The Forest

Once upon a time, there was a shepherd. He had a nice, big flock. The sheep fed all day long on the long green grass, and once their shiny square teeth had cut all the grass clean to the ground, they'd move on. The shepherd and his sheep travelled in a circle around a small forest with huge, dark trees. Slowely they circled around it, and once they came back were they started, the grass had grown and recovered from their previous visit. It was a good life for them.
But the shepherd never let the sheep come close to the forest, for some reason. If a sheep tried to make a run for the wood, just to take a peek, just to see why he wasn't allowed to go there, the shepherd would run after him, faster than his wrinkled face and grey beard would make you think, catch the sheep and take it back to its flock. The sheep didn't understand why. Certainly there was nothing dangerous about it? The tall, silent trees would provide shelter when it was raining and shade on a hot day. They'd sigh and look at the sweet, drowsy shade between the trees from a distance.

One day, in late spring, when the trees already are dark summer green but when cold showers still tend to fall, there was a very strong wind whipping the hillsides. The long green grass waved, huge grey clouds soared through the grey sky, and the trees' whispers for attention were lost in the howling of the wind. The shepherd stood at the edge of a small cliff, the wind pulling his beard, pondering about something, gazing into the distance, looking at the city in the valley whithout really noticing it. The shepherd's tent, made out of yellow and blue cloth, suffered badly under the wind's constant beating. One of the wooden tent pegs got pulled out of the ground, and the whole structure of the cloth roof changed as the wind got under it and pulled out another peg. The sheep bleated in alarm. The shepherd looked up, saw what was happening to his improvised tent and started to run for it, but it was already too late. The wind pulled out the final pegs and roared in triumph, flinging its yellow-and-blue prey through the grey sky. All sheep had stood up by now and were standing quietly beside their friend. The shepherd watched until his tent was nothing more but a small dot in the sky. He swore, and the wind stole the word from his bearded mouth and flung that around too.

The wind's anger had subsided. The sky was still grey, but the clouds didn't move as fast as they did yesterday. The trees still whispered, but it could be heard now. Crows sang their grim song in the trees. The shepherd took his rough walking stick, told the sheep they shouldn't enter the forest no matter what, did they hear them, no matter what, and walked off to the city. The sheep watched him until he dissapeared over a small hill. They day went on normally. The sheep ate from the green grass. They did what they'd do any other day, but the absence of the shepherd made them sad. They missed him. Some of them would look in the direction of the city, and listen to the bells of the church.

Then a raincloud sweeped in over the mountains. The cloud positioned itself above the poor sheep and coloured the sky black. Rain started to fall. The shepherd had told them not to enter the forest, no matter what, but still, the boldest sheep decided they didn't have to accept such bad luck and started to make for the forest. Thunder rolled over the hills. Some of the sheep bleated for the boldest sheep to come back. The hesitating bleats were lost to the sound of the rain. The sheep got cold and wet, soft wool became heavy and soaked. The boldest sheep, a big ram, could be seen standing under the edge of the forest, his wool was dry and warm. His low and powerful bleat could be heard through the gushing of the rain. To some of the sheep, this was the final proof that the forest was completely harmless. If one sheep leaps over the ditch, all the rest will follow, which is exactly what happened. Soon the entire flock was standing under the protecting blanket of leaves. The lambs nervously uttered high-pitched bleats. Now that they had disobeyed the shepherd, the harm was already done, the bold ram figured. It wouldn't matter if they ventured deeper into the shades. They might even taste some plants that had never been tasted before! And so the wet flock set their first shy steps into the dark forest. Crows jumped from branch to branch and croacked curiously, watching every move the newcomers made. The sheep nibbled the fresh needles of the ever-green trees, they nibbled the flowers they'd never seen before, they nibbled the milky white mushrooms, they nibbled the aromatic herbs, they nibbled it all and it was all delicious and a lot better than ordinary grass. Why would the shepherd hide all this from them? He wants to keep it for himself, some of the sheep thought. He didn't know, the other sheep thought. Anyway, they knew now. They traveled deeper into the forest and the rain and the wind made the leaves rustle softly. The huge trunks groaned and waved slowly, so slowly one could hardly notice. And the smells! The sheep noses were filled with the smell of decomposing leaves, of fresh evergreen needles, of damp moss. Even further they walked, less and less afraid of the dark forest with its delicious little secrets.
Suddenly, they saw light shining through the dark trunks. The yellow light came from a small glade, enlighted by the watery sun that showed itself again. Oh, how delighted the sheep were! The sun was shining, and when the shepherd came back they would tell him the forest was perfectly safe and stuffed with delicious food, more delicious than grass would ever be.

But the sheep were reckless in believing the forest safe. Rubies gleamed in the shade of the trees, watching them. Watching how they darted happily in the glade. Some of them looked in the direction of the red lights, sensing... something. It was probably harmless. Everything in the forest had been harmless so far, after all.
Then, vicious mouths filled with vicious teeth opened and growled. The sheep looked up. Their delight switched to fear. Before they could even start to run, a pack of black wolves leaped from the shades, teeth shining, eyes gleaming, mouth snarling.

When the shepherd returned from the city, carrying folded cloth on his shoulders, it was raining again. He dropped the new tent. Where were his sheep? He walked around the entire forest, with growing fear, shouting their names with his deep, loving voice. When he came back to where he had dropped the tent an hour before, he was crying. He had told them. He had told them not to enter the forest. Every last one of them was dead, a feast for the damned wolves. He sat down, tears joining the rain drops in his beard.

A shy bleat shook him from his grief. He looked up in surprise. A tiny lamb was crawling out of a small hole. He stood up and watched the soaked, clumsy creature stand up. It emitted the heartmelting bleat again, and the shepherd took it in his arms. He sat down again. He warmed the poor wet creature on his lap, stroked its wet, thin wool. He watched the city and heard the bells of the church through the rain. His back was turned on the forest.