The new moon was rising above a wet waste of marsh and tussock and
tasseled reeds. A man and two boys climbed hastily up a hill. Before them
they drove a bleating, cold, rain-wet, bewildered flock. As any shepherd
will admit, sheep are among the silliest creatures in the world, and if
there is any way for them to get themselves into trouble they will do it.
Even so small a flock as this had proved it abundantly.
A dry time, when all the grass in the usual pastures was burned brown or
eaten down to the roots, had been followed by a rainy fall and winter. The
shepherd and his two foster sons—his wife had long been dead—left their
hillside pastures by the river and went with their flock wherever they
could find any grass. They meandered about for some time on the great
plain that was usually too wet for sheep; that grass was rank and
sometimes unwholesome, but it was better than nothing. When the wet
weather began, they were on the other side, and they edged up among the
foothills of the mountains that stood around it, wherever they could
without getting into trouble with people who had cattle there. They would
have had more difficulty than they did if it had not been for the wolf cub
which the taller of the two boys had tamed. He was named Pincho, and he
seemed to be everywhere at once. No sheep ever delayed for an instant in
obeying him.
For hours they herded the tired flock up and down, among hills and
gullies, until they came on a little hollow among bushes, out of the way
of the water, where they could stop and get a little sleep. The man and
the boys were all three wet, cold and hungry, even hungrier than the sheep
were, for they could not eat grass; hungrier than Pincho, who now and then
caught some sort of wild creature and ate it on the spot. They ate what
little they had left, and then one kept watch while the others slept, by
turns, in the driest place that could be found.
When it was light enough to see, they looked about to find out where they
were. Farther down the slope and to one side of them was a village, and
the people there kept sheep and also cattle. Nobody seemed to be doing
much work, for half the men were standing about talking, and the shrill
note of a flute player came up the hill as if it were a signal.
The boys did not know what this meant, for they had never been near a
village on a holiday,—and not often at any time. But the shepherd knew; he
knew that it must be a feast day, and he told the boys that if they wished
to go to the village and see what was going on, he would look after the
sheep. They must not try to go in unless they were asked, and they ought
not to take Pincho; some one might see him and kill him for a wolf, not
knowing that he was tame.
But Pincho had something to say about that. He had no intention of being
left behind, and the shepherd had to cut a thong off his sheepskin cloak
to tie up the determined beast. Then when the boys were about two-thirds
of the way to the village, something came sniffing at their heels, and
there was Pincho, with the thong trailing after him; he had gnawed it in
two.
His young master only laughed. “Here, Pincho!” he said good-humoredly, and
as the young wolf came and licked his hand he made a loop of the trailing
end and thrust his strong brown fingers into it. And so they came up to
the edge of the village where the people were making ready the feast,—two
boys and a wolf.
The lads were both rather tall for their years, and moved with the wild
grace of creatures that constantly use every muscle and never get stiff or
lazy. They wore only the shepherd’s tunic of sheepskin with the wool
outward, and a braided leather girdle to hold a knife and a leather pouch.
In his left hand each held a crook, with a sharp flint point at the other
end so that it could be used as a spear if a weapon were needed. The
taller led the wolf, which fawned and licked his bare feet; the other, who
was not quite so dark of hair and eye, was playing on a reed pipe, taking
up the call of the pipers and weaving it into a simple melody. For a
moment the people did not know who they could be. All the shepherd boys in
that neighborhood were known. Surely only gods come out of the forest
would be accompanied by a wolf.
They did not enter the village. They halted on the outside where they
could look into the square and see what was going on, and they stared in
silent wonder, like animals.
The fact was that they were so hungry that if they had dared, they would
have rushed on the tables and seized the bread and meat and honey cakes,
and run away into the forest to devour them as if they were wolves
themselves. As it was, the intelligent nose of Pincho caught the maddening
odor of meat, and it was all his master could do to hold him.
[Illustration: Whoever they were, it was proper at this time to offer food
to strangers]
Whoever they were, it was proper at this time to offer food to strangers,
and if they were gods or wood spirits this was the way to find it out. The
wife of Emilius the priest, a tall and gracious woman, took up a flat
basket-work tray and filled it with portions of the various good things on
the nearest table. By the way they took the food and ate it, she saw that
they were probably only hungry boys. Pincho got the bones, but only when
it was certain they were not mutton bones. He had never been allowed to
find out what the flesh of a sheep was like. This was a portion of a
yearling calf.
The matron’s little daughter, a straight, slender, bright-haired child,
came with her, and when Pincho sniffed curiously at her little sandalled
feet she did not draw back, but stooped and patted his head. The boy with
the reed pipe, when he had finished his share of the food, sidled away
toward the musicians, but the other one stayed where he was, his arm round
the shaggy neck of the young wolf, and they asked him questions. He
explained, when they were able to make out what he said—for he spoke in a
thick voice as the peasants did—that he and his brother lived with a
shepherd on the other side of the great plain. The shepherd had told them
to ask whether they might let their sheep graze here awhile, until the
water had gone down so that they could get back. Emilius the priest and
some of the other men were there by this time, and they said that this
would be allowed.
“Why do you stay away from your own village on a holiday?” asked the child
straightforwardly.
“We have no village,” the boy answered. “We live by ourselves.”
The little maiden knit her straight, dark, delicate brows. People who had
no village and lived by themselves had never come to her knowledge before.
She thought it must be very dull not to have any holidays, or playmates.
“Do the sheep and the wolves live together in your country?” she asked,
watching Pincho’s wedge-shaped, savage head as he gnawed his bone.
“No; but Pincho is not really a wolf. He is my friend.”
“How can you be friends with a wolf?” persisted the small questioner.
“Wolves are thieves and murderers. They kill sheep. If they killed only
the old sheep, I would not care. The old ram with horns knocks people
down. But they kill the little lambs.”
“Pincho has never killed a sheep.”
“Emilia, my child,” said her mother, “it is time for the dance of the
children.” And she led her little daughter away.
The boys of the village were very curious about Pincho. He had been caught
when he was a tiny cub and his mother had been killed. There were two
cubs, but the other one died. This one slept at his master’s feet every
night. The lad beckoned to his brother, who began to play a curious, jerky
tune, and then the boy and the wolf danced together, to the wonder and
entertainment of the villagers. Then in his turn the boy began to ask
questions. What was a holiday and why did they keep it?
The boys explained that there were many holidays at different times. There
was one in the later days of winter called the Lupercal, in honor of the
god who protected the sheep. That was the shepherds’ festival, and when it
took place, the young men ran about with thongs in their hands, striking
everybody who came in the way. The day they were now keeping was Founder’s
Day, in honor of the founder of their town.
This was puzzling. How could one man found a town? A town grew up where
many people came to live in one place.
“Nay, my son,” said a white-haired old man, the oldest man in the village,
who had sat down near the group. He spoke in the language the shepherd
spoke, so that it was easy to understand him. “That is nothing more than a
flock of crows or a herd of cattle that eat together where there is food.
The man who founds a city determines first to make a home for the spirits
of his people, as a man who builds a house makes a home for his family.
His gods dwell in this place, and he himself will dwell there when he is
dead, and his spirit is joined to theirs. Without the good will of the
spirits there is no good fortune. How can men know what is wise to do, or
what is right, if they do not ask help of the gods, as a child asks its
father’s will? Have you never heard this? Has your father not told you?”
“We have neither father nor mother,” said the boy, but not
shamefacedly,—even a little proudly. “We were found when we were little
children by Faustulus the shepherd who is to us as a father, and we serve
him.”
This did seem rather strange. Some of the village people drew back and
whispered among themselves. Could the lads be gods or spirits indeed? They
were strong and handsome—but who knew what things lived in the forest?
“Nay,” said Emilius, “they have eaten our salt.”
“The shepherd sometimes prays,” the lad was saying thoughtfully. “He prays
when he has lost his way. I asked him once when I was very small what he
was saying, and he said that he prayed to his god. He said the god was
like a man, but had goat’s legs and little horns under curling hair, and
played on a reed pipe. My brother said that he had seen him in the forest,
but I never did. When the shepherd sees anything unlucky, he makes the
sign of his god—thus.”
He held up his fist with all the fingers except the little finger doubled
in; this, with the thumb, stuck straight up. “He calls it ‘making the
horns.’ ”
“The people across the river have many gods,” he went on cheerfully. “Once
I ran away and found a boat, and went over there, to see what it was like.
The priests watch the flight of birds for signs; and the people give a
great deal of time to fortune telling. An old witch told mine for love,
and she said that I should rule over a great people. Then I laughed and
came away, for I knew that she must think me a fool to be pleased with
lies. She said that their laws were taught the priests by a little man no
bigger than a child, who came up out of a field which a farmer was
plowing.”
The priest Emilius smiled. “My son,” he said kindly, “these things are
foolish and lead to nothing. If you will stay with us and help to tend our
flocks, you shall learn of our gods, and live as we do, sharing our work
and our play. But unless you obey our law we cannot let you stay. The gods
are not pleased when strangers come into their sacred places.
“The founder of our city is as a kind father who watches us and sees what
we do, whether it is good or whether it is evil. Our children are his
children, and our fortunes are his care, as they were when he was alive
and ruled his people wisely as a father. This is why we honor him. Will
you stay with us and be our herd boy?”
The lad stood up, his staff in one hand, the other in the loop of the
wolf’s collar. “We owe the shepherd our lives,” he said, with his proud
young head erect. “We will go back to him and serve him until we are men.
When I am a man, I think I will found a city of my own.”
His brother laughed. In a flash the lad turned on him and knocked him
down. Emilius caught him by the shoulder.
“My boy,” he said sternly, “there must be no quarreling on a holiday. Go
back to your own place, for you are right to cherish your foster father.
In good or bad fortune, in all places and at all times, it is right to
return kindness for kindness, to show reverence to the old who have cared
for the young.”
The villagers, puzzled, curious and a little afraid, watched the two wild
figures and their strange companion move away into the long shadows of the
woodlands. They did not come back when any one could see them, but about a
week later there was found at the door of the priest a basket woven
roughly but not unskillfully of the bark of a tree, lined with fresh
leaves and filled with wild honey and chestnuts.