – would take refuge in the shallow water if a sandstorm blew up. By the time he got them settled, everyone else was gone.
Avram didn’t understand. The flock was everything. It had to be preserved no matter what. His father, uncles and cousins, even his mother, had drummed that into his head since he first learned to talk. And here he was, eight years old, armed only with a toy sling, left alone with the flock when he’d already been told that wolves were about. He fell to the ground and burst into tears. One of the ewes, vastly pregnant, ambled over and nosed him, idly nibbling at the stray hairs which had escaped from his head-cloth. He kicked at her in his misery, and she wandered stupidly away again.
And he heard a long, ululating howl echo down from the hillock across the stream, joined by a chorus of others.
Sniffling, gulping, wiping his streaming eyes with his sleeve, he managed to stand up. You’re not a baby any more. You have to do something. The sheep had heard the baneful singing of the wolf-pack too, and were beginning to mill around uneasily, bleating. Avram turned to the fire. It had burned down to embers, and he frantically shoved dry brush into it until it blazed up again. He grabbed one of the longer sticks, lighting its end in the flames to make a torch. As he raised it he noticed its flame was steady. The khamsin, if it had been the khamsin, had died away and the air was still. The too-bright star was still lighting the sky as brightly as if a full moon had risen, and it silhouetted a wolf on top of the hill as it threw back its head and gave out a last shuddering howl. As if it had been a signal, Avram saw other wolves join the leader. Silently the pack began to trot easily down the hillock to the opposite bank of the stream.
Avram swung his torch in the air, making it flare brighter and send off sparks. He yelled as loud as he could, and began to run through the bunched flock toward the stream. His torch and his yelling would probably scare the sheep more than the wolves, but he didn’t worry about that. He thought only that if he kept up his racket and waved the torch, the wolves might stop on their side of the stream and reconsider before crossing it. The water was shallow, but the wolves certainly knew it would slow them up. And they didn’t know Avram was alone.
Running at full speed, Avram reached the bank while the wolves were still coming down the hill. They were getting closer, and Avram saw how his torchlight turned their eyes red. He yelled even louder, saying bad words he barely understood, curses he’d heard from his father and uncle which he was slapped hard for repeating because they offended the ears of God, waving his torch and running closer to the stream. He wasn’t watching his feet and he tripped on a rock, pitching headfirst into the water. His torch hissed out, and the cold shock took his breath away.
A strong hand grabbed his arm and hauled him in one smooth motion back onto the bank. “What’s all this commotion, Avram ben Yeshua? You’re making more noise than your silly sheep.” It was a young man’s voice, light and easy. Avram, gasping and shivering, couldn’t make out his features even by the light of the too-bright star, but he was wearing a shepherd’s thick woolen cloak and he spoke in the same way as Avram’s kinfolk. He even sounded a little like cousin Gideon, when Gideon was being kind instead of teasing him.
“The wolves!” Avram choked out. “Don’t you see the wolves?”
“Of course I see the wolves,” the young man said. “I’m not blind. They’re right across the stream.”
“We have to do something! The sheep…” But something butted him gently in the back, and Avram turned to see the pregnant ewe and the rest of the flock. The sheep had stopped bleating, and had gathered along the stream-bank next to him and the young man. They were calm, gazing placidly across at the wolf-pack. And the wolves were gazing back at them, sitting quietly on their haunches, their bushy tails curled neatly around their forepaws.
“God’s creatures,” said the young man. “Aren’t they beautiful?” Avram couldn’t tell if he meant the wolves or the sheep, but as if reading his thoughts, the young man said, “All of them. All of you.” His warm hand squeezed Avram’s shoulder. “You’re soaking wet. Let’s go over by the fire.” He took off his cloak and draped it around Avram, taking his hand. They sat down, and the young man asked, “Why are you alone, Avram ben Yeshua? You’ve been as brave as King David, braver, maybe, but if I hadn’t come along…well, don’t worry about that. But you’re only eight. I don’t understand why your uncle and cousins left you by yourself.”
“I don’t know,” Avram said. “There was a new star in the sky – see, right there, it’s still burning. And noises almost like music. And Uncle Samael and his sons were busy praying, so I went to gather the sheep and bring them closer to the stream, and when I got back my uncle and cousins were all gone.” He almost started crying again, but he stopped himself.
“Didn’t you hear the music?”
“I thought it was the khamsin. And I was worried about the sheep. So I brought them to the stream. That’s all I could think to do.”
“Good for you.” The pregnant ewe ambled over to the young man, and he scratched her affectionately on the poll. She gurgled with pleasure, and took up her peaceful gaze at the wolves across the stream. One of the wolves wagged his tail, flip, flip, flip, and settled it back around his forepaws. The young man chuckled.
“Avram, do you know the psalm of David, the one which begins, “The Lord is my shepherd?’”
Avram was a little indignant. “Of course. Everyone knows that one,” he said. “I’m not a baby.”
“Never said you were. ‘He leadeth me beside the still waters,’ remember?”
“So?” Avram really didn’t mean to be rude, but he felt the young man was still treating him like a child.
“So, Avram ben Yeshua of the House of David,” the young man went on calmly, “to your sheep you are the Lord. And you have led them beside the still waters. You don’t have a rod or a staff, but your torch comforted them. You even prepared them a table in the presence of their enemies.”
“What table? Sheep don’t eat at tables!”
“The whole world is a table to its creatures, and there’s good graze here. And the sheep know their enemies aren’t going to harm them, as long as you are with them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Avram said. “I’m not the Lord. I’m just me.”
“That’s good enough. Your uncle and cousins went to see a miracle. It’s a very fine miracle, certainly, but miracles happen all the time. Some people just don’t notice the everyday ones. They’re so busy they need lights in the sky and magic singing to catch their attention, and when that happens they forget everything that’s really important. Maybe they get a little crazy. A miracle happened right here, and your uncles and cousins missed it.”
Avram was still a little grumpy. The young man was talking in riddles. “You mean because you happened to come by and pull me out of the water and keep the wolves from eating my sheep? That’s just good luck!”
“I don’t mean that at all,” the young man said gently. “The miracle was that you were willing to die defending them.”
He glanced back at the wolves and Avram followed his look. They stood up, yawning vastly, lolling out their tongues and arching their backs, as if they were emerging from slumber, turned, and trotted quietly away. The sheep had broken their own trance and were back to grazing. The fire was blazing bright and hot, although Avram knew it should already have gone back to embers. The young man’s cloak felt as soft and warm as his mother’s arms, and he stopped shivering.
“Do you have anything to eat? Something to drink?” the young man said. By the firelight his features were clear. High forehead under his head-cloth, heavy brows over deep-set eyes, big strong nose curving a little like a hawk’s beak, a youth’s first sparse beard already beginning to fill out. He looked like every other young man Avram had ever seen. “I’m a little hungry and thirsty,” he said.
There was the end of a loaf of bread in Avram’s wallet, and he had a goatskin of water on a strap around his shoulder. He gave the waterbag to the young man, and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve got bread, too, but it’s probably soaked.”
The young man took a deep swig from the waterbag and handed it back. Avram drank, and the water tasted sweet, no tang of old goatskin. The pregnant ewe returned and knelt down next to him, and he put an arm around her neck. She rested her big bony head in his lap.
“Whatever bread you have will be fine with me,” the young man said. And when Avram took the stale butt-end of two-day-old bread out and shared it, he was surprised to find that it was dry, fresh, and more delicious than any bread he had ever tasted.
“Food and drink always taste better,” said the young man, “when you really need them, don’t you think? Thank you, Avram, for sharing what you have with a stranger.”
Avram looked at him hard. “I don’t think you’re a stranger. You look like my family,” he said. “You’ve got to be a cousin I don’t know yet. Did my father send you here to help me?”
The young man smiled. “Close enough,” he said. “I have to go. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.” He kissed Avram lightly on both cheeks, and stood. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life,” he said, and started to walk away. Avram stood up himself. “Wait! You forgot your cloak!”
He reached to take it off, but there was no cloak, although he still felt the enveloping warmth of it. He was dry and comfortable, and he drifted into sleep before the fire, which continued to burn quietly, although he hadn’t stoked it.
His uncle and cousins woke him at dawn, so full of the wonders they had witnessed – “Mighty kings in a stable, bowing to a newborn baby and offering rich gifts!” – that it took awhile before Uncle Samael asked Avram how his own night had gone.
“It was quiet, Uncle,” Avram said. “The sheep are fine.”