The Shepherd's Blessing

My father has often talked to me about the best days of his life. The best day, he tells me with smothering affection in his ever-cloudier eyes, was the day that he found me.

“Wailing louder than the sheep could bleat, naked as the day you were born!” He always laughs at the part, and I can tell he can see that moment more clearly than he can see me right in front of him. “I picked you up, and you reached out to pull my hair - hurt like a bitch. And I knew right away, that’s my son.”

The second best day was the day he brought me to the oracle. It should never have been a possibility for him, a poor shepherd living a weeks’ trip from Delphi. But a ‘mysterious traveler’ in need of rest and a decent meal enjoyed my father’s hospitality for a night, and left nearly a fortune behind - the way those sorts of stories go. ‘Blessings from the gods’ - rarer than their curses, but not unheard of. So the sentimental man earned his riches, and spent half of them taking my toddling self to Delphi to have my fortune told.

I don’t remember the swirling mists or the darkness of the caverns where the oracle is said to reside. I don’t remember our travels, our missteps along the way. What I remember is the little wooden lamb he whittled for me to play with on that trip - the very toy I’m told I was playing with that day, “baa-baa”-ing at it so loud he was worried he wouldn’t hear what she said. But he heard her, and he never forgot.

“A hero,” he says sometimes, patting my face with his leathery, calloused hand. “My son, the hero.”

That little lamb is still with me - discolored and worn down from years of being held in my sweaty palms. I tied a leather cord around its neck and wear it with me always, a reminder of the promise that blossomed into my mind as I grew into adolescence; if becoming a hero meant leaving our home, our flock, and my father, then a hero I would never be. Oracle be damned.

As a boy, my father used to carry me on his shoulders every week to visit the markets. We came for food we couldn’t grow ourselves and supplies that had been depleted, but also for company, for stories. As a man, I take my father’s arm and guide him through the busy aisles of stalls and vendors, through clusters of giggling girls and hawk-eyed mothers, past storytellers and panhandlers. Each year - each week, even - the journey becomes more treacherous. I have been a greedy collector of heroic tales since before I understood I was doomed for one, and I know the telltale signs of one attempting to begin. I toss a coin to a sharp-eyed panhandler - more than enough to avoid godly wrath, but not generous enough to merit a godly reward. I keep my head down and try to feign a limp when passing any broad-chested warrior types. (“A rock in my shoe,” I mutter to my father once they’re gone, so that he doesn’t question the change in my step).

My father nearly ruins me by stopping short when we pass a white-armed, lovely-haired maiden calling out desperately for help. If I know anything, there’s some monster plaguing her village that only a true hero could defeat; a triumph for some other fool. I tug my father’s arm and he frowns at me, then casts his squinting gaze over a crowd that must be nothing but colors and shapes to him now.

“I heard someone calling for help,” he says, ever the philanthropist. How he escaped a curse like mine, I’ll never know.

“Someone’s already gone over,” I say, patting his hand. “We should hurry. I see storm clouds moving our way.”

I hold my breath while my father peers up at the clear blue sky, and release it when he looks down and nods.

I let my father handle most of the talking with vendors and old friends alike. I don’t need to take notice of the curious looks we draw from strangers; I know what an odd pair we make - the bent-backed, foggy-eyed old man with a smile drawn deep into the lines of his face, leaning on a towering, muscle-bound, scowling mass of a man who looks less like his father than the sheep do. I used to wish that I looked more like my father. Or at least, less like the unlucky sort that get to bump elbows with gods and monsters in stories. But pickpockets don’t look twice at my father, and no vendors ever try to short-change him in front of me, and that’s enough to satisfy me.

When our pockets have been lightened to my father’s satisfaction, I arrange our purchases as best as I can in the sack slung over my shoulder, and we begin our trek homeward. We move slower now than we once did, but I don’t mind the delay. The wind ripples over the grass and rolling hills like waves on the wine-dark sea, and the sun is gentler than the beating heat sailors complain of after long stretches on the water. My journey is my own, and I am content if the only point on the horizon I strive for is our little house atop those hills.

“Rest now, I think,” my father says, surprising me with the weariness in his voice.

I help the man who once carried me on his shoulders to a rock he can sit on beside the road. He leans heavily on my arm as he lowers himself to sit.

“I think the hills have gotten taller again,” he says with a wry smile.

I sit on the ground beside him, and smile up at him like I’m just a boy again.

“Then I’ll pull them down for you,” I say.

My father laughs and reaches out to pat my face.

“What a story that will make. Once the gods see that, they won’t be as easy to dodge as the calls to adventure in the marketplace,” he says.

My smile slips; I haven’t been as subtle as I thought, evidently. I don’t respond, and my father doesn’t push the matter. His hand lingers on my face longer than usual, and I see his pale eyes searching through the fog to look at me properly.

Then, his eyes shift from my face to some distant point only he can see.

“I’ll be gone someday, and you’ll need to live a life of your own.”

“Not yet,” I say. I’m surprised by the pleading sound in my voice; I sound like a child begging to sleep just a little longer.

“Not yet,” he concedes, smiling at me again. “Someone still needs to bring down those hills for me. And help me up from this rock!”

He starts trying to push himself up, and I scramble to my feet.

“We can rest longer, Father,” I say, even as I take his arm to steady him.

“I’m not that feeble yet. Besides, someone told me there’s storm clouds rolling in,” he says with a wink.

I feel more of his weight leaning in to my support. Ignoring his grimacing and protesting, I wrap his arm around my shoulders and lift him up to his feet. I wonder if I used to feel as light to him when he’d pick me up as a child.

My father mutters curses at his unsteady legs, and I step away to let him straighten on his own. After a moment, he turns to me and nods to indicate that he’s ready to move on. I sling our bag over my shoulder again and begin walking beside him - slower now than when we started.

“We can stop as many times as you need,” I say. “I think the clouds passed over us.”

My father chuckles and pats my shoulder.

“Your old father can still make the journey just fine. If I start taking too many breaks, you’ll start asking if I want to be carried, and we can’t have that,” he says. He gives my shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “My son, the hero.”

And his next strides stretch a little further, as if his pride alone is enough to propel him just a little longer.