‘Is it really true you’ve never killed anything?’ said Alistair.
Louis Ward sighed. Alistair wasn’t a friend, exactly. But he was the only other boy around Louis’s age in the small hamlet where they lived, and so he often came to speak with Louis. Usually when Louis was out shepherding on the hillside, meaning he couldn’t leave. And after Louis turned down an invitation to join him on a hunt, this had been his new favourite topic.
‘No,’ said Louis, ‘I’ve never killed anything.’
‘How!?’ said Alistair incredulously. ‘I did my first kill when I was six.’
‘Yes… But your family are hunters. It’s your job.’
‘Farmers kill things too,’ Alistair insisted. ‘You have cattle and chickens. Don’t they need killing?’
‘John does that,’ said Louis, referring to his older, stronger brother. ‘I shepherd the sheep.’
‘Don’t shepherds protect sheep from foxes and wolves and the like?’
‘Of course we do. But you just jump about and make some loud noises and they run away.’
‘Hm,’ said Alistair, considering this. ‘Better to kill ‘em. Then they don’t come back.’
Louis sighed again. He didn’t think it was that odd not to have killed something. It wasn’t a skill he needed, or wanted for that matter. He liked being a shepherd. The work was easy and the fresh air was pleasant. Every day was more or less the same, which suited Louis fine.
It was shame, then, that at that moment, a messenger arrived in the valley. Louis saw him first, having the best view of the hamlet from his hillside. A stranger on a fast horse was rare enough in the valley, so it struck Louis with some surprise when it skidded to a halt outside the farmhouse.
‘Looks like you’ve got news,’ said Alistair, stating the obvious.
Louis couldn’t leave the sheep, and so stayed where he was. Soon, he watched the messenger remount his horse and ride off. A few minutes later, John was climbing up the hill towards him. John took after their father, being tall and with a neck as thick as his beard. Louis shared some resemblance, but he took more from his mother, being short and scrawny.
‘A letter from Warwick ,’ John called. ‘He needs more goods.’
Warwick was the middle brother, a few years older than Louis. He handled the financial side of things. Every month, he would hire a few able-bodied men, load a few carts with as much goods as they could carry and travel to the nearby markets to trade. This time, according to the letter, business was exceptionally good and Warwick wanted to travel to the bigger market at Stonewater, but didn’t have enough goods left to make the trip worthwhile. Thus, somebody would have to deliver more. That somebody, it seemed, was Louis.
‘Can’t you do it?’ said Louis.
John’s eyes narrowed, making Louis gulp. He hadn’t meant to sound so petulant. He wanted to help, he really did. But he’d never left the valley before. There were tales of bandits, camping out in the woods on that road. It would be dark before he arrived.
‘I’ve got three cows ready to give birth,’ said John. ‘I can’t leave. And everyone else is busy. It’s got to be you.’
‘What about the sheep?’.
‘I can fill in,’ Alistair piped up, cheerily. ‘Shepherding’s not that hard is it?’
Louis gave him a death stare.
So it was settled. Not only did Louis have to go, he also had to go alone. John helped him load the spare cart with eggs, wool, beef and a few live chickens, then Louis hooked the cart to his own horse, a mist-coloured mare called Pearl. Louis had never ridden her further than a few hundred yards from the stable. Finally, when Louis could dawdle no longer, he took his seat on the cart and flicked the reins. But before he left the courtyard, John stopped him.
He placed a large knife on the seat beside Louis. ‘Just in case,’ he said.
Louis left, watching the farm disappear behind him. He knew he was being silly. He knew that in a couple of days he’d be back on his hillside as if he’d never been away. But he couldn’t shake the feeling he was leaving forever.
He took one last look at the hill, where Alistair was standing, waving at him. Then he crossed over the rise and the valley vanished out of sight.
* * *
Louis struck a match and lit the small lamp that hung over the seat. He didn’t like having what was effectively a beacon over his head, but he liked not seeing in the dark even less. It had been sunset by the time he’d entered the forest and the light had vanished fast. The leaves were so thick, he had no idea if the night was clear or cloudy. Hours passed, or so it felt, and Louis was starting to feel like the forest would never end.
Suddenly, Pearl stopped. She was spooked by something, which spooked Louis twice as much. Instinctively, his hand went for the knife John had given him. The moment stretched into eons. Nothing happened. There wasn’t a sound, apart from the gentle clucking of the chickens behind him. Louis felt very silly.
Then something moved nearby, rustling through the undergrowth. Pearl whinnied in terror and tried to back up, bumping against the cart. And Louis’s heart stopped beating when something stepped into the road. Little did he know he had come face to face with the first thing he would ever kill.