Magic Waters by Francesca Quarto

Magic Waters: Another Tall-tale

"Ah, yes. Ye 'n me 'ave survived yet anutter winter." 

Or so thought the sheep herder, as he poked at the well-thawed ground with his staff, following the placid, dull-witted mob. They were making their way out of the flimsy pen enclosure where he'd been counting faces, and looking for any signs of illness among them. He knew his sheep better than he would his own children, if he'd had any children. He recognized the oldest to the youngest, and grieved as deeply as a father, at the demise of any of his wooly charges.

It had been a particularly dreary and difficult winter, with four wooly head of his precious herd, falling victim to starving predators, or frozen stiff in the frigid blasts from the north seas. His cozy cottage offered his only solace in the cruel winters that visited his Emerald Isle.

"Cum along now me dears. There be a few tender tufts o' grasses, waiting fer ye up ahead."

This time of year, when the sun struggled to brighten the sky earlier, the world around him seemed to cling stubbornly to the scraps of night hidden in the shadows. The old man trudged in silence, with only the occasional word of encouragement to his flock, and an answering bleat of acknowledgement. With the melting of the snows from the earth, and the subsequent releasing of fresh fodder for his sheep, he prodded them after an unhurried grazing time, toward a sweet water stream nearby. 

He never used this as a watering hole before, but at the urging of his neighbor, Jack O’Rourke, and given clear directions by the man, he now guided his small band toward its burbling and welcoming fresh scent.

He counted off his wooly heard, and then by habit, recounted while they dipped their thick heads close to the water. There was one more than his last accounting. Shaking his own shaggy head, the shepherd went among the creatures standing knee deep in the cold, fast moving waters. He touched each one with the flat of his hand, calling out the number as a fail-safe for memory.

"Why, how ken it be?" he asked the dumb beasts.

"Ye, there!" he called as he splashed toward a face he didn't recollect. 

"Ye ‘ave a strange look ta me old eyes. Let's ‘ave a better look at ye!"

He grabbed a fist-full of thick, coarse hair, tugging the unknown beast out of the chilly water. He was about to begin his closer study of the animal, when a sudden chorus of bleating filled the air. Looking over at his tiny herd, he stood with a stunned expression as their numbers had increased two-fold. Where once stood ten lapping at the waters, now twenty drank contentedly. He blinked and two more appeared on the fringes.

He sucked in his breath whispering, "Tis ta work o' woodland elves, it tis!" his rheumy eyes, wide with amazement.

He stood and marveled as the herd continued to increase until the small stream was covered in bobbing white heads. As far as the old man could see, which wasn't very far since he was unquestionably near-sighted, both upstream and down, nothing but matted, winter weary sheep. This was surely a prank by the mischievous elves, but the sheep presented a temptation he could not resist. Besides, he no longer could pick out those sheep that were his, from the interlopers, because each of his had an exact twin in every respect.

A panic fell upon the simple man. He lost his only herding dog two years past, and it fell to him alone to keep track of the once tiny group. How was he to round up this larger herd, let alone drive them back to his meager croft, with its small rickety pen? No sooner had he cleared that thought from his mind, then he was struck with another. He spoke his plan out loud as if to give it credibility.

"The new neighbor, what tol' me o' this stream...I'll go ta him fer help in roundin' up the lot o' em!"

With that resolved to his liking, the old man set off at his slow trot. He'd kept hold of the one sheep who had set off the whole investigation. He dragged him along the narrow path, leading away from the crowded stream and to the new farmer's cottage. 

He banged hard upon the much-weathered wood door, its hinges groaning with the rough treatment. After several minutes of pounding this way, the old man was turning to leave, certain the new man was off to tend his fields. Before he could take another step, he was thrown onto the ground by a mighty shove.

He sat stunned, looking up at a wiry young man dressed in greens and browns, and wearing a cap adorned with feathers the same color as his flaming red hair.

"O lordy me! Tis ta elf ‘is own self!" the shepherd said in a choked whisper.

"I be tinkin' ye need a good thrashin' ol' shepherd! Dragn' me along like a sack o' old goat turd!"

"Sir," said the old man to the newly revealed elf.

"I be dreadful sorry! I were tinkin' ye was no morn' a black faced sheep, or I wouldn't ha treated ye so unkindly like. Ye know, tis truth, there ain't but a few differences in ta' wooly mob en only ta most hawked eye shepherd ken tell one from ta otter!"

The elf laughed at this pathetic defense, and thinking it would be amusing, cast a spell over the quivering old man at his feet.

           When Jack O’Rourke returned home from his own farm chores, he found two black-faced sheep munching at the stiff grasses of his front yard; as if waiting there for his return.

"What's afoot 'ere?" he asked the two dull witted sheep, with the usual response from them. 

"Baa

"Tis a blessin' from the woodland elf I ‘spect, fer me kindness ta the old shepherd. Well, me boys, ye look ta be identical twins, but I ken tell ye apart by eating one o ye! It's been sech a long, hard winter....”

His last words drifted off as he led his new sheep to the barn.