Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four…

David frowned when he didn’t see the forty-fifth sheep and began counting over, hoping he’d made a mistake the first three times. Another minute proved the only mistake he’d made was losing a sheep. His eyes drifted to his father’s house on the low hill at the edge of the sheep pastures. The late-afternoon sun was close to the horizon behind it, bathing the small home and green grass in soft, orange light. He felt a looming sense of dread. He had little desire to be around his family in the first place—it was why he had practically begged to be a shepherd, to be out in the fields and away from them. Now he had to tell his father that he’d failed his first day alone with the sheep. 

He’s going to kill me…

He gave a low sigh of defeat and walked across the fields toward the house, dragging his feet as he went. His father—Jesse—and two of his seven older brothers were behind the house. Eliab and Abinadab were sparring while his father stood to the side, arms crossed as he watched their every move with critical eyes. Already these two had been to war with the new king, fighting against the Amalekites. While he was jealous of their success—and more importantly, the attention they received from their father—battle wasn’t something he was built for. He was smaller than his brothers, almost laughably so. Rather than interrupt their training, he stood and absentmindedly played with the sling on his belt, the only weapon he was permitted to use. 

“It is all you will need to protect the sheep,” his father had said.

And a fine job he’d done. 

He knew how his father would look at him, with that mixture of shame and disappointment he’d become accustomed to. He leaned against the side of the home, hiding in the shadow and keeping his eyes on the ground as he listened to his brothers’ sparring. As the mock battle wore on, he found himself fidgeting, rubbing his now-sweaty hands together as he waited for his father to notice him.

“What do you want, runt?” 

David’s head jerked up. Eliab was standing over a fallen Abinadab. “I’m not a runt,” he said, though the words sounded weak even to his ears. Better to have said nothing.

His brother laughed and stepped up to him. David stood barely to Eliab’s barrel of a chest, and he had to crane his neck to keep eye contact. “Is that so?”

Jesse stepped between them. “That’s enough.” Eliab smirked and turned away. His broad frame knocked David back a step. “What do you want, David?”

The annoyance in his father’s voice was thick. Jesse didn’t even know he had lost the sheep, and already he was unwelcome. “I”—he swallowed hard—“One of the sheep has wandered off.”

Eliab laughed and looked at their father. “I told you he couldn’t do it.”

He met his brother’s judging eyes, searching for and failing to find something to respond with. David had never been quick with words.

His father sighed, the annoyance mixed now with disappointment as he made the face David had known would come. “You said you could do it. You begged.”

He couldn’t take his father’s expression and returned his gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you know when?”

“I last counted them at midday. They were all there.”

“Midday?! It’s nearly sundown.” His father let out a long sigh and seemed to think. “I told you to count them on the hours. I should have left Ozem with you.”

David flinched at the words. He is barely a year older than me. “Let me go and find it.”

“It’s nearly sundown,” Jesse repeated. “It’s too late to go wandering into the woods.”

Eliab scoffed. “If the runt is afraid of the dark, it is.”

David glared at him, though he said nothing. He turned back to his father. “Let me go. I’ll find it.”

His father looked down at him with one part pity and three parts doubt. “I don’t know. The forest is—”

“I can do it.”

“Let him,” Eliab said. “He may prove himself a good shepherd if nothing else. And besides,” he added with a grin, “you’ve got seven more sons.”

His father gave Eliab an unhappy look but said nothing to him. He thought for another moment and then looked at David. “Be safe. Your mother will kill me if something happens to you.”

Wouldn’t want mother mad at you. David turned and left, not wanting to be among his family any longer than he had to. He stomped down the hill, by the sheep, and to the small stable at the opposite end of the fields where he kept his shepherding supplies. After packing a quick meal—it could take all night to find the lost sheep—he grabbed his shepherd’s staff and made one final stop at the small creek that edged the fields. Here he ducked down and splashed some of the cool water on his face to try to clear his mind. For a moment, all was silent.

As the ripples faded, he saw the creek bed and the smooth stones he’d come for. The still water reflected a sky turning black above him. A few stars had already twinkled to life. Yet all he saw was a young shepherd, a scared boy. 

Nothing more.

He sighed and dug through the creek for the stones. He found some about the size of his palm and stuffed them into the small pouch at his side, counting to be sure he had five. He hoisted his pack and set off into the woods, searching for a trail to follow.

* * *

David crested the small hill and stepped from the edge of the trees. Below him were rolling pastures that dipped into a low valley. The sky burned with the breaking dawn, fiery yellows and reds lighting the green grass. He saw the forest of cypress and oak resume in the distance. Even the brilliant morning sun could not penetrate the thick canopy of branches, leaving the forest covered in shadow.

He was beginning to have his doubts. It hadn’t taken him long to find the sheep’s rambling trail as it crushed its way through the dense foliage and underbrush of the forest. Here, however, at the relatively brush-free valley, it seemed to end. His eyes searched the valley—though now with little hope.

For a moment, he thought of turning back, of forsaking the sheep, of letting it wander lost in the forest. Yet he knew he could not. It was alone in the woods because of him, in danger because of him. He’d been entrusted with his father’s sheep. Regardless of how he felt about his father—or how his father felt about him—David was a shepherd. It was his job to protect the sheep.

And it is not my sheep to lose.

David hefted his pack more securely onto his shoulder. He put his hand into the small pouch on his belt and felt the five smooth stones he’d gathered for his sling. Taking a quick drink from his skin, he gripped his staff and began the walk down into the valley.

It was still early morning when he finished his search of the valley. He’d found seven rabbits, three of which he’d killed with his sling and now hung from his pack, the used stones safely back in his pouch. He’d found an anthill that rose to his knees. He’d found the dung of a lion, an antelope that fled at the sight of him, and a flock of ibis, yet he’d found no signs of his father’s sheep. No recently trampled grass, no feeding grounds, no prints.

David looked at the forest on the far side of the valley and the line of trees marking the pasture’s end. He let out a low sigh and walked toward them. Perhaps the animal had wandered back into the forest. He stooped and began his search once he reached the trees. He dragged his hands through the dirt, spread the low shrubbery aside to examine the ground beneath, searched through the tall grass for signs the sheep had stopped to eat.

At least I am in the shade.

There.

He stopped and touched the blade of grass that had caught his eye. It was broken, split into two ends. Rough.

Chewed.

After another cursory search, he found a handful of blades that looked the same. The sheep was heading east, farther into the forest and farther from his father’s home. 

Of course it is.

He rechecked his pack, then set off into the woods, following the now obvious trail left behind. The sheep seemed to be wandering without direction into the forest. It had trampled the foliage with such carelessness that it must have finally decided it wanted David to find it.

And then he saw it, standing and chewing absently at a small patch of grass. It paused and looked up at David, almost as if it had been expecting him.

“You’ve been a headache,” he said. “You know that?”

The sheep bleated and then went back to its meal. 

“Go ahead and eat,” he said, walking toward the animal. “I’ll make sure you’re our next sacrifice.”

There was movement in the trees behind the sheep and then a flash of brown and yellow and red fur. The sheep disappeared under the weight of a lion, its nonchalant bleating becoming a desperate scream of pain. David’s sling was in his hand before he had time to think. He had a stone loaded and flying—load, swing, aim, throw—before he’d taken his first step. It bounced off the lion’s back with enough force to push the beast off its new meal. It paused, seemed to evaluate the new threat, then rose and faced David.

He froze as the beast stared at him with evil eyes, the sheep’s blood dripping staining its matted mane. For a moment, they stared at one another, a challenge hanging in the air. 

Turn around…go home…it is only a sheep.

Yet, again, he knew he could not.

It is not my sheep to lose.

David moved slowly, reaching to his sack for another stone. The lion sprang forward at the movement, and David snapped into motion, his muscles working from memory: load, swing, aim—must be perfect this time—throw. The stone hurtled through the air and bounced off the lion’s skull, ricocheting into the woods. The beast barely faltered. For a moment that lasted forever, David knew he was going to die. Then the lion’s feet went limp, its momentum carrying it another few paces. In a flurry of fur and dirt and grass, the beast skidded to a halt a step from David.

I just killed a lion.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His white-knuckled hand slowly opened, and he put the sling back on his belt. He stepped around the fallen lion on shaking legs—giving the dead animal plenty of space—and then ran to the sheep.

There was a large gash in the sheep’s leg, but the wound didn’t look mortal. It was still bleating for its life, a healthy leg kicking at nothing as it lay on the dirt.

“You’ll live.”

David slipped his pack from his shoulders, dug through it for something to use as a bandage, and found the cloth he’d wrapped his own food in. Setting his pack aside, he went to work bandaging the sheep’s wounded leg.

“You’ve ruined my day; you know that.”

The sheep bleated as if in response.

“I suppose that—”

There was a roar, and David felt a mass slam into him. He tumbled away from the bleating sheep and found himself on his back, face to face with a bloodied and angry lion. He froze, his muscles refusing to move. The beast stood over him and let out a roar so concussive it knocked David back, and his head slammed into the dirt hard enough to leave a divot in the ground. Blood and saliva rained down on him. The lion went quiet, teeth bared, a low rumbling growl still rolling from its throat like thunder. Hot, sticky breath filled his face. David could see the open wound just above the lion’s left eye from his previous shot and the blood running down into the beast’s face.

Its jaw opened a moment before it struck; David felt paralyzed. For the second time within the span of a few minutes, he was sure he was going to die. Then he felt his arm move. It shot up of its own accord and seized the animal by the mane, halting its teeth only a finger’s width from his face. He felt his muscles tense all the way down to his shoulder, an otherworldly strength filling his arm and holding the lion in place.

The movement unfroze David, and he reached into the pouch at his side with his free hand. He scooped up the three remaining stones and bashed the lion along the head, aiming for the existing wound. The beast roared in pain and lurched back, its mane ripping and tearing. Yet David’s hand held firm. He struck it again and again, blood splattering his face and chest as the lion roared and jerked. Finally, the animal went silent and collapsed on top of him. Foamy blood leaked from his open jaws as the animal exhaled for the final time.

David wiggled free of the beast and stood.

I just killed a lion…again.

He looked at his hand; a lock of the lion’s mane was still clutched in his throbbing fingers. His entire arm buzzed with strength not his own. He felt it aching, throbbing with unseen power and energy. Then it was gone. He felt faint and swayed on his feet before he steadied himself.

What was that?

The beast lay defeated and bleeding in the grass. David’s entire torso and the side of his face were covered in the animal’s blood. His gaze drifted to the sheep, bleating and still kicking its good leg out at nothing.

And then he heard a voice in his head. It was as clear as his own thoughts, and though he would at times ignore it, it was a voice he would hear for the rest of his days.

It was not your sheep to lose. But it was yours to save.