“She needs help? Another shepherd?”
He nods. “Two others help at times, but they’re both occupied. One ill.”
I frown. “Does she have dogs?”
Several men look up at me.
“You know…herding dogs?”
“She did,” one says, “but Heath passed on. No more to be trained.”
I nod, and toss back half my glass. Then, with the sting of whiskey still filling my throat, I say, “I’ve done some shepherding before.”
Six
Finley
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
I shut my eyes and inhale slowly. When I open them again, the view is still as bleak. I’m standing on one of the higher slopes out near the Patches, looking down the valley where we grow our food, where we corral the cattle. My view is framed by the hood of my rain coat, striped by gulches shining in the moonlight. Gulches growing wider as the rain pours. It’s quite dark out, so the sheep scattered about the slopes below me are pale dots—scattered dots, because the herd has splintered…twice.
Patch Valley didn’t have so many gulches prior to this past spring. Joe White used to take a group to work on erosion in the valleys, but he hurt his leg slipping on Upper Lane after a hail storm this past winter, and most of his former crew are feeling their years. I suppose it’s time for someone else to take over stacking stones and sand bags.
For now, I’ve got to get these sheep into a herd again and drive them down the slopes onto the flat land at the bottom of the valley.
Took me the better part of an hour to walk the road from the village, on the island’s northwest tip, over the Hillpiece and past Runaway Beach. The road petered out near the flat plane of the Patches, by the sea; from there I climbed the lower slopes to reach my charges.
First, I tried to lure them down along one of the wider gulches. I rattled a bucket of feed, calling like always. But it was raining too hard; got the feed soggy so it didn’t rattle—and anyway, my wee fluffins wanted nothing to do with the gulch.
I miss Heathcliff, my canine companion. He would have them down the slope in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
I count heads and decide I’ll start with the two small groups off to my right—closest to the Patches, and the ocean beyond. I’ll walk the path I’m on and cut down around the outside of them. Then I’ll drive them east, toward the next small group. After that, I’ll climb up to where the gulch is narrower, drop back down, and herd that new group toward the next. I groan, realizing I’ll be doing this all night if no one comes to help.
I asked Mayor Acton for help over the radio an hour ago, and he said he would send someone. Then my radio broke. Perhaps I’ll have help, perhaps I won’t. No more time to wait, though.
I kick the mud off my boots and glance back up above me at my pack, wrapped in a tarp and wedged under a rock up near the Triplets—three large boulders that serve as an island landmark. Then I start down the boot-worn path, moving carefully, my heels dug in to keep from slipping.
I’m farther downslope, picking my way over small rocks and using larger ones for balance, when I see something moving in the Patches, out beyond the scattered herd. I track the figure for a moment. Definitely human. Rather than drive the sheep solo, I turn my flashlight on and off a few times and perch on a rock to wait for help.
I watch as my companion flashes his or her light, too. When he or she is close enough—it’s a “he,” I’m fairly certain—I analyze the person’s gait to try to discern who.
Mike Green is long-legged, and wide up top. He’s fifteen, but the nicest boy. He’ll make a good shepherd one day. Or I suppose it could be Benny Smith. He’s a bit of a chair-dweller, but occasionally he’ll help if prodded. Mayor Acton is his uncle, so perhaps he was shook out of his chair.
I watch my helpmate hike until he reaches a stone-scattered ridge, disappears beneath an overhanging rock, and emerges on its other side, perhaps two meters over. When I realize who it is, I nearly faint dead away.
The Carnegie stops a few yards downhill, shielding his forehead with his large hand, so I can only see the lower half of his face: pale against the darkness, hard jaw dripping. He moves his hand, revealing wet-lashed eyes and stubble-covered cheeks, wide-boned above his hard-cut jaw. He looks like a sculpture—Michelangelo’s fine marblework.
I look him up and down, stricken by his perfection—physically. Then I look into his somber eyes and give a sharp laugh. “How did you get lost up here?”
“What?”
“The village is that way.” I point back across the valley where the Patches lie.
“I’m here to help you with the herding. Mac sent me.”
I can’t help but guffaw. “Did he find you at the pub? How many empties were beside him?”
His mouth tightens. “I know how to drive a herd.”