Cry Wolf
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Historical
Swearwords: None.
Description: Even in pre-history, nothing changes.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was wrong. It pains me to admit it but my ten year old great-grandson has proved to me that my thinking has become as twisted as my weary old body.
It is no consolation that my cronies, one of them even older than my fifty summers, agreed with me.
“Looking after a herd of cows or a flock of sheep is not a job for a man,” we would assert, sitting in a warm corner close to the fire.
“I suppose they might get a bruise or two if the docile beasts stumble and bump into them,” we chortled, delighting in our mordant wit.
We had been hunters, going out armed with spears and bows to risk our lives, pitting them against wild animals. Not all of us had survived and those that did carried scars that testified to our courage in the face of danger. Now our sons had replaced hunting with the husbandry of domesticated animals.
“It must take outstanding valour to face up to a flock of sheep – especially when the rams are rutting!”
The women were working around us, setting the pots on the hearth stones to cook the evening meal. They were red-eyed from working in the smoke since we had commandeered the upwind side where we sat wrapped in blankets. We would spit into the flames and make another amusing assault on the courage of our descendants, mere herdsmen sprung from the loins of mighty warriors.
But we were wrong.
Mt great-grandson, Con, proved that, and I am now ready to beat to a pulp any of my old comrades who deny his courage. I grasp the shaft of his spear in hands gnarled by arthritis and shake the wolf’s head still impaled on it in their silly faces!
I can describe the scene as clearly as if I had been beside the boy when it happened.
Con was on the high pasture tending twenty ewes with about fifteen lambs. The youngsters were rushing about, butting each other then diving between their mother’s legs to give a few tugs on the ready teat. Their little tails would wiggle in ecstasy. Then when they were refreshed they would continue their games while their dams stoically cropped the short grass of the upland meadow.
The boy would have been relaxing on a rock – I can picture in my mind the very one – playing his flute, perhaps, or dreaming of the old days that he loved to hear me talk about. Close at hand would be the old spear with the shake behind the head that I had given him when he first started shepherding the flocks.
Into this calm and relaxed atmosphere loped a wolf. It had been a hard winter and it was still thin but it was a full-grown male made doubly dangerous by hunger.
Con, roused by the disturbance to his flock, rose and faced the intruder, quickly moving to get between the wolf and the alarmed sheep. It had already picked up a lamb that was bleating pitifully in the grip of the great yellow teeth. All the wolf now wanted to do was escape to kill and eat his victim in peace. He certainly felt confident that he could ignore the little manling yelling at him and prodding him with the blunt tip of an antique spear.
“I was not frightened, Grand; I was just angry that my sheep were being attacked. When the wolf turned away I knew he would leave the rest alone, at least until I could get help, but a sort of red mist came down behind my eyes and I just went crazy.”
He pushed the spear so hard that the flint head embedded itself in the shoulder of the wolf. This got the animal’s attention so it dropped the lamb and turned to meet its tormentor. The blow had been too much for the old spear and it had broken at the top of the shaft, leaving the head in the wound.
Con stood with a metre of ash in his hand and an angry wolf no more than a few centimetres from the jagged end. Almost as if it was choreographed, the wolf lunged forward, growling deep in is throat, and, at the very same moment, the boy thrust the stump of the spear into its open jaws.
The momentum of the great beast carried it forward pushing Con onto his back but it was a dead weight that landed on his legs. The spear pierced the palette of the wolf to lodge in his brain killing him instantly.
So firmly was the spear embedded that it remained in place when I later skinned the animal and it is now a proud trophy to remind us that the blood of hunters still flows in the veins of our children.
Con will have a wolf-skin cloak this winter and a new spear. I am bursting with pride but I have to admit that it is tinged with a little envy for I know that at ten years old I did not have the courage to face an adult wolf alone.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Even in pre-history, nothing changes.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was wrong. It pains me to admit it but my ten year old great-grandson has proved to me that my thinking has become as twisted as my weary old body.
It is no consolation that my cronies, one of them even older than my fifty summers, agreed with me.
“Looking after a herd of cows or a flock of sheep is not a job for a man,” we would assert, sitting in a warm corner close to the fire.
“I suppose they might get a bruise or two if the docile beasts stumble and bump into them,” we chortled, delighting in our mordant wit.
We had been hunters, going out armed with spears and bows to risk our lives, pitting them against wild animals. Not all of us had survived and those that did carried scars that testified to our courage in the face of danger. Now our sons had replaced hunting with the husbandry of domesticated animals.
“It must take outstanding valour to face up to a flock of sheep – especially when the rams are rutting!”
The women were working around us, setting the pots on the hearth stones to cook the evening meal. They were red-eyed from working in the smoke since we had commandeered the upwind side where we sat wrapped in blankets. We would spit into the flames and make another amusing assault on the courage of our descendants, mere herdsmen sprung from the loins of mighty warriors.
But we were wrong.
Mt great-grandson, Con, proved that, and I am now ready to beat to a pulp any of my old comrades who deny his courage. I grasp the shaft of his spear in hands gnarled by arthritis and shake the wolf’s head still impaled on it in their silly faces!
I can describe the scene as clearly as if I had been beside the boy when it happened.
Con was on the high pasture tending twenty ewes with about fifteen lambs. The youngsters were rushing about, butting each other then diving between their mother’s legs to give a few tugs on the ready teat. Their little tails would wiggle in ecstasy. Then when they were refreshed they would continue their games while their dams stoically cropped the short grass of the upland meadow.
The boy would have been relaxing on a rock – I can picture in my mind the very one – playing his flute, perhaps, or dreaming of the old days that he loved to hear me talk about. Close at hand would be the old spear with the shake behind the head that I had given him when he first started shepherding the flocks.
Into this calm and relaxed atmosphere loped a wolf. It had been a hard winter and it was still thin but it was a full-grown male made doubly dangerous by hunger.
Con, roused by the disturbance to his flock, rose and faced the intruder, quickly moving to get between the wolf and the alarmed sheep. It had already picked up a lamb that was bleating pitifully in the grip of the great yellow teeth. All the wolf now wanted to do was escape to kill and eat his victim in peace. He certainly felt confident that he could ignore the little manling yelling at him and prodding him with the blunt tip of an antique spear.
“I was not frightened, Grand; I was just angry that my sheep were being attacked. When the wolf turned away I knew he would leave the rest alone, at least until I could get help, but a sort of red mist came down behind my eyes and I just went crazy.”
He pushed the spear so hard that the flint head embedded itself in the shoulder of the wolf. This got the animal’s attention so it dropped the lamb and turned to meet its tormentor. The blow had been too much for the old spear and it had broken at the top of the shaft, leaving the head in the wound.
Con stood with a metre of ash in his hand and an angry wolf no more than a few centimetres from the jagged end. Almost as if it was choreographed, the wolf lunged forward, growling deep in is throat, and, at the very same moment, the boy thrust the stump of the spear into its open jaws.
The momentum of the great beast carried it forward pushing Con onto his back but it was a dead weight that landed on his legs. The spear pierced the palette of the wolf to lodge in his brain killing him instantly.
So firmly was the spear embedded that it remained in place when I later skinned the animal and it is now a proud trophy to remind us that the blood of hunters still flows in the veins of our children.
Con will have a wolf-skin cloak this winter and a new spear. I am bursting with pride but I have to admit that it is tinged with a little envy for I know that at ten years old I did not have the courage to face an adult wolf alone.
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned four novels and is now trying his hand at short stories. His latest novel, The Island, is a McStorytellers publication.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned four novels and is now trying his hand at short stories. His latest novel, The Island, is a McStorytellers publication.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.