Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The shepherd boy had named his three little lambs in a fit of patriotism: Agamemnon, Ajax, and Achilles. While they were not as fierce as their warrior counterparts, they made up for it with an annoying knack for getting into trouble.

In the hills of Arcadia, it was a simple feat to lose a sheep. It was easy enough to lose yourself. You only had to wander for half an hour before realizing that every scrubby hillside and steep embankment you just passed had looked exactly the same. By then, you were gone—hopelessly lost.

Even though they were the last people he would ever envy, Philipp often wondered how the shepherds did it. They managed a whole flock of sheep in these hills—hills that were kind to none.

Luckily, he only had his three—they looked innocent enough—but he sometimes suspected a conspiracy.

It was on an especially hot day, when the sun was bearing down into his drowsy eyes, that he lost Achilles.

The lamb had been in the corner of his sight a second before—nibbling on his root—but the time it took Philipp to give the position of the sun a look had given him time to vanish. The two others, Ajax and Agamemnon,still grazed peacefully at Philipp’s feet.

Quickly, the young boy weighed the consequences in his mind.

A rogue wolf had been in the countryside recently. He had heard the shepherds cursing it and its currish mother. Should he risk two for one? If he came back with these, he wouldn’t receive the amount of wool his mother counted on—there would be less weaving—less food. But with only one—he might receive no payment at all. He also could feel in their nature that the shepherds were not above beating an ignorant child—if the need arose.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was moving forward—running toward the rocky lip where he had last seen the lamb.

He peered into the narrow gorge that delved down there, and he saw Achilles far below—his white fleece stood out against the ruddy rock—trotting non-chalantly down the narrow path that terminated at the base. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw the lamb turn his head upwards, lock eyes with his own, and give some kind of mischievious smirk.

“Curse you, Achilles,” he hissed through his teeth.

He looked back at Ajax and Agamemnon. They were munching merrily—oblivious to their keeper’s absence.

Suddenly determined—he lowered himself down to first tier of the thin ledge that slanted haphazardly down. Loose rock rolled forth from under his feet. While the back of his sandals remained planted firmly on the ledge, his toes were suspended out over the thirty feet of open air. He sucked in a hot breath.

He pressed himself back against the wall and began inching down the slope. Without dropping his head, he could see Achilles far below. The trip had proved much easier for his deft hooves—he had already reached the bottom.

As he continued his snail advance, Philipp realized that he had to move faster—at this rate, his descent would take all day. Then all would be lost.

He saw the winding path switchback below him—the next level was too far below to lower himself safely—he would have to fall—and hope that his feet could catch in time.

He knelt down carefully and gripped the ledge firmly with his right hand and swung his body out over the lip. He quickly brought his left hand up to hold as well—but he had not been quick enough—the fingers slipped, and he clumsily slid several feet down the rock wall. He dug in with his nails, but he did not slow.

With a jerk, his feet hit the outcropping rock, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Looking over his shoulder—he saw he was much closer now—but not close enough to jump to the floor.

Achilles was still there. The lamb was sniffing the water at the edge of the brook that ran through the slender gorge. As if sensing a look, his woolly face turned and bobbed.

“Laugh it up,” Philipp muttered grimly. “Dumb sheep! If you live through this—or me, for that matter—you’ll wish you’d never—“

His words turned to cold lead in his mouth—ten feet above the brook on a far ledge, the black form of a wolf slinked into view. It was gazing hungrily down on the unsuspecting Achilles—still fascinated by his drink.

It was then—before his mind had time to think—that Philipp felt himself jumping. He knew that it was too high—too far to fall—but he was airborne nevertheless. His arms flailed helplessly for something to grasp—but found nothing. He saw the ground rushing up to meet him—at the same time, he saw the wolf lunge, and he cried out. But then the ground was there—hard and un-giving—and a blanket of blackness shrouded him, and he knew no more.