Green slopes ran gently and rolling to the waves of a swift river. The river separated two lands. Across the river from the green hills was a parched land. Harsh rocks and cliff faces gave way to parched, cracked clay. On the greener side, a flock of sheep was grazing.
Running from over a green slope, came the twin lams of Friesia. They chased, bumped and rolled over each other under Friesia’s watchful eyes as she nibbled at a tuft of grass. Over knoll and dale, the twins ran, until hitting the bank of the river. They stopped to drink. One lapped at the river while the other nipped at his brother’s tail.
As they looked up across the river, to the rocky shore, they saw something or, someone. Startled the two young lambs ran back.
“Mamma! Mamma!” they cried. “Something’s down by the river.”
“Come, Little ones,” she said. “We must tell Booroola.”
Booroola was talking quietly with Rambouillet when Friesia approached, her two lambs hiding behind her. Booroola was a large wise old ram. His horns curled around the sides of his head from under a curly cap. His white face ended in a wide smooth mouth. He was the Elder of the flock. Rambouillet’s slender face was the mark of intelligence. He served a second in the Flock.
Booroola slowly looked up at Friesia.
“The twins have something to tell you, Booroola. Go ahead.”
“Elder Booroola,” one said with a stammer.
“We saw something down by the river,” joined the other.
“Indeed?” Booroola replied. “Come Rambouillet. Let us go see.”
Over the last rise, they came with pedantic stride and sharp eye. Across the river they saw a pair of shivering dwarf sheep, their long wispy hair blowing in the breeze, they bleated with terror hunger and want.
Booroola’s eyes widened. He lifted his head stretching his three chins to the air. The twins knew this meant that the Elder was in thought.
“We must help them,” he said at last turning to Rambouillet. “They may join our fold.”
Rambouillet turned an indifferent eye. For weeks now the flock had been alone. The shepherd had led them out of the sheep pen to find them food. The life of the village depended on it – depended on him. At home he left his wife and children defenseless in order to defend the sheep of the village.
The morning was cold – but soon the sun would rise and the heat would become unbearable in the parched land. The shepherd stood at the door of the gate and sang to the sheep. His sheep knew his voice. There were other sheep there too. Their shepherds would be responsible to care for them, but the sheep of the fold heard the gentle song of the their master and followed him out.
He sang of their need to cross the river and find pasture and safety. He sang of his love for them and his readiness to lay down his life for them.
Rambouillet could still hear the song in his ears. He could still remember the shepherd sweaty and ragged. He hadn’t eaten in days – instead he gave his food to the sheep. At the bank of the river, at a shallow spot, it happened. The shepherd herded the flock across the river when a pack of wolves attacked. He fought them off as they swam to safety. They could hear him breathlessly singing his song – that he would lay down his life, until it was over.
Rambouillet remembered these deeds of heroism. He remembered tenderly his master’s voice and his sadness at his loss. But he, and his flock, had to live. They had to make it back to the sheep pen.
Wise old Booroola had reminded them that the shepherd was a sheep too. He explained that as the shepherd had led them out calling them with his song, the creator had sung to the shepherd and called him home. He urged them to continue to follow the shepherd’s song – to love the flock, to take the action the shepherd had taken for them, to find the other flocks that belonged to the shepherd and bring them into the fold.
Rambouillet and others loved being a part of the fold and like the good words of Booroola, but soon they went back to the daily sheep life, concerning themselves with feeding.
Some Hampshires and Suffolk sheep didn’t trust that the creator, who let their shepherd die, would take care of them. They took to carrying haystacks on their backs, matted in their wool, rotting when it got wet.
Booroola saw the indifferent look in the eyes of his friend and in his aged wisdom knew his thoughts.
“We are tired my friend,” Booroola said. “It has been hard with out our master…. You remember his song?”
“Yes,” Rambouillet said thoughtfully. “Do you think he was true to us? Will the creator truly care for us?”
“Not just that,” Booroola said deeply. “He now will be the shepherd through us. We take care of one another as the shepherd did.”
A fire returned to Rambouillet’s eyes that had gone out long ago. Now he felt something greater than his hay or flock.
Booroola smiled at it. Rambouillet ran back to the fold and began to sing the song of the shepherd.
One by one the sheep looked up at him and stopped their grazing. They were open, ready for the message, ready for the fire.
“There are sheep across the river who need our help. Little children, let us not love with words or tongue, but with actions and in truth! Booroola says they are to welcomed into the fold.”
The eyes looking at him began to blaze. They followed him. They followed the spirit of the shepherd in him. Together they sang his anthem.
At the water’s edge, they threw down the haystacks on sticks and logs making a raft. They threw it all in the swift waters of the river, giving up all that they had, trusting completely in the creator. Grasping each other, they floated the raft across the river, a line of sheep from shore to shore. The two small long hair creatures jumped on the raft and were pulled to the safety of the shore. When they jumped off, the nest floated out, away, down the river leaving the flock with out their stores of treasure and two new members.
The next years were not easy, but they continued in the way of the shepherd. They took care of one another completely. Booroola followed the shepherd in laying down his life for the flock. It was now a flock of action. Rambouillet, in his old age gave leadership of the flock to one of the little longhair sheep rescued that day. Everyone, man and beast, who met one of the fold were amazed that domestic sheep had once again learned to follow the creator, and take care of themselves by his spirit. They were more amazed at the love they showed to one another and strangers through their actions.
At the end of their journey there is a sheep pen where all shepherds sheep make one fold. The Good Shepherd is there, and his spirit guides them.
She left the doctor's waiting room, and peered around the corner. The horse was gone. Passangers were beginning to file off the train. She ran down the platform, catching quick looks between the cars as she went. No sign of the horse. Se stopped and rested against a lamp post. She looked up between the gas lamps she saw the mighty legs of the white horse, then the belly, hind legs and finally the tail sailed over her. The horse set down lightly with a bright clop-clop and shook her head at Ella over her wings.
