Chapter 16: The Hermit

Excruciating pain dragged Zeb out of the darkness. He wanted to return to the blissful state of unconsciousness that preceded the pain, but there was no escape. So he opened his eyes. He lay on something soft and warm in a tiny hut. The walls looked like they were made out of earth. A fire burned in the center of the hut and smoke rose up and through the hole in the roof.

Zeb tried to sit up, but couldn't get any of his muscles to cooperate. He tried speaking and managed a rough rasping sound. An old man sat up from a mat on the other side of the fire and came around to Zeb.

"Heh, so y're alive." He picked up a bowl and a spoon. "Try 'n eat some." He fed Zeb carefully, but only managed three spoonfuls before Zeb's eyes closed and he went back to sleep.

Some time later, Zeb woke again, and the old man fed him some more. This time the old man stripped the mat down and washed Zeb before putting some clean clothes on him.

"Y'll be weak like a baby for a while, I figure."

Zeb wandered in and out of sleep each time the hut was lit only by the tiny fire. The old man was always there to feed and clean him. Zeb had no idea how long this lasted. It might have been days; it could have been months. Very slowly, he regained control over his flesh and bones. He was able to use a crude pan instead of messing the cover of his mat. He was even able to feed himself.

The pain gradually receded, as he gained strength.

"How did I get here?" Zeb asked.

"Found ye in a snowdrift. Ye were still breathin' so I brung ye here. T'see if y'd live."

"Why?"

"Why not? I don't mind a bit of company through the winter."

"How do you know I am not going to kill you?"

The old man just snorted.

One day, Zeb was able to sit up on the mat of sheepskins that was his bed. It exhausted him completely, but made it easier to eat. The passage of time became marked by the periods Zeb could sit up. The old man never seemed to sleep. Whenever Zeb awoke, the man would be there watching him. It wasn't a predatory look, the old man showed no interest in having any power over Zeb, but it wasn't the watch of someone who is afraid either. It was as if he watched Zeb simply to watch. Zeb didn't like it. The lack of fear or desire confused him.

One day, the old man wasn't there, when Zeb woke. At first, he couldn't pinpoint what was wrong. When he did see the old man was missing, it was as if a wall had vanished. Zeb closed his eyes and opened them again. The old man still wasn't there. Zeb's heart pounded. He didn't have the strength to do anything for himself yet. He was completely dependent on the old man for his survival. Just before his panic was complete, a leather curtain that Zeb had taken as part of the wall moved and the old man stepped into the hut.

"Heh, y'r awake. Good." He busied himself at the fire.

"Where were you?" asked Zeb even as he despised the fear in his voice.

"Almost lambing season. Had to check the ewes."

"Why now?"

"Check 'em every day," the old man said. "Tis the first day you woke up. Y'r getting' stronger." He went back to stirring the pot.

"Could you show me how to tend the fire and cook?" The old man looked at Zeb, then shrugged his shoulders.

"The fire's coal," he said. "Don't mess with it much. Just put a chunk on in the morning. Soup's the same, mostly barley. Top up the water when you put on the coal."

"I'm sure I tasted meat in the broth."

"Mutton," said the old man. "Old ewe wasn't going to make the winter. Twas kinder to kill her early before she suffers. Just bones left." He lifted a bone out of the soup pot to show Zeb then let it drop back in.

"You kill an old sheep, but you nurse me through the winter?"

"Ye ain't sheep."

After that, Zeb never knew whether the old shepherd would be in the hut or not, but he always returned after a short time. He kept no schedule, but did whatever he thought of at the moment. Sometimes it was bright sun on the other side of the curtain, other times it was swirling snow or black night.

One time, the shepherd came into the hut carrying a tiny bundle. He gave it to Zeb.

"Lamb, the ewe wouldn't take to 'er. Happens sometimes."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Nurse 'er," the old shepherd said, "I'll show you how."

The old man brought a bowl of warm milk over to Zeb along with a cloth. He dipped the cloth in the milk and gave it to the tiny creature to suck on. After a while, the lamb got the idea and finished the milk.

"I'll bring you milk. You nurse 'er."

Zeb felt a curious thing in him as he held the tiny lamb. He wanted to protect her. Over the next few days, he fed the lamb her milk as the shepherd had shown him. In the process, he sat up for longer and longer periods. There was a strange delight in caring for this creature for no other reason than because it needed him. It got stronger and was soon jumping around the hut. Yet it would always come over when Zeb spoke to it.

Perhaps this weakness in him came from his near death in the blizzard. Yet, he had come close to dying in the monastery and remained himself. Zeb worried at the problem as his strength grew. He could hurt the lamb, but he didn't want to. In all his aeons of existence he'd caused pain, or had pain inflicted on him. The idea of not wanting to hurt something was absurd. Still, whenever the lamb pranced over to him, he held it gently, even protectively.

He could hear more activity outside, so one day he crawled out the door. The hut looked like a small hill in the middle of a pasture that was more green than white. The sun made Zeb squint, but the fresh air was so delicious that he stayed leaning against the outside of the hut the rest of the day laughing as Lamb explored the larger surroundings. From that day on, Zeb made his way outside, rain or shine. He gradually was able to walk the few feet and didn't have to crawl.

As he grew stronger, he lifted his eyes to see the mountains surrounding them. Snow still lay white on their slopes.

The days slowly got warmer. Zeb pushed himself now. He took hold of the staff of wood that leaned on the hut next to the door and walked around the sheepfold. The animals had been skittish at first, but now they accepted him the same way they did the shepherd.

Spring greens found their way into the soup as Zeb recognized some of the plants that Rat had picked for them to eat.

"Tis time to move to the upper pasture," the old shepherd said one day. "Are ye strong enough?"

"Yes." Zeb was surprised to find it was true.

The next day, the old shepherd began collecting bits and pieces from the hut and wrapping them in a blanket. He rolled up most of the sheepskins and tied them into a bundle. The next day he came with a fresh staff for Zeb.

"Y'r taller than me. This'un will fit ye better." He was right. Zeb liked the slightly thicker heft of the new staff. The shepherd gave a bundle of sheepskin to Zeb then hefted a bundle that was so large he was barely visible under it. He clicked his tongue at the sheep and started walking. The sheep followed him without hesitation; the lamb ran after the sheep, so Zeb followed the lamb.

They walked through valleys that were still filled with snow, and along hills where flowers were beginning to show their colours.

Zeb had never done anything as hard as keeping up to the old man and the sheep. As each day progressed, he leaned more on his staff, but he stubbornly persisted. Mostly, they slept on the grass under the stars. Only if the shepherd called for rain did he pull out an oilcloth to spread it over them.

Lamb spent most of the time gamboling around Zeb's feet. They walked for days through air that was so clean and fresh it was like Zeb had never breathed before. The old man noticed everything. Occasionally, he would point out the hawks floating high above, or a tiny fern uncurling at their feet.

They travelled this way for a week before they arrived in a huge valley surrounded by steep hills covered with pine trees. A hut that looked identical to the one they left waited for them. The shepherd pushed his way into the hut and swept it out before setting it up the way he wanted it.

The sheep spread across the valley and began cropping the new grass. Zeb slept through the next day. The next he pushed his way out of the hut and walked around the field. He watched the old shepherd and learned what was needed. Mostly it was a matter of keeping the flock together so the sheep were less likely to stray. After a week, the shepherd began leaving Zeb to watch the sheep, while he slept.

Watching the sheep gave Zeb time to contemplate his situation. He'd heard of other devils being forced to possess humans. They were sent to cause as much confusion as they could before being sent back to Hell. Zeb could recall no story in which the devil spent a long time in a mortal body acting mostly like a mortal. He'd experienced both pain and pleasure and learned he preferred the pleasure. Perhaps, by some alchemy the mage hadn't expected, he was no longer just a devil wearing a mortal body.

They had been in the valley only a few days before the first sheep wandered off. The shepherd left Zeb with the sheep and went to find the stray.

"They are silly creatures," he said when he returned with the sheep. "They need each other, but they are always wanderin' off alone. Tis like they don't know what they want."

Several times after, the sheep wandered away. Mostly the shepherd would come back carrying the lost animal on his shoulders, once or twice he returned empty handed.

"Happens," was all he would say about it.

One evening, a few of the stupid animals had wandered up to the far end of the valley. Zeb picked up his staff and walked to fetch them down for the night. Lamb followed along beside him. It was dusk when he got to the small flock. As he arrived, he saw a shadow slip from the forest, then another - wolves. He tried to get the sheep to move faster, but the grass was fresher up here and the sheep hadn't scented the pack yet. Zeb pushed them harder, but they just slid around him and went back to the grass. Then he heard a scream. The wolves had one of the sheep.

Zeb ran over swinging his staff. He clubbed one wolf and knocked it to the ground, but another one came from behind him. Zeb yelled and the sheep finally realized something was wrong and scattered across the valley.

Zeb stayed in the middle of the pack of wolves as they tried to drag off the sheep they had killed. Wolves nipped at his heels or leaped toward his throat. Zeb's rage gave him strength. One by one, Zeb killed the wolves or drove them back to the forest. Finally, he stood alone with the bodies of the wolves he had killed and the one sheep they had torn apart. Blood dripped from scratches and bites on his arms and legs.

He went to see which sheep had died. It was Lamb. Zeb went to his knees and howled. Tears flowed from his eyes and sobs wracked his body. He didn't know what was happening to him. This pain, this weakness, was entirely new to him.

"Happens, lad," the old shepherd said as he came up to Zeb. "Tis sad, but it happens."

"Why?" sobbed Zeb.

"Tis what wolves do. They pick on the weakest. S'what they are." The old man helped Zeb to his feet. "Come. Grieve, but grieve while ye work."

They spent the rest of the night gathering the spooked animals and guarding them closely. In the morning, the shepherd went up and skinned the wolves. Lamb was gone, dragged into the woods by the rest of the wolf pack. Zeb took to walking the fringes of the forest looking for more of the wolves. The shepherd shrugged and let him. Zeb never found anything more than prints. Several times, the flock was attacked by the pack. Each time, Zeb rushed in with his staff and he managed to kill more wolves, but the wolves also claimed the lives of more sheep.

"Ye can't kill all the wolves," the shepherd said one day when Zeb returned with two more skins. "They have a place too." Zeb spent less time actively seeking the predators, but he was more vigilant with the sheep.

With the return of Zeb's strength came the return of the mage's pain. As if each time he killed a wolf, he made the connection between them stronger. His hands ached so he could barely hold the staff.

"I have to go," he said to the shepherd one day.

The old man just nodded.

"I don't want to," Zeb explained, "but the pain is going to just get worse until I do. This man wants me to call him master and do his bidding. I have fought him as long as I can."

"T'isn't good to call any man master," the shepherd said, "but ye do need to know what ye serve."

"I serve no one."

"Ye served the sheep, kept them safe as ye could. Y'll end up serving somethin' or someone. Might as well be somethin' ye choose. Like them wolves. They were attackin' the sheep, but it was to feed themselves and their pack."

"So, I should be like the wolves?"

"No, ye should be a man and choose what and who ye will serve. Not just what y'r against, what are y're for. Ye go and do what ye have to do. If y're still livin' next winter y'r welcome to come back."

Zeb put together a small pack and took his staff. The old shepherd made him take the wolf pelts with him.

"They're just rough tanned. Won't last the summer. Can't give you money, but y'll get a little for them at market in Westfale."

He hoisted the bundle onto Zeb's back.

"Go safe, lad. Stay west of the forest. There's a slaver calls himself Chancy just waitin' to pick off the weak and foolish."

"Like the wolves."

"Heh, maybe, but he ain't a wolf for you to chase, go around him and land up in Westfale. It will take ye longer, but y're more likely to arrive."

So Zeb walked south out of the valley, and, for the first time, he didn't leave death and despair behind him.