Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Even though he was in the dark, he could touch the current with his hand and guess its direction. He ran and ran until a tiny crack in the ceiling indicated the way out. Outside, evening was already sweeping away the day and a great dark cloud hung above the countryside. He turned to look at the village. It was a landscape of desolation, of thick columns of smoke and fires that carried the smell of burning bodies with them. With a heavy heart, he set off for the Ranch at a run, fearing that his house would already be under the rule of terror.

  ***

  He arrived with his whole body alert. He was about to go into the Ranch when he heard Rufus barking in the distance. He felt something was wrong. He ran in that direction. The barking led him to the Observatory. Beside the Great Pine, Rufus was barking as loudly as he could. Manchego hugged the dog and tried to calm him. “Rufus! What’s up?”

  Rufus was barking at the ceiba tree, at the foot of the hill. The shepherd looked in that direction. He saw Ounces trapped under the tree. He ran down to help his favorite sheep. “I’m coming, Ounces!”

  Lightning streaked the sky. The blast of thunder deafened Manchego for a few seconds. A strong wind rose which shook the trees from side to side, even the biggest ones, like the ceiba. Rufus kept on barking, but in a different way, desperately, as if he were alerting him to something. He went on. When he reached Ounces, he squatted down. Nothing was holding the animal. Was it a trap? The sheep watched him with a sly look. Manchego started, tripped.

  Those sky-blue eyes, bright, as if possessed, went on staring at him. The boy began to move away backwards, fell. But it was not only he who fell; the whole world toppled. His back struck the ground, his lungs emptied abruptly, and he was left breathless. Something cracked under his weight.

  He wanted to act, but panic had paralyzed his will. He was sinking. Two tears of sadness ran down the shepherd’s face as he fell into the depths. At the last instant he reached out with his arms to grab whatever there was, but his fingers grasped only air.

  “Lulita….!” he howled. The earth swallowed him.

  Part II

  Chapter XVIII – Darkness

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, breathe in, breathe in, breathe out.

  Something turbulent flowed along those elastic tubes with their unequal diameter. It was liquid, it flowed with difficulty. Pulse by pulse. A bomb marked the rhythm of life. Tut, tot, tut, tot, tut, tot… Tut, liquid out; tot, liquid in. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Everything worked to perfection. It sounded rather like a rustle of silk. He imagined a silkworm rubbing its legs. The image of the worm shattered when a loud noise brought him out of his slumber; there seemed to be leaks of water and air. But he was exhausted and needed to sleep in order to recover. He let himself drift through dreams, delightful images which peacefully rocked him.

  And what is that? That noise… Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Something that was broken, leakages of air and water.

  He had no idea how long he was in that state, asleep, waiting, recovering. Recovering from what? He might be dead, but an acute pain reminded him that he was indeed alive… Rest made him forget that pain. The layers of sleep covered him with their feathered blankets.

  One, two, three, four sheep jumped over the fence. Five, six, seven, eight, nine sheep jumped. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen sheep. What joy! One after the other, white and pretty as clouds, jumping with the grace of the breeze, the movement of the pendulum of life.

  A hundred and five, a hundred and six, a hundred and seven, a hundred and eight, a hundred and nine. Wow! So many sheep!

  One of them stopped before it jumped and turned to look at him. Those eyes… a sheep with sky-blue eyes?… The sheep bleated, baaaah, baaah, and jumped. That blue-eyed sheep triggered a memory. He thought he knew its name, even though he could not remember it. The shepherd who looked after all those sheep must know his job.

  Shepherd…

  Shepherd?

  The word echoed in his mind.

  A dying sense surrounded him. A shiver ran through his body with poisonous claws, scratching at his exhausted soul. Everything was silent, cold, the smell of death. He could see nothing. He wanted to rub his eyes, but the movement brought on a sharp pain. He decided to stay still. Then he noticed that his right arm was terribly wounded, but he did not know how or when he had injured it. He could not see a thing. He put his left hand to his face. Yes his eyes were open, but he had no way of establishing whether everything was dark or whether he had been struck blind.

  Absolute darkness and silence. His breathing was uniform, except for some repeated sighs. He did not know where he was. Perhaps at home, perhaps it was night-time and that was why he could see nothing. He moved his left arm; it hurt a little. The right one hurt too much. His skin brushed against cold stone and made him shiver. There was nothing else around.

  He put the fingers of his left hand to his mouth and touched his lips. They were dry. His fingers too were intact. Luchy! Lulita! Rufus! Balthazar!… What was happening? Who was doing this to him? He did not dare to shout or even moan with pain. He did not know whether in that darkness there were eyes and ears waiting for the perfect moment to attack him. His heart beat crazily. Something terrible had happened and he had no clue to help him to find out what it was.

  He put his left hand to his head and stroked it. When he felt something gelatinous and a lightning-bolt of pain pierced his skull, his world collapsed.

  What’s happened to me? What’s this on my head?

  He touched it again. Yes, it was something gelatinous with a rough edge. He pressed, and once more that stab of pain that came close to driving him insane. He could barely contain a howl. He licked the finger-tips that had touched the wound in his head and tasted something metallic: blood. And the broken bones, the fever… He was beginning to put two and two together. His hair was plastered with dried blood and scabs.

  He tried to feel his right arm with his left, to assess the damage. At that moment he realized that all his weight was lying on that limb. The shoulder was turned towards his chest, the joint was throbbing. It was not the only thing that was twisted: so were his elbow, his wrist and his fingers. Has a horse trampled on me? Could it have been Mowriz and his friends?

  He tried to sit up. He bent his right leg, trying to overcome that torture, so as to lean on his left side. He did not move much, but it was enough to free his right arm from his own weight. Now it felt numb, soft, lifeless. With his left hand he placed it over his chest. Something like peaks and a crest stood out. He understood at once that they were broken bones.

  He understood something else, that his whole right side, including his head, had suffered blows and fractures. Fear overwhelmed him with an attack of nausea, and in two fits of retching he threw up something that stank. A hint of light dawned in his mind. Ounces, his sheep… but possessed, with those sky-blue eyes. He had been frightened and had fallen, something broke beneath him and he kept falling. That was where he must have gotten those injuries.

  What or who had possessed the sheep? With what aim? Who or what wished to hurl him into utter darkness? If someone wanted to murder him, he had almost accomplished his mission. He wept. Someone wanted him dead. Could it be the shadow? That, now, was the least of it. The only thing that mattered was that he was alive and that he had to choose a way forward: to keep going or die. He did not hesitate.

  He remembered his grandmother, remembered Luchy… where were they now? Perhaps they were a long way away, without help, without warmth. A tear ran down his cheek, two, three. He burst into tears. The boy remained lying there, with nothing else to do but feel sorry for himself. He sniffed, and the echo returned a blast of sound that reminded him he must keep silent. But his clumsiness was not in vain. Thanks to the noise he imagined a map of the place. There seemed to be a series of tunnels around. Tunnels… Eromes’ red book came into his mind, with its mention of several dark tunnels. If I’m blind, I’ll never ever see
another sunrise, he said to himself, wanting to burst into tears again.

  Sunrises were his energy, his spiritual food. And what if, on top of being blind, he had been left alone in the world? Without his family, without his friends, without his pets, there would be no difference between him and a worm. He wiped away his tears and decided to control himself; weeping could dehydrate him. And come to that, where had Mowriz gone? Manchego had never imagined he would end up wanting his former enemy beside him.

  He had to move, and fast. The injuries might threaten his health; he might contract an infection. He gathered together strength from hope, from the will to survive, and got to his feet. The pain was intense, but the harsh training of the last months worked in his favor. He breathed in deeply, proud of having got himself under control, determined to find safety, and started walking. Where to go? Anywhere. The important thing was to move on.

  Chapter XIX – Blossoming

  He walked very slowly, dragging his right leg. His head was spinning. Sometimes the wound opened, and a thread of blood ran down his temple. Simple things like not tripping and falling, or taking care of his posture so as to save his strength, took on an extraordinary importance. His chest shrank as if a claw was trying to tear out his heart. He coughed. Something thick and tasteless came up, neither blood nor snot. Thanks to the cough he was able to gain some idea of where he was.

  The ceiling was extremely high; everything around him was rock. To the left he touched a wall. He went on along it, clinging close to it to guide himself and steady his steps. After a while he felt tired and lay down on the cold, hard floor. His exhaustion was so extreme that he fell asleep at once. When he woke up he went on. It seemed this was never going to end.

  He slept again, woke up again. Once more on the move. Manchego had already lost all sense of direction, time or space. He had no idea what had happened, why he was there, or how to get out, but something he did know: without water, without food, without love, his life was slipping away from him.

  ***

  His boots sank into mud. He tripped and fell on his face in a puddle of water. It was freezing! Water!

  With enormous delight the boy began to drink without restraint, regardless of the acrid mineral flavor. It was cool. He went on a little more; perhaps he would find a larger expanse of water where he could bathe his wounds. Overcome by excitement, it was too late by the time he realized he had reached an edge. He slipped.

  He fell several feet, panic-stricken, until his body crashed into a great body of water. He sank, further and further down. He concentrated on not losing his calm, not breathing, not swallowing water, taking control of his body and moving his feet, like fins, towards the surface. When he emerged he touched a wall and grasped at a crack.

  He was treading water. He prayed there would be no hungry animals beneath his feet. He swam on, keeping close to the wall. He had to find the shore, dry land. His boots trod on a surface and he began to walk. He arrived somewhere with different features. He noticed it in the rock and the floor, which was soft, like mud. His footsteps did not produce the same deep echoes; Manchego deduced that there were fewer passages. He coughed. This time he brought up a gelatinous and ill-smelling substance.

  Overcome by exhaustion, by darkness and by not knowing, the boy lay down on the ground. He fell asleep immediately.

  ***

  Something was calling him by name. The sound was distant, vague, but it did not stop. Yes, it was his name, over and over and over again…

  The wheat-field swayed in the breeze and opened in golden fans, radiant in the twilight. The horizon was a watercolor in crimson and brown, sky-blue and orange, clouds and sun. You reap what you sow, he thought as he tilled the fields. Those who sow tears, reap joys. Though they may weep as they load the sacks, they’ll come back singing with joy, bundles of wheat in their arms. We must sow.

  The afternoon was darkening into dusk. He gazed at the sky; the stars twinkled. Something happened to the stars, they were moving, becoming brighter; it seemed the world was spinning at a terrible speed. Not far away, stars began to rain down on the fields! As they touched the ground, they raised silver sparks.

  He broke into a run, with an expectant smile on his face and his hands open. Would he manage to catch a star before it fell?

  Ah! Here it comes!

  Swisssssss!

  He raced as fast as he could towards a strip of light which left a yellow wake behind it and was traveling at an impossible speed. With his hands cupped, he managed to grasp it before it collided with the ground.

  He rolled on the grass, taking care not to lose his precious possession. He got to his knees, both astonished and awed. The star was in his hands! The light was so powerful he could not stop admiring it; at the same time, that brightness did not hurt him. The light began to rise from his hand as if it had a life of its own.

  Those who sow with tears

  the seeds which in black fire lie,

  through blackened sunset creeping

  on the alum, the darkening sky;

  a sea with darkness weeping

  summons Thórlimás from the land.

  From the land of Tutonticám,

  lost, lovely, remote Teitú,

  there walks firmly over the veil

  over ships of white bamboo,

  which on a purple sky sail,

  a warrior of the Naevas Aedán.

  Times spent in Chaos will pass by him

  over the war of a sadness

  between its mighty supports,

  where his dwelling shone in gladness

  days passed in a peace of sorts,

  a place that remains destroyed.

  The old Lyric of the Wind sings that he

  who bears the sack of seed with care,

  heavy and somber, bent double,

  will soon shine with joy so fair,

  his night disappears from the rubble

  and his discontent never returns.

  “Don’t underestimate a Teitú nut,” the witch had told him with something mysterious in her voice. “It’s a magical nut, an indispensable totem. When you need it, bury the Teitú nut a foot underground, water it three times a day and lie on top of it to give it your warmth for five consecutive nights.”

  He woke up. He was breathing fast; he felt his lungs were about to collapse. The Teitú nut! He still had it in his hand; all this time he had been squeezing it. Hesitating over whether he should part with it or not, he dug in the mud, buried the totem and covered it. He lay down on top, face up, resolved to wait.

  He dreamt of something delightful, for a change. He was walking on the clouds, white and soft. Something came up from the ground, from the exact spot where he had buried the nut, like a volcano which spewed earth instead of lava. He woke up. Impressed by the dream and moved by what awaited him, he closed his eyes once again.

  Absolute peace enveloped his heart; a supernatural force raised his spirits. Could it be the nut germinating beneath him? Time went by. The volcano had grown. Awed, he touched it and felt that a plant had sprouted. How wonderful!

  He tried to sink back into the dream but was unable to. His excitement would not allow him to relax and sleep. He was anxious to learn the result of the spell. He coughed and knew his health had deteriorated. Without food and without treatment by a competent healer, he might be at the doors of death. This thought darkened his enthusiasm for the nut and the plant; he became dizzy and lost consciousness.

  He opened his eyes. He sensed life, that something or someone was keeping him company. After so much loneliness, he gave thanks to the heavens. He touched the plant. It was a foot tall, and some leaves had opened on it together with a bud which would soon turn into a flower.

  “My name is Manchego,” he said excitedly. Perhaps he was losing his wits; he was still terrified of speaking in the shadow, but communicating, strengthening the illusion that he was engaged in a dialogue with someone, even if it was only a plant, made him feel good.

  He tol
d it he was an orphan and the tragic story of how Eromes had sacrificed his life for him. He grew sad.

  In the boy’s mind the plant began to develop a personality, something unusual, but the most incredible thing was that the plant understood why Manchego loved sunsets, particularly those dramatic sunsets when the clouds bled around the edges and poured their essence on the horizon, like tea in water.

  Often he had tried to explain this to Grandmother and Luchy. No one had understood what he meant. The plant concluded that Manchego was in love with Luciella. Well, of course! But it also knew that he was very sleepy and that because of his serious injuries he needed to rest. The boy did not doubt that the plant’s advice was excellent, and with his soul now restored in spirit, he readied himself for sleep, and to recover from the blows.

  Chapter XX – A Sun in the Shadow

  He woke up. Everything was dark. He felt something around him and turned his head to find out what it was, but it was no use, so intense was the blackness. He coughed a couple of times, bringing up that unpleasant substance again.

  This time his ribs did not hurt. He concentrated on the presence which was keeping company with him. He touched the plant. The stem was incredibly long! It had grown in thickness too, it now felt like the trunk of a small tree. It had long sharp thorns. He got to his feet and touched the trunk carefully so as not to prick his fingers on the thorns. It had at least ten branches, with bushy foliage. The shy bud had been transformed into a perfect, swelling sphere, its surface smooth and slippery, like that of a fish or a frog’s egg.