alcove

Part I - The ninety-eight

 

Blue curtains of skies and cotton stacks of clouds hung over Sheep’s head while she played in the fields. Grass carpets prickling at her bare ankles, ladybugs and butterflies attached to the hem of her sunflower dress. The others played as well - albeit admittedly not close to her. She was too quiet at times, they said. Which she justified by reminding them of how, once, she had been too loud, and that, too, had burdened her company for them. 

 

The air smelt of fresh coffee beans. The Shepherd kept all sorts of hobbies stored away - he loved grinding coffee, these days. Sheep, too, loved it when he ground coffee, for the scent flowing into her nostrils comforted her soul, warmed her heart, and made her feel a little less lonely. Then again, she supposed, the Shepherd never quite allowed for her to be alone. He was always there, taking care of her, watching over each scraped knee and wounded chubby fingers. 

 

Looking at him did not often console Sheep, however. He was a reminder of all things good, and lately she did not think she was good at all. She loved him, oh so dearly, and yet she wished he wouldn’t be so good to her - then perhaps she could afford no longer to bear the guilt of understanding how much better the others were compared to her failures.

 

Sheep’s stomach grumbled. Her short-nailed fingers clutched at the front of her dress. Some of the others were still in the kitchen, having breakfast. She was hungry - the last time she’d eaten had been last night, over twelve hours ago, and she could feel hunger creeping up her throat, especially at the sudden aroma of coffee and butter captured by the breeze and carried across the field, coating the sweet perfume of flowers with savory notes. And yet. . . 

 

Sheep shook her head and stood properly, marching towards the doors. That was her home, too. The Shepherd had said so - that it was her home as much as theirs, even if she arrived late, and she was free to roam about whichever way pleased her best. Therefore, she opened the door, although quietly, and stepped in to search for sustenance.

 

The others’ gazes held a weight to them. The moment Sheep stepped in, she felt it. Like coals hopping along the flesh of her nape. Ears burning, she opened the fridge and grabbed the first thing she could find - unfortunately, it just so happened to be a carrot. Unconsciously, Sheep’s nose wrinkled upon glancing at the vegetable on top of her palm. 

 

There. Snickers and sneers, lifted from the teeth of the others, sitting around the table, eyes trained on her. When she looked at them, her ears burned brighter yet.

 

“I’m trying to eat more healthy foods,” She said, fearfully letting her voice tremble so as not to come off too strong, “The Shepherd says it’s important that we feed ourselves well.”

 

“You say it like he plans on feeding on us some day,” One of them chimed, and the others laughed.

 

Sheep flushed harder. “That’s not what I mean! I just–I know the Shepherd wants us to be happy and healthy, and–”

 

“Maybe,” Another cut in, “You should eat out in the forest. No offense, of course. We accept you fully, although you’re not exactly. . . well. Cut from the same herd, that is.”

 

From the depths of her chest scorched a flame of anger. Sheep wanted to scream, to protest, to argue. And yet, flashes of conversations with the Shepherd blinked behind her eyelids. 

 

“You must forgive those who insult you, little Sheep,” He’d said once.

 

“Even if they do it multiple times?” She’d asked. “Even if they don’t truly regret it?”

 

The Shepherd had smiled, ruffling her hair, his hand as gentle and comforting as a warm hug. “Especially then.”

 

Thus she did not fight. She closed her fingers tightly around the carrot and left. Passing by the fields, she saw groups of sheep. There were ninety-nine of them in total, and some days Sheep felt as though she was the one–but not ‘the one’ the way books often described it. The Shepherd owned a library with hundreds of beautiful, cozy volumes, and Sheep often drifted towards them–for lost in the midst of others, she found comfort in words. 

 

In books, ‘the one’ was always quite special, see. They would go on adventures and save the world, all because they were either born or able to develop features that made them stand out in joy. Others would flock to them, not away from them. They were apart, but people wished they belonged. 

 

Sheep was apart, for others did not think she belonged.

 

Months ago, when she met the Shepherd, she was wandering in search of food. Days had passed since the last time she had eaten, and Sheep wasn’t proud to admit she’d gone beyond struggling–she’d done bad things to assure her own survival. One night, starved and thirsty, she’d broken into the house of a fox and stolen bread. When, in the days following so, she failed to find even a bunch of grass to eat, Sheep took that to mean she was being punished. 

 

And then she met the Shepherd.

 

He was sitting by a fig tree. She approached slowly, carefully, sluggishly–for her bones did not quite hold the weight of her body anymore, those times. Without her saying anything, the Shepherd had spoken. 

 

“Are you hungry, my child?”

 

His voice sounded like being held. Like fire crackling by the lake while birds chirped above. Sheep’s eyes had swollen up with tears, the term of possession striking a chord she did not want to reveal. 

 

“Yes,” she’d whispered. “I’m hungry.”

 

When the Shepherd told her he had somewhere to bring her, Sheep pictured somewhere solitary. He looked, despite his gentleness, like a solitary man. Like he was searching for something, although he ought to have everything. 

 

Sheep knew the risks of following strangers to their homes, and quite frankly, she understood she shouldn’t have. But the Shepherd was different. He did not feel like a person, weirdly enough. He felt like solace wrapped up in human skin and dressed up comfortably. 

 

To Sheep’s horror, for a moment, she let herself forget about the bread she’d stolen. In between feeling sorry for herself and emotional for the Shepherd’s presence, she’d let herself forget she ought to feel guilty and horrible.

 

“I can’t,” She said then, and stopped. The Shepherd, too, stopped. When he looked back at her, he was calm. Patient. It made no sense. People weren’t patient with her. “I can’t–I can’t eat. I stole bread from a fox. It’s probably starved by now. I’m not good. I don’t deserve to eat.”

 

Anger and frustration were emotions Sheep knew a thing or two about. Much of her past became a blur after the Shepherd, but one thing she remembered: she did not get second chances. Sometimes, she did not even get first chances. But the Shepherd did not look at her with anger of frustration, not at all. 

 

He crouched until he was level with her, grabbed her hand and squeezed it. 

 

“The fox is okay,” He whispered, and the sun in his eyes warmed her remorse, “I have already found a new meal for her.”

 

Sheep’s eyes widened. “Really? You’ve met the fox?”

 

The Shepherd chuckled. “Yes, I’ve met the fox. See, the fox leaves the door unlocked because she believes no harm will ever come to her. Do you know what the fox says when I come to her and ask her why, child?”

 

She shook her head, but her eyes glimmered. 

 

“She says, ‘Because I know you will take care of me, Shepherd.’ Can you believe that, child? Many don't even believe the fox is even mine. And yet she trusts me so deeply. I suppose, yes, that is why I will always take care of her.”

 

Sheep didn’t quite understand. But she knew better, at that moment, than to question the one aiding her. The one who’d reassured her that the fox was okay–that her mistake wasn’t unfixable. Perhaps, then, she wasn’t out of time yet.

 

The Shepherd brought her, then, not to a lonely place where he lived alone, but to a wide field brimming with flowers and rich plants leading up to a hill, and atop the hill there was a house. 

 

“That is where we live,” He told her.

 

“We?” She asked.

 

“Yes. Me and my sheep.”

 

Sheep should have been relieved. She should have been glad, even. But she was not. For many years, she had walked amongst felines, and wolves, and foxes, and even birds and fish. She wasn’t joyful, but amongst them, she was also not ashamed. It was when she met other sheep that she felt true, unadulterated shame. Because it was like looking at what she could have been through glass she could never afford to shatter.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t come, Shepherd,” she’d whispered.

 

Once again, the Shepherd stopped. And once again, he crouched before her. Sheep marveled quietly at it. When did his patience run out? What did she have to do, to un-earn the gentleness he was extending freely?

 

“You are free not to come if you don’t want to, my child,” He’d muttered with a quiet smile. “But, even if you do, I will never force you to stay. For tonight, please, allow me to take you in with the rest of my sheep and feed you. I will give you someplace to sleep as well. And if, in the morning, you still think you should be elsewhere, you are free to go.”

 

She’d said yes. 

 

She’d never left.

 

But every day ever since–every day she’d felt lonely whenever the Shepherd wasn’t around. And worse yet, sometimes she felt worse because he was around. Because he was paying attention to her while the others were much better, much more deserving, and she couldn’t stop herself from blaming her own inability to act independently from his need to watch over her.

 

It was during the first months that someone from the forest told the other sheep about Sheep’s theft. That was when it all really deepened. The way they saw her before–as an outcast, not part of their group–soon became a silent sort of contempt. Once, she’d heard them whispering amongst themselves.

 

“We would never question the Shepherd’s decision,” One had said.

 

“Why, of course not!”

 

“But bringing in a thief. . .”

 

“I’m sure she means well. Of course. But maybe she should mean well elsewhere.”

 

Often Sheep wondered if the fox had been the one to spread the truth around. She wouldn’t have blamed her for it. Stealing was a mark etched onto her soul she would never be able to scrape off. Sometimes, she would ask the Shepherd about it.

 

“Do you think I will always be a thief?” She’d asked once.

 

The Shepherd looked confused. “What do you mean, Sheep?”

 

“Because of the bread I stole. Do you think I will always be a thief because of it, Shepherd?”

 

He’d looked even more confused. Squeezing her shoulder in overflowing reassurance, he’d whispered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheep. I don’t remember you ever stealing.”

 

She was sure he’d only said that to comfort her. And for a moment, it had worked. However, it was temporary. The next morning from a conversation with the Shepherd, she always remembered.

 

Lost in thought about it, Sheep didn’t even realize she’d drifted away from the field and stood now near the outskirts of the forest. She looked down at the carrot in her hand and laughed. She felt silly. 

 

Before she could spin on her heels and return to the hill, however, she heard a rustling on the bushes near her. She turned back and saw a wolf. For a moment, she felt conflicted on whether to be afraid or not.

 

Wolves were, commonly, a threat to sheep. But many were not a threat to her, because they could tell–they could tell she wasn’t just any sheep. She’d fought wolves before, surprisingly. She’d escaped some. And in some terrifying way, wolves always knew which ones to hunt.

 

“Hey,” The wolf said. His fangs shone when a smile spread on his face, his shoulder leaning against a tree. “Lost, little sheep?”

 

“I’m not lost,” She said immediately. “I live with the Shepherd at the top of the hill.”

 

The wolf’s smile vanished, and a scowl replaced it. Then, in an instant, his displeasure was gone. He smirked once again. “You don’t look like one of the Shepherd’s sheep. Are you sure?”

 

“Of course,” Sheep exclaimed, fists tightening, “The Shepherd calls me his. How can I not be one of his sheep?”

 

The wolf raised both arms in surrender. “Alright, alright. I didn’t mean to insult you, you know. It’s just. . . I’ve seen the Shepherd’s sheep, right? And they’re all very. . . alike. I think I know who you are. Aren’t you the one who stole from the fox?”

 

Sheep blanched.

 

“You are,” He said, satisfied at the confirmation in her reaction. “Then I’m right. You’re not one of the Shepherd’s sheep. The Shepherd’s sheep are innocent and good. They don’t steal.”

 

“That was a long time ago.”

 

“It could have been a thousand years ago for all I care,” He scoffed. “You stole, you’re a thief. That’s just the way it is.”

 

Tears welled up in Sheep’s eyes, and she lifted her hand to rub them away. “That’s not true. The Shepherd says–”

 

“The Shepherd lied to you,” The wolf said, bluntly, “Or he’s trying to change you to fit into the mold of the rest of his sheep. Maybe one day you’ll wake up and he’ll have scrubbed off your thieveness from you, alongside all your fur, and you’ll be exactly like the others.”

 

“Don’t speak about the Shepherd that way,” Sheep murmured, although her voice shook, the threat and imagery in his words slowly crawling up her spine.

 

“Or what?” He grinned. He pushed himself off the tree. “What are you going to do about it?”

 

“Leave her alone, wolf.”

 

They both startled at the third party in the conversation. Sheep’s eyes widened when she saw the fox come through the branches in the forest, her eyes narrowed dangerously towards the wolf. While Sheep was small and delicate, the fox was all hard edges, a glint to her eye that made her look predatory.

 

Dangerous, the sheep called her. The fox is a trickster. Go near her one too many times and you’ll end up gone.

 

The wolf’s expression soured. “Mind your own business, fox.”

 

“This is my business,” The fox said. She didn’t stop walking until she stood with her back facing Sheep–shielding her, completely, from the wolf. “Because, unlike her, I know your tricks. I’ve hunted with you. But no more. Off you go, wolf. Lest I call the Shepherd to make you.”

 

He sneered and, with one final look at the Sheep, obeyed.

 

The fox turned to look at the Sheep, and her eyes–they softened. Impossibly so. “Are you all right, little sheep?”

 

Sheep was shaking, but at that moment, she was also so incredibly grateful. She threw her arms around the fox and hugged her. To her surprise, she felt the fox’s arms wrap back around her.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sheep cried.

 

“What?” The fox asked, gentle. “Why?”

 

“I stole from you. I stole your bread.”

 

There was silence for a moment before the fox laughed softly. “I know. The Shepherd told me he’d chosen a sheep that had taken from me. I looked at him and asked, ‘what, really?’. Do you know what he said, Sheep?”

 

Sheep shook her head. 

 

“He said, ‘isn’t that the same reaction you get when you tell others that I protect you, fox?’. That’s how I realized my reaction was wrong. I was wrong. Others will never know why I am who I am, and I will never know why you stole from me. But it doesn’t matter, little sheep. Do you know why?”

 

Once again, Sheep motioned no.

 

“Because one day I asked the Shepherd,” The fox said, smiling, “I asked, ‘how’s the sheep who stole from me?’. And then he looked at me and said, ‘Fox, I’m afraid you have been daydreaming once again. None of my sheep have ever stolen from you.”

 

Sheep’s brows furrowed.

 

“Do you think he forgot?” She asked quietly.

 

“That’s what he does,” The fox explained. “Whenever the Shepherd forgives someone for something, he forgets all about it. He’s done it to me so many times. I once tried reminding him of a bad thing I did and all he said was, ‘Fox, I love your stories, but let’s keep them alive.’ Because that’s what your past is to him. Dead. He wants the part of you that lives.”

 

Part II - The One

 

The following days of meeting fox were bright and cheerful. Sheep’s mood was lifted in ways she couldn’t even describe, and even the Shepherd noticed it. He remarked, once, how glad he was to see her happy. And for once, Sheep was happy.

 

And then she heard it, that one night.

 

She was about to go to sleep. There were one hundred and one rooms in the house–meaning, each of the sheep got one, the Shepherd got one, and one was vacant. Sheep was on her way to hers when she overheard a few voices mingled together behind a closed door.

 

“I saw her hugging the fox,” someone whispered.

 

“Hugging the fox?”

 

“I know, right? The Shepherd brings her in, and she repays him by fraternizing with outsiders? We should be enough. The Shepherd should be enough.”

 

“I heard someone say once that the fox and the Shepherd are friends, though.”

 

“Well, now that’s just obviously a lie. The fox has hunted with wolves. The fox isn’t like us in the slightest–she doesn’t look like us, she doesn’t sound like us, she doesn’t even live here. The Shepherd is always with us. Have you ever seen him with her? Exactly.”

 

Sheep’s head hurt by the time she arrived in her room. She buried herself underneath the blankets and clutched at her chest. She knew the Shepherd and the fox were friends. Right? She remembered him telling her so, that one night, when he said he would always protect the fox. He did say that, right? Or was it ‘take care of’? Or. . . or perhaps Sheep was making it up, and she’d misunderstood him completely, and the others were right. Perhaps the fox truly wasn’t the Shepherd’s friend, and Sheep was finding comfort in the wrong place.

 

Crumbling down came the happiness from before, and suddenly Sheep remembered the wolf. Remembered his cruel expression, his words, the sound of his voice. Did the Shepherd want to change her? Did. . . did the Shepherd even understand what she was, or was it that the wolf had seen through her better than the Shepherd could?

 

A chilly breeze swept into the room. Sheep stood and marched to close the windows, but stopped at the last minute. She lived on the first floor. There was a tree right outside her window–and she knew how to climb.

 

The following minute, she was on the ground, hesitant steps marching her to the forest amidst the darkness of the night.

 

Cold curled at her feet and legs, climbing up her skin, and Sheep shivered at the biting winds. Yet she did not stop, for stopping would represent hesitating, and if she hesitated she might return. And at that moment, she did not wish to return.

 

The other sheep were right, she realized. For how selfish could Sheep be, to believe them all wrong and only herself right? The fox might have received help from the Shepherd–he was, after all, deeply loving–and might trust him to take care of her, but that didn’t make them friends. The Shepherd was friends only with the sheep. Otherwise, the entire forest would live at the hill, and not apart from him. Not to mention, if he didn’t interfere with the sheep’s allegations, they must all be true.

 

Tears pricked at the back of Sheep’s eyes. The sight of the fox’s back as she defended her own robber from the wolf burned. The way the fox had said the Shepherd’s name, so fiercely, and the way the wolf had immediately gone running upon hearing it. Was it all a bluff, Sheep wondered? Perhaps she simply hadn’t quite understood how cunning the fox could be. 

 

Lost in thought, soon Sheep found herself amidst the trees and bushes, moonlight reaching the ground through branches. She sat on the floor and hugged her knees close to her chest. It hurt so deeply, to think the Shepherd had made a mistake in bringing her in. But could there be another explanation, when her peers rejected her so?

 

The Shepherd would be glad that she was gone, she was sure. She caused nothing but trouble, while the other sheep brought him pride. There was this one sheep–Sheep had privately named her ‘Blessed’, for everything she did turned out well most of the time. She tended to the flowers and they bloomed brighter. She spoke to others and lifted their spirits. She told the Shepherd jokes and he laughed.

 

Sheep’s chest constricted in pain. She could never be Blessed. She could not even be any of the other sheep, whose own traits far surpassed her own. She was bound to roam the forests, she realized. To live, perhaps, like the fox–or to live like a third thing, that was once picked off her misery by the Shepherd but could not live up to his expectations of her.

 

Her eyelids drooped, heavy.Mindless to the hours passing, Sheep didn’t quite realize she had fallen asleep until she stirred back awake. The sun shone on the sky, the cold had melted off, and her neck hurt from craning all night. Her stomach growled in intense protest, and she was dreadfully reminded that she didn’t eat last night, too preoccupied with running away to do so.

 

She got on her feet and started walking. She remembered the forest, most faintly. It was still difficult, however, to properly pinpoint her position after months away. Every time she thought she went the right way, a path could cut through, and she would start again.

 

Finally, upon searching for hours, Sheep caught sight of a house. She approached and looked through the window. Quickly, she recognized it as Mr. Groundhog’s house–they had never properly met, but she had seen him once or twice while drifting along the woods before. And now, it seemed, he wasn’t home.

 

And there was bread at the center table near his armchair. A full basket of it. Sheep’s throat ran dry, and she swallowed through it. Her stomach tightened. Just one bread, she thought. Just one bread, and she would be satisfied, and there would be no reason to feel guilty, for clearly Mr. Groundhog had plenty to himself.

 

I don’t remember you ever stealing.

 

Sheep froze. The Shepherd’s voice, gentle within her ears, sent a wave of certainty through her entire body. Wordlessly, she stepped away from Mr. Groundhog’s house. She might be tied to her past already, but she would not betray the Shepherd’s trust and repeat the same mistakes again. It did not matter that, for a moment, she had glimpsed her errors as a solution. She knew, for she loved the Shepherd very dearly, she would sadden him deeply if she were to steal again–not to mention, regardless of how rich Mr. Groundhog was, that which belonged to him belonged to him only, and he could choose to make waste of it if he wished. 

 

Doomed by her past or not, Sheep would at the very least mold her own future.

 

Unfortunately, for the rest of the day, she couldn’t find any food. Here and then, she would catch sight of a fruit or a plant that she might have eaten, but the smell suggested poison or bitterness beyond her ability to digest, and therefore she moved on.

 

At night the cold returned. Sheep curled in on herself on the ground, cushioned by bright leaves, and closed her eyes. 

 

She woke up to someone gently poking her side. 

 

Mr. Groundhog stood above her, eyes kind, a warm smile on his mouth. “Hello, child.”

 

Sheep was about to reply when she looked down at his hand and saw a loaf of bread. Her mouth watered, and she swallowed it down. Immediately, he offered it to her, but she shook her head.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Yes, you can. The Shepherd once told me I was very fortunate to have so much food, and asked me to always offer some to his wandering sheep, if I ever found one,” Mr. Groundhog said, and Sheep’s eyes widened, which only prompted his smile to widen. “Here. Take it, child.”

 

“You know the Shepherd, Mr. Groundhog?”

 

Mr. Groundhog smiled. “Everyone knows the Shepherd, child. Many of us speak to him often, whenever he comes into the forest to check on us. Some avoid him–not because he has ever offended them, of course not, for how could the Shepherd offend anyone at all? But because they fear the other sheep.”

 

Sheep’s eyes widened. “They fear the other sheep?”

 

“See, many of us have tried visiting the hills,” Mr. Groundhog confessed, his smile shrinking, “But the sheep won’t let us through. The Shepherd is mostly never at home, although I suspect you understand that better than I do. The sheep are always there, however, and they block our way. ‘If you want to speak to the Shepherd, he has to come to you’, they say, ‘Like he came looking for us. This place is only for those he has chosen. You can’t come in.’”

 

Sadness gripped at Sheep’s heart. “I’m sorry, Mr. Groundhog. But. . .”

 

“Yes, child?”

 

“But if the sheep have treated you like that before,” Sheep started, slowly, brows furrowed in confusion, “Why would you accept the Shepherd’s request, to always feed us if you find us wandering?”

 

Mr. Groundhog’s eyes softened. For a moment, they shimmered with something quite like love.

 

“Because the Shepherd has never denied us any good or any kindness, little sheep. How could any of us ever deny him anything?”

 

Hope bloomed and spread like warmth through Sheep’s chest. Soon it was crushed, however, at the sound of a low, dangerous and mischievous track of laughter. Sheep’s flesh broke in goosebumps, and she unwittingly took a step back, closer to Mr. Groundhog.

 

“The wolf,” She whispered.

 

The wolf slithered from behind a boulder and reclined his body against it, leisurely, fearlessly. “I knew it,” He said. His eyes never wavered–they focused only on her. “I knew you weren’t one of his sheep.”

 

The way he said “his”, as though the very mention of the Shepherd caused him disgust, made Sheep’s skin crawl. She wanted to be strong enough to defend the Shepherd. To stand up for him. And yet what was she doing now, but dishonoring all of his presence and help, in running from the shelter he’d provided?

 

“The fox isn’t here this time, little sheep,” The wolf teased. He stepped forward. “Not that I was ever truly scared by her threats. Please. As if he would come running to the rescue of someone like her. Did you know she used to show me tricks she used to hunt? To fool things like you?”

 

Sheep’s brows furrowed. For hours, she had wondered whether the other sheep were right about the fox–and part of her had accepted that truth. And yet, at that moment, the way the wolf spoke of the fox struck a chord. Sheep didn’t like it.

 

But most importantly, Sheep knew that wasn’t who the fox truly was.

 

What a wonder, she thought, that it took the wolf’s sharp tongue to make her realize how unreasonable those words were. 

 

“The fox is kind,” Sheep said, lifting her chin, “And brave, and she loves the Shepherd. And the Shepherd loves her.”

 

“She used to tell me to always draw small things like you with fake kindness.”

 

“Stop talking about her.”

 

“She was brutal–you just had to see it. I’ve seen her do so many bad things without batting an eyelash.”

 

“Stop. Stop it.”

 

“In fact, she might just jump in here and eat you, any second now. Have you thought of that?”

 

“That’s enough.”

 

The air around them stopped. The wind halted, and the grass blades stilled. Sheep watched, mesmerized, the way the wolf’s jaw tightened, the way his eyes widened, the way he took back the step he’d taken forward.

 

For Sheep had not been the one to speak–the voice had come from behind her. 

 

And it hadn’t been Mr. Groundhog either.

 

“I will give you a moment,” The Shepherd said. Even then–even while commanding attention and quietness from the entire forest, his was a kind, gentle voice. “For it seems you have forgotten all about what I look like. Then take a good look, wolf. And be gone. Do not disturb my chosen sheep again.”

 

Sheep blinked. And the wolf was suddenly gone. 

 

He hadn’t even taken the moment the Shepherd had given him. 

 

Shame replaced relief when Sheep turned to look at the Shepherd. Immediately, emotion flooded–and before she could think, she was crying. Bawling, even. Her hands rose to rub at her eyes, but they were pulled away by tender fingers, soothing waves of his presence overflowing her.

 

“Hey,” The Shepherd whispered. He was crouched in front of her again. His eyes searched hers, and to her horror, he was smiling. As though she was ever deserving of such affection. “I was looking everywhere for you, my child.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she cried. There was so much she wanted to say. She wanted to explain it to him. She wanted to apologize profusely for ever leaving–or for ever meeting him and bringing upon him sadness. She wanted to do so many things, and yet, faced with the Shepherd’s eyes, all she could do was cry.

 

She felt his arms around her, and for what could have been hours she cried into his chest. She had the faint recollection of hearing him speaking to Mr. Groundhog.

 

“Thank you,” The Shepherd had murmured.

 

“No, Shepherd,” Mr. Groundhog had whispered back. “Thank you.”

 

Guilt, sadness, sorrow, the crushing need for love–they drowned out hours of Sheep’s life as she cried in the Shepherd’s arms. And yet not once did he falter. Not once did he suggest she calm down or stop crying. Not once did he claim they would need to hurry.

 

The others awaited at the hill, but he did not rush her. As though he had all the time in the world, just for her.

 

By the time she ran out of tears, Mr. Groundhog was gone, but there was a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth gently placed atop a rock nearby. Sheep looked up at the Shepherd–and sure enough, his expression reflected tenderness unlike anything else. But in that moment, it seemed, she saw childlike happiness in him as well.

 

“Why?” She breathed out.

 

It seemed she didn’t have to elaborate. Understanding her question, the Shepherd said, “Why should I not rejoice, my child, when I have found my lost sheep?”

 

A fresh wave of emotion hit her like a whirlwind.

 

“I’m not lost,” She whispered, “I ran. It was me. It was all me.”

 

“Mr. Groundhog told me he saw you looking at his basket of loaves through the window.”

 

Sheep’s eyes widened. “What? But–when?”

 

The Shepherd smiled. “One day, perhaps, my child. For now, know this: I have searched for you relentlessly. I would not have stopped until I found you, and even then, finding you alone would have been my motive to rejoice. But to learn that you were hungry and yet did not steal? To learn that you were presented an opportunity to do wrong, justified for it in this world, and did not? Oh, my chosen sheep. The forest will be lucky if I don’t throw a party that lasts for months.”

 

Sheep’s heart felt far too big for her chest–or perhaps her chest felt far too small for her heart. She wanted to cry–she wanted to burst out in laughter. 

 

“You don’t understand, Shepherd,” She begged, “It was my fault. I put myself in this situation. I have stolen before.”

 

“No,” He murmured, lifting a hand to ruffle her hair, “You have not.”

 

“But, Shepherd–”

 

“Listen to me, my child,” The Shepherd requested gently. “I know that the other sheep have hurt you. I know that the wolf has tormented you. I know that you question your worth, that you wonder whether you will eternally be the mistakes you have made in the past. But listen to this when I say it to you: I have forgotten every mistake you have ever made from the moment you brought them to me and asked for forgiveness in return.

 

“But here is a secret, my chosen sheep,” He continued, and his voice felt like honey, “I have forgotten many mistakes from many of the other sheep as well. But they keep reminding me. Not because they feel guilty, see, but because they go back to it. Having you join my flock was meant to bring out the best in them. But it did not. And each of them will have a lesson to learn for this–but you have learned yours, have you not?”

 

Sheep nodded. “I believe so, Shepherd. But, are you saying they have also stolen?”

 

His smile softened. “Some of them have stolen, my child. They have stolen dreams and hopes and smiles. Some of them have done worse. They have broken. Broken spirits quite like yours.”

 

“Then why–”

 

“Because they are mine.” 

 

Sheep blinked, looking up at him, seeing the sun shine in his eyes.

 

Still smiling, he continued, “I will not give up on them. A million times I will try. A million times I will teach them the same lesson, show them the same grace. But you, my chosen sheep. Do you not see? You don’t need to be taught a million times. So far, for every mistake, you have only ever had to be taught once.”

 

Sheep’s lips quivered. “But they know you better than I do.”

 

“They know of me,” The Shepherd agreed. “The fox knows me. Mr. Groundhog knows me. Some of them, yes, know me. But most of them, my child, they know of  me, because they are afraid to learn more.”

 

“Afraid how?”

 

“They are afraid to learn the same thing I have taught the fox and Mr. Groundhog,” He whispered, offering her his hand. “That they cannot earn my love or their place in my home. That it is my heart for them that makes it so that they are mine, and not their good deeds or actions.”

 

Sheep’s brows knit. “But are we not to do good, Shepherd?”

 

“Absolutely, you are to do good, and I am very proud that you understand that. But I don’t want you to do good in order to earn my love–you cannot.” His voice was leveled, and yet passion flew through. “You cannot earn that which I have given freely. Tell me, my child, why did you not steal?”

 

“Because it would make you sad if I had, Shepherd.”

 

His smile brightened. “That is exactly it, my child. I want you all to do good because you love me–not because you wish to make me love you. Because you understand I love goodness, and therefore wish to honor me with it.”

 

“Why haven’t you just told the other sheep that, Shepherd?” She asked quietly.

 

He sighed. Slowly, he sat cross-legged in front of her. The same man whose authority had frozen the forest now sat on the dirt and leaves, calloused hands wrapped around hers.

 

“I have, my child,” He said, kindly, “But sometimes they do not listen. See, that is why I need you.”

 

That gave her pause. “Me?”

 

“Have you not noticed now, child, that I have called you my chosen sheep many times?”

 

“We are all your chosen sheep,” She said, blinking, “That is what they have told Mr. Groundhog. That he cannot climb the hills with us because he wasn’t chosen like the rest of us.”

 

The smile on the Shepherd’s lips saddened. “That is not true, child. But they don’t lie–they are being deceived, see. Many will be deceived in matters of pride and vainess. Therefore, I need my chosen ones, child. I need the fox, to be able to protect my children. I need Mr. Groundhog, to look out for the needy. And I need you.”

 

Sheep’s throat closed. “What could you possibly need me for, Shepherd?”

 

His smile casted a glow in the entire world around. “I want you to go find me other sheep.”

 

She blinked. “What?”

 

“There is an empty room in the house. What you do not know, my child, is that there is always an empty room,” He whispered, enthusiastically, “I have gone looking for many sheep to occupy that room. You are one of them.”

 

“But I have my own room, Shepherd.”

 

“Yes, and at the same time, you occupy the vacant room, child. Have any of you ever stopped to count how many of you there are?” The Shepherd asked, and Sheep’s brows furrowed as she tried to remember. “There are so many more than you imagine. But that is all to be learned in due time. For now, know this: I love my sheep. I love this forest. But you, chosen sheep, I have chosen to go find me more sheep.”

 

Sheep’s fingers curled around his. “Where will I find other sheep, Shepherd?”

 

“You will find them in the forest, my chosen sheep. Or wandering the desert. Or, who knows, perhaps at the bank of a river, or just outside the wolf’s house. You will look for them and bring them to me.”

 

“Why would any of them want to listen to me, Shepherd?” She asked, and her voice was small, quiet, insecure.

 

The look on the Shepherd’s eyes, however–it made all of the doubt inside of her feel insignificant. For he looked at her as though she was capable of so, so, so much more.

 

“Because you will bring to them a heart redeemed, not static, my chosen one. You will speak to them about your story, and about the house I have brought you into. And you will be with them, when the other sheep turn their heads. You will be the anchor to me they will have.”

 

“But why me?” It seemed he had not yet run out of tears, for another flood filled her eyes. “I have done many things wrong, Shepherd. You might have forgiven my mistakes, but so have you forgiven from the others. Why is it not any of the others? Why is it me?”

 

“Because you are special to me, chosen one.”

 

She shook her head. “But why?”

 

“Because,” He whispered, “You are the weak, and the fragile, and the absolutely willing. You have not rejected a single word I have said to you, no matter how deeply they have dug into your regrets. And you have not justified your mistakes or felt arrogant that I was the one to choose you. I saw you, Sheep. I saw you apologize to the fox. I saw you confront the wolf. I saw you feel sympathy for Mr. Groundhog.”

 

Birds chirped over their heads, and the Shepherd stopped for a moment, looking up at them. The corners of his lips curled up in a gentle, caring smile. 

 

“Birds cannot stay in one place too long,” He said when he looked back at her. “And many predators wouldn’t listen to what a sheep had to say. There are cats and rabbits I know that would love to speak to me, but every time they try, the other sheep won’t let them. But you, my chosen one. I want you to be the door to me. I want you to bring them to me personally.”

 

Something odd was happening. The more the Shepherd spoke, the taller Sheep felt–not literally, but in spirit. As though, slowly, she wasn’t shrinking into herself anymore. As though she could stand.

 

But one thing still did concern her.

 

“I don’t know what to say to them, Shepherd,” She confessed ashamedly.

 

The Shepherd smiled–and it was the kind of smile that could put an end to evil. “Then you and I are going to spend a lot of time together, my chosen sheep. For I will teach you what to say.”

 

Part III - The other sheep

 

The Shepherd held her hand the entire time back to the hills.

 

Part of Sheep still worried. Now that she had run, surely the others would spread even greater rumors about her. And yet, with the Shepherd’s words echoing in her mind, she could not quite bring herself to spiral into despair for it.

 

Imagine, then, her surprise, when she set foot into the hill and was immediately greeted by at least three pairs of arms thrown around her shoulders, ripping her from the Shepherd, not unkindly, but in genuine relief.

 

“I’m so sorry,” She heard a voice near her ear, one that sounded like the whispers from a few nights back.

 

“I’m so sorry, Sheep,” Another murmured.

 

“Are you okay? Have you been hurt?”

 

“We were so worried.”

 

Oh, Sheep realized. They knew the Shepherd was there, and therefore they wanted him to see their worry. They knew of him, but they did not know him, was what he’d said. But it was her job to find other sheep, not to teach the ones he already had. She was sure he would task someone else to do so.

 

When they pulled away, however, another sheep approached. Many surrounded them, and judgemental gazes cut through Sheep’s skin, but it was Blessed, standing there, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, looking absolutely flushed with embarrassment, that truly shocked Sheep.

 

“What’s wrong?” She asked quietly.

 

“I’m sorry,” Blessed whispered. Sheep frowned, confused. “I confess. I confess, I was wrong. I should have helped you when the others rejected you. I knew what they were doing was wrong, Sheep, but I–I was so afraid that they would reject me too.”

 

Reality sunk into Sheep’s chest, and to her amazement, rather than anger, she felt compassion. 

 

“When the Shepherd learned that you had disappeared, he was so worried,” Blessed confessed, eyes flickering between Sheep and the Shepherd. “I think. . . I think that was the first time many of us were forced to face the fact that he loves you so very much. He said he’d go and find you, no matter what. We asked, ‘But what about us? There are ninety-eight here, at the hills’. He looked at us and said, ‘But I must find the one.’”

 

Joy bubbled in Sheep’s throat.

 

“I knew we should have welcomed you in, Sheep.” Blessed’s voice shook, and teardrops began marking her cheeks. “I knew you were alone, and probably scared, and I know I never actively participated in mocking you, but I feel like I have. Worse yet, I feel like, by letting them mock you, I was letting them mock the Shepherd, and I never even tried to stop it. Because I was so afraid that I would be rejected too.”

 

She sunk to her knees while crying. Many of the sheep around them rolled their eyes or scowled. A few looked emotional. A few looked away. 

 

“Forgive me,” Blessed pleaded, “Please, Sheep. Please, Shepherd. Forgive me.”

 

Sheep couldn’t take it anymore. She knelt as well, wrapping her arms around Blessed, and hugged her tightly. For a moment, she did not feel like an outcast or like a rejected creature. She felt as though her arms had become the Shepherd’s. 

 

And when she looked up at him, he winked at her.

 

“That’s one,” He whispered.

 

The End.