by Dan Dowhal
“Dios! These sheep? Non, monsieur. Truly they are among God’s most stupid animals, but they sometimes talk to their cousins — the wild sheep in the mountains.”
“I see. And those sheep are smart?”
“Oh, no. They are stupid, too, although definitely not as stupid as these. But the mountain sheep talk to the raven. Now, the raven — ah, she is very wise.”
“So, the raven knew I was coming.”
“No. Lusio, he says you will come. He and the raven, they are good friends.” There is a twinkle in Beñat’s eye, and Shane can’t figure out whether this is some obscure foreign humour or if the old man actually expects Shane to believe the nonsense about talking animals. The thought that Beñat might be playing him for a fool irritates Shane, and he feels the first flushes of anger stroke his cheeks.
“So what’s this Lusio … a coyote or something?”
“Ha! The coyote, he is also very smart, but a liar … you cannot believe a word he says. No, Lusio is a man. A very great man.”
“Do tell. How did this Lusio guy know I was coming?”
“Ah. That is a very long story … one we save for later.” Beñat stretches his hand toward Shane. Out of reflex, Shane pushes it aside. Beñat clucks his tongue.
“Please, permit me.” He reaches out again, slowly, and places his palm against Shane’s chest. After a few seconds he nods his head. “Yes, Lusio said you carry much inside of you. Tell me, why are you so mad?”
“You were just starting to piss me off with this sheep and raven stuff. It’s no biggie. We’re cool.”
“No, no, I am talking about your great anger. I say the word mad because in English, you use the same word for ‘angry’ or ‘insane,’ no? Think about this, mon ami. It is not some accident of the language.” Beñat taps Shane’s chest. “You carry it here. You try to lock it up, but sometimes the beast escapes, no? Other times it scratches you from the inside and … I forget the English word … what a dog does with its bone —”
“Gnaws?”
“Si. Oui. Gnaws at you. I know, because I was once exactly like you.”
“Exactly like me, eh? No shit. And did you play in the NHL, too?”
Shane would not have thought it possible, but the grin on Beñat’s face spreads even wider. He seizes Shane’s hand and pumps it wildly. “NHL! Mon dieu! This the sheep did not tell me. But that is wonderful. Incroyable! Not me, mon ami. I was not, I think, good enough, although I did not have a chance to find out. In my time only some Swedes, and then, later, a few Russians were able to come from Europe to play in America. I hoped only to play for Txuri Urdin, my local club, but fortune was not so kind. But, ah, the NHL … yes, what player does not dream of it?”
Beñat twirls his shepherd’s crook around and holds it like a hockey stick. He takes aim at a rock on the ground and smacks it down the valley in a good imitation of a slap shot. “Rocket Richard. Gordie Howe. Bobby Hull. Bobby Orr,” he chants like some sort of mantra. “Of course, I dreamed of playing for a Basque team in the Olympics, and there it was necessary to admire the Soviets. Bobrov, Firsov, Kharlamov, Mikhailov, Yakushev.”
“You’re kidding. You played hockey?”
“Bien sûr. Back home in San Sebastián.” He laughs and taps Shane lightly on the shins with his staff. “Maybe I see now why Lusio sent you to me. Come, I will make us some tea and tell you my story.” He gestures up the cliff toward the stone dwellings.
“Hold on, I can’t just leave the kid.”
“Do not worry, mon ami. He will be okay. Children need to play, not listen to grown men making serious talk. Napoléon will watch over him.” He whistles, and the sheepdog that has been gambolling with Vern comes sprinting over. Beñat says something to the canine that Shane cannot understand. Then Napoléon goes racing back to the boy at full tilt.
“Was that Basque?” Shane asks.
“Yes, my native tongue. It is the language the dog prefers, although his first language was Spanish.”
Shane no longer finds Beñat’s impish tone irritating. He suspects the old man is one of those persistent jokesters who perceive a punchline in every heartbeat.
“Never heard it before. Strange language … no offence.”
“No, no. It is true. It is unique, for sure. The academics cannot find a root linking it to any other language on earth. Some say it is the tongue of ancient Atlantis. But, like many of my countrymen, I also speak the languages of the nations that still hold us in their grasp — France and Spain. And I have been in America for more than forty years now, so I have tried to learn its language as well. But this is not so easy when you are talking only with sheep.”
They reach the cliffs, and Beñat indicates the series of ladders that rise in stages up the rock face. “We go up there.”
Shane casts a last look at Vern. The boy’s laughter indicates that he’s enjoying himself, so Shane follows the old shepherd skyward.
TWENTY-THREE
Beñat leads Shane up to the rooftop terrace of the largest adobe-brick building. From there, an entrance that is half doorway, half window leads to an inner chamber carved out of the rock. The room is small and sparsely furnished. Along one wall is a low sleeping platform covered in blankets. A simple plank table with two chairs dominates the middle of the space. Nooks carved into the sandstone hold candles and some pottery. A small two-burner propane stove sits on the floor, surrounded by a meagre assortment of well-used pots and pans. It is here that Beñat turns his attention, firing up the stove and putting on a dented, fire-blackened kettle.
Shane ponders his own recently lost home in the sky — the spacious condo where he lived with Brandi, which had closets bigger than this entire room.
“You live simply,” he comments to the shepherd.
“I simply live,” the shepherd replies with a hearty laugh. “See, my English is not so bad. I can make jokes.”
“Good one,” Shane replies. He surveys the surrounding houses. “Must have been hundreds of people living here once, eh?”
“Yes. But even then this was a holy, sheltered place.”
“I’m surprised the government lets you stay here. Aren’t these all, like, protected historical sites? State parks and whatnot?”
“The government does not know about this place. It hides from the world.”
“Really? After centuries, nobody’s stumbled across it? I find that hard to believe. I mean, this area isn’t that remote. Hell, you found it, didn’t you?”
“I did not find it. I grazed my sheep in these hills for many years and never knew it existed.”
“What do you mean you never found it? You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Lusio showed me. He took me here.”
“Oh yeah, right. Lusio. The guy who told the raven who told the mountain sheep who told your sheep who told you I was coming. So who is this Lusio, anyway?”
“Wait, my friend. First we drink tea and I tell you my story, and then we will talk about Lusio.” Right on cue, the kettle starts to whistle, and Beñat busies himself preparing their refreshment. He brings the teapot and a pair of mugs to the table and bids Shane sit down. Suddenly the shepherd bangs his forehead. “Coño! Forgive my rudeness. I have lived alone for too long. I have been talking and talking and we have not shared names.”
“The sheep didn’t tell you that?”
Beñat guffaws. “Ha! The sheep think everyone is called Baaa! Allow me to begin.” He removes his oversized beret and gives a deep bow. “My name is Beñat Koldobika Goikoetxea. I was born near the village of Auzoberri, in Euskal Herria — what is called Basque Country. I am happy to be making your acquaintance.” He offers his hand formally.
“My name is Shane Alexander Bronkovsky. I was born in the town of Peel Crossing in the Yukon Territory, Canada.” They shake hands, and again Shane is impressed by the strength of the old man’s grip, although now he senses the rugged life behind it. He is reminded of the old trappers and prospectors he knew in his youth — cantankerous, unkempt, stubbo
rn men who were all sinew, gristle, and gumption.
“As you can see, I am a shepherd. My father and his brothers and their father and their grandfather were all shepherds. But that is not to say I have always been one. No, mon ami, and this is why I share my story with you. When I was a boy I became angry, mad, that I was expected to spend my life tending sheep. I shouted and cursed and kicked and threw stones at the sheep. My mother cried and pleaded with me. The priest threatened me with hell. My father beat me without mercy. But all that only made me more angry.”
“But you see, we’re not the same. I had it good as a kid. I mean, my mom died when I was twelve, and sure, that sucked, but I always had my hockey. Things were cool, you know?”
Beñat tolerates the interruption with a smile, then proceeds as if Shane has not spoken.
“I fought my parents with so much fury they sent me away. I went to live in the city, in San Sebastián, with my mother’s brother. Now, you may perhaps think that when a young man obtains that which he has fought for since he was a little boy, he will stop his anger, but that was not how it went with me. The anger — it remained, like some wild animal that has climbed inside to make a nest. Soon I found other people to feed to the animal within. At school, I fought every boy in my class. Not just with my fists, although that I did every day. No, I also fought with this.” Beñat taps his temple with his forefinger.
“What, you mean, like, head games?” Shane asks, drawn into the tale despite knowing that its moral will ultimately be directed at him.
“No, no, I mean that I fought even harder in the classroom to be the best student, the one who knows the most and gets the most distinctions for his examinations. I beat the other students and overcame the laziness of the teachers, and this earned me a scholarship for the universidad. You may perhaps think that when a young man beats all others around him, and he rises to the top and has the chance to be the most educated and successful man his family has ever seen, in all its generations, that man should stop being angry, no?”
“Let me guess. You were still pissed, right?”
“Pissed? This expression I do not know. Is this what you do when you have knocked someone you are fighting down to the ground? Do you then stand and urinate on them?”
“God, no. It’s just a figure of speech. It means being angry.”
“I told you my English needs work. Yes, I was still pissed.” He grins with childlike enthusiasm, delighted to use his newly acquired slang. “I was pissed at the girls, who I felt did not offer the worship and feminine rewards I had earned. I was pissed at my uncle, who did not appreciate my genius and complained about having me under his roof even though I was willing to pay for it. At the universidad, where I studied languages and politics, I discovered socialism, and soon I was pissed at the capitalists who controlled the means of production and exploited the proletariat. I was also pissed at the students who now performed better than me in that bigger arena. Anger alone could no longer lift me to the highest distinction in my programmes. But my constant burning, now famous anger drew the attention of some other students and professors. They came and seduced me to their political cause, convincing me to turn my anger into a weapon against the Spanish government in the fight for the independence of the Basque people. I joined the separatist rebels, Euskadi Ta Askatasuna — the ETA. You have heard of them?”
“Didn’t they used to blow shit up and stuff?”
Beñat throws back his head and unleashes a colossal laugh. “Piss, shit. Pardon me, but your English language likes to run to the bathroom. Although I should not be so cruel — she is not alone in this regard. Yes, mon ami, there were some in our organization who felt the need for violence, but despite my angry nature, I did not seek blood. I only attacked the government with my words. However, in the end this did not matter.”
Suddenly, Beñat jumps to his feet and rubs his hands together. “But, wait. I did not tell you about my hockey! One of the men in my group, when he discovered that in the mountains we skated on the ice all winter, he took me to join in the hockey. I liked it immediately, perhaps because it was different. I felt that the football — what they call soccer here in America — that is played by all the young men, I felt this was the sport of the oppressing Spaniards.”
“I thought you Basque guys were into jai alai.”
“True, we have many sports of our own, including cesta punta — what you call jai alai — but they are played mano a mano. No, hockey appealed to my angry nature. The more angry I was, the more superior my play.”
Beñat puffs out his chest with evident pride. “I became one of the best players, scoring many goals. True, we had not many teams in my city to compete with, but sometimes we did play exhibitions against other cities, and I saw that I truly had skill. Alas, I was made to leave for America the year before Spain’s national hockey league, La Liga Nacional de Hockey sobre Hielo, was born and San Sebastián formed a team, Club Hockey Hielo Txuri Urdin. If I had stayed, I am confident I could have played there. Several of my hockey comrades did so.”
“Why’d you have to leave?”
“Ah, yes. To return to my story of stupid anger. As I said, although I shot only words at the enemy, I did so openly, in public, and soon became well known to Franco’s secret police. When other members of my ETA cell exploded a bomb — one meant only to destroy a building, but it killed two people — my name was attached to the arrest warrant, and soon I was hunted for murder. So, I was taken onto a fishing boat and fled to America. The only work I was wanted for here was shepherding. Ironique, no? I, who fought so hard to escape my destiny as a shepherd, was saved from imprisonment and torture and death by becoming one.” Beñat flips his thumb toward the window, where the sheep can be seen down below, grazing. “And so I remain one now, over forty years later.”
“I didn’t realize they brought shepherds all the way from Europe.”
“Oh, yes, my friend. It is a hard, lonely life that pays shit. Americans do not want to do it. For almost a century there was a diaspora of Basques who emigrated here to mind herds of sheep, although I was one of the last. Finally, Basque men grew tired of working like slaves, so America now obtains its shepherds from even poorer places … El Salvador or Nicaragua.”
“So you learned your lesson, is that it? You stopped being angry?”
“Oh, no, mon ami!” Beñat laughs. “I was more angry than ever.” He starts counting on his fingers. “I was angry the authorities falsely hunted me for a murder I did not do. I was angry to be pulled away from my studies, my politics, my hockey, my people — my life. I was angry to leave the green hills and beautiful shores of my homeland to end up here in a dry, strange land where everything, animal and vegetable, tries to stick something sharp into you. I was angry about the pay and the hours forced upon me by the rich capitalist pig who employed me. Most of all, I think, I was angry to end up as a shepherd like my father after all. I said it was ironic, but that is not to say I enjoyed being carried on the shoulders of ironía like some helpless little lamb.
“I hated my new life. Whenever my bosses allowed me to come down from the hills for a few days, I would take all my pay and spend it on alcohol. I would become as drunk as my little money would allow, but before I reached the oblivion that swims in the bottom of the glass, I would fight — anyone, and for any reason.” Beñat leans closer and points out an assortment of scars concealed among the wrinkles of his face. “The fights left their marks, but I did not care. Until one day I badly hurt a man, some stupid cowboy, and I was arrested. Now, I thought, they will find out about me and send me back to Spain, and even though Franco is dead and we have a new king, the ETA are still called terrorists. I will be executed. For, you see, in that very year, 1978, five comrades were sent to the wall and shot by the government.”
“Obviously they didn’t send you back, though.”
“No. This rancher, a big shot whose father had just died and who now owned many, many sheep — I think he was also related by marriage to the sher
iff — this fat porc came to me in jail, and he said, ‘We know who you are. If you want to stay here, I can obtain your release, but you work for me now.’ So, I thought, what choice do I have? I went to work for him, but now I was even more angry, for I no longer received any money, and never got to come down from the hills. The rancher, he trusted no one else with our secret. He said he protected me, but I think he was afraid to lose his slave. He himself drove the truck once a month to bring me water and propane and cheap food in bags and cans, and once a year I sheared the sheep and he took away the wool. And all the time I was angry, so angry. Even in my sleep, my dreams were filled with big oceans of hate and fury that banged against my brain like giant waves crashing in a storm.”
“Wait. Are you telling me you’ve been stuck up here working for free for, like, forty years? Holy cow, no wonder you’re angry!”
“I am not angry, my friend. That is the point of what I am telling you. And that is where Lusio enters the story.”
“Finally. This is the guy who told the raven who told the mountain sheep —”
“Who told my sheep who told me you were coming. Si. That Lusio.”
Beñat rises to refresh Shane’s tea and to look out the window at Vern playing below. Evidently satisfied, he returns to his seat and resumes his story.
“I reached a point of great despair. Perhaps another man would think about taking his own life, but I was much too angry inside for that. I attacked the world around me instead. I tore up bushes and smashed the cactus and pounded rocks against rocks. One day I caught a coyote trying to steal one of my sheep, and I beat it to death with my cayado — my shepherd’s stick — and kept beating it long after the life had left the body. Then I heard someone laugh. I looked up, and was surprised to see an old man sitting on a boulder watching me. I saw from his face, his complexion, and his clothes that he was a Native … one who clearly still followed the traditional ways.”
“And that was Lusio?”
“Yes, Lusio … although I did not yet know his name. When he spoke, it was in Spanish. ‘You cannot kill a coyote twice,’ he said to me. I replied, ‘I am a shepherd. I am only doing my job.’ ‘He is a coyote. He is only doing his,’ Lusio replied. I cursed him and told him to go away before I took my cayado to him, too. He just shrugged, said I was the one he had been looking for, and then asked me why I was so angry.”