A Thousand Lives (Short Stories)

To The Slaughter

It was a grey morning sky, whose clouds covered the world with a soft drizzle. Like every day, the sheepdog went to drive the sheep up the slope. Carefully he sniffed the air for any dangers that might lurk in the forests close by. Already the sheep were slowly walking out of the barn and towards a nice meadow not far from the east of the farmer's house. Having not many objections the sheepdog followed to keep the herd together. His master however, had other ideas and gave the order for him to drive the sheep upwards to the glen to the north-west. It was a nice area up there surely, but the sheepdog had his concerns. For he knew about the wolves living not far from the farm, howling at night towards the full moon. But the farmer was adamant in his desire to use the area he thought harboured the best food for his subjects. Without delay the dog obeyed and drove the sheep away from their chosen destination and towards the commanded spot. Being a sheepdog, his concern was the safety of the sheep, not the area they should be driven to. Voicing their disagreement, the sheep followed the sheepdog's directions obediently. Once they had reached the green meadow uphill, the rain eased and soft sunlight broke through the thick cover. And for a while, the loyal sheepdog's worries seemed to be unnecessary. Resting for a bit, he laid down, enjoying the fresh breeze.

A shriek, followed by fierce growls brought the sheepdog out of his dozing. A pack of wolves had come from the woods, attacking the herd. Instantly the dog leaped to the sheep's defence. But the wolves were many and hellbent on killing. The gentle lambs were the first to be ripped apart. Too soft was their heart, too fragile their body to be a fearsome opponent and their blood soon sprinkled the gras. And the ewe's too, fell prey to the gruesome slaughter. Trying to protect the young, clear was their heart and keen their sense. Yet the teeth of their attackers were daggers. The hearts devoid of mercy or honour. Baring his own teeth, the sheepdog entered the confrontation. Often, he buried his fangs in the black and grey pelts of the wild beasts. But their bodies seemed to be made of stone as they showed no sign of pain. Blood of wolf and sheep mingled on the ground, and the dog too felt a stinging pain hither and thither. The steadfast rams' horns showed stains of blood, and a few dead wolves covered the ground. Indifferent to the fallen, the other predators carried on fighting the rams. In the end, the wounds were too deep and the opponents too many. Sheep after sheep fell, their wool crimson coloured as they exhaled their last breath. In triumph the wolves placed their forefeet on the dead. The yellow eyes glaring at the sheepdog, showing with a glint, the hunger for more. Blood covered their chest and dripped from out of their open maws. Numbed by the fear born from the slaughter of his herd, the dog took a step back. His enemies, with blood-red tongues and mocking eyes, dared him to stand his ground. To attack and thus seal his fate. Cold gripped the dog, his hindlegs started trembling. Despite the pit in his stomach, the sheepdog turned around and took off down the hill. Led only by his shattered sense, he ran until he reached his master's home. Behind him he could still hear the howls of triumph. The wolves had defended their territory and would feast richly tonight. Tired, dirty and with blood clustering his fur, the sheepdog returned. His master looked at him with reproach, whereupon the dog bowed his head in shame. With a sigh the farmer got up from his seat muttering under his breath. To the sheepdog it seemed that his master was not broken up about the sheep's death but rather that he now had to buy new ones. Nor did his master tend to his dog's wounds. And the sheepdog wondered about the rhyme and reason of it all. Was being slaughtered the only purpose of their existence? Did he send them into harm's way, knowing fully well what might happen? Their lives didn't matter in this cold world. They were just cattle, born to be thrown to the wolves at need. And he, the one with the purpose to protect them, had led them to their doom.

Distant, terrified howls woke the sheepdog from his slumber. Night had already fallen. His master had left, together with some other men. Gun in hand, they had gone to kill the wolves. And the night was filled with the sounds of death and fear. For the men had finally found a reason to laugh at those they had regarded with hate for so long. Now they would take the territory, which they thought belonged to them by right. The discharging guns echoed through the night, followed by heart wrenching whimpers. Although the wolves had killed his sheep, the dog's blood ran cold at the cruelty of his master. The night seemed suddenly colder, darker and the moon displayed a soft reddish colour instead of the usual white one. Scenting blood, the sheepdog covered his nose with his front paws. But the sickening, metallic smell seemed to cling to his paws as well as it lingered in the air. Unable to escape, the sheepdog ran up the hill. Upon reaching the meadow, he saw the wolves' corpses covering the ground. The gras was sticky and slippery from the blood. A bit farther back, the men still shot at the remaining pack. Bullets ripped through the grey fur, often leaving the wolves gasping and bleeding to death. Blood dripped from their teeth, their own blood. And still gunshots filled the air, numbing the dog's ears. He felt his sanity slip away at the gruesome sight and how his soul shattered into a thousand pieces. There was only one way to escape the slaughter, the fear, the misery of it all. Almost stumbling upon the dead, the dog ran in front of the shooting men. In the blink of an eye, he felt a bullet pierce his lungs. For the stinging pain in his chest flared up each time he took a new breath. The strength left his limbs as he toppled to the ground, slipping on the bloody grass and remained lying somewhere among corpses. Their yellow, empty eyes staring into nothingness. There, amidst the groaning and the crying. The sheepdog's sight slowly dimmed.