Peter and the Wolf

““People will do anything, no matter how absurd,
to avoid facing their own souls.”
- Carl Jung

The night swept over a field covered with grass and fungi, each bathing in starlight dew. Sheep gathered in a bed of mud and filth in a earthen patch of land in the middle of the field, the scene was serene. Dew laced the entire scene, dampening the woolen coats that each sheep boasted and coating the ground in a twinkling night light. The water that gathered on every character in this meadow scene would give forth the life to the world around it, but only for as long as it remained; water is the essence of life, and night is a time for redemption. The plants pulling forth water from the air, the sheep gathering moisture from the sodden grass, the water in the field was flourishing through its night life. A stiff scent hung amongst the local fauna, clinging to the nostrils in a poignant pinch of solitude; the morning to come would end the tranquil air set forth by the rejuvenation of the night.

 As the sun rose, it brought all the fungi and dew stained grass to the end of their midnight capers. The sun began replacing the once damp plants with stark bursts of sunlight; the sunlight cooked the scent of the field with a fresh breeze as it floated in free fall from its natural gusts. That morning, the sheep in the meadow flocked with a minor note of grace, and a major note of joy. Their wool was adorned in the grime of the land they traveled, their eyes worn down by the predators of the future, and their calls to others were stretched and elongated beyond their norm. The shepherd walked to the foot of the hill, eyeing the grassy knoll before him, memories of what awaits him at the top of the hill flooding his mind, he paused for a moment. Why do I tend to my sheep day in and day out? Have I yet to reap all the benefits of my flock? What is this drive that brings me forth everyday to a mornings end? I am bound to my flock, and my flock bound to me, but surely I can be more than a shepherd, surely I could walk a path that ends in debauchery or worse yet, treachery. Do I have the fortitude to rob in the eve of night, to commit horrible acts of violence in the name of myself and others? Surely a man has the potential for all worldly beings locked within himself; he who is bad and he who is good have the potential to live each other’s life in accordance with their actions. So why then, do I follow through with being a shepherd?

The shepherd mounted the hill, reaching its top, staff in hand, and something bubbling within him. The sheep hopped merrily to the scores of chirping birds, the call of the chickens, and the ever rising sun’s quiet noise. The staff the shepherd carried was as thick as a thigh bone, higher a size than he, and engraved with manic musings. The shepherd reached the top of the hill, digging his staff into the dirt; he called out to his flock in a long coarse voice

“You stupid mother fucking sheep, go eat grass and grow teeth to hunt the ones who hunt you. I can’t stand that all I am is a god damn shepherd. I want to adventure; I want a life worth leading, I want evil for all the good I’ve done you. I can’t stand waking up every morning to a fucking rooster roaring at the dawn before him, and sheep baaing like mindless boors. I hate my life and this god forsaken hill, where all I do every day, like fucking clockwork, is climb this mound and call out to my flock solidifying my purpose on this earth. I have no wife, no children; all I have is my sheep and the wool that comes with it.”

The shepherd thrust his face directly into his calloused palms and fell to his knees.

“BAAAAAAA” moaned a sheep

The shepherd began to weep, his tears soaking up the dirt that lay caked on his hand and slowly dripping down his face. As he goes to wipe his dirt stained tears from his face, he begins to literally and metaphorically rub his face in the dirt. The shepherd fell beyond his knees, weak from unending tears; he lay motionless atop his grassy knoll.

The sheep trekked beyond their normal pastures, traversing land that they often strayed from; the forest beyond the meadow.

“BAAAAA” moaned another sheep as it walked off into the distance.

The shepherd pulled himself up and gazed upon the field as he watched the sheep trek out into the distance. Trailing behind the sheep was a down trodden pathway coated in a sleek and moist coat of mud, remnants of the morning dew. The sheep continued in a mob like fashion to trek into the world beyond the meadow, into the out skirting forest. The sheet trotted with ease as they knew that no matter what they did, their shepherd would be there to herd them. The trees of the forest loomed over the field at very menacing distance, casting a shadow of knew into the direct sunlight. The shepherd had once made note about the shadow that the forest casts, but those lingering thoughts were set aside for the day. Although the forest was on the outskirts of his land, its shadow loomed far beyond the normal reaches of a shadow. As the sheep entered the dense and murky forest, the further they pushed in, the further the shadows of the trees reached towards the weeping shepherd. Matching the speed of the entering sheep, the shadow drove its way quickly across the land. As soon as the final sheep made its entrance into the mouth of the forest, the shadow had engulfed the shepherd. The darkness surrounding the shepherd was a shade denser than the average black; it took on a terrible purpose, a purpose fueled with darkness akin a hungry wolfs stomach.

               The shepherd rose from his slump, lifting himself up with his staff, his fingers laced into a carving that read “persona” in deep groves and large letters. The man looked with deep intent into the carvings on his staff, his eyes lingering for a long period of time on the word indentation of “persona.”

               A loud howl rang out, the shepherds eyes darted up to meet his flock, but he found them absent, and in their place, a mud trail leading into a forest; a forest who’s shadow vastly overtook its range. Starting off inch by inch, the shepherd pushed off of his staff, lifting himself fully to his feet, and then began to press onward. As the shepherd rose, the engulfing shadow surrounded him and retreated as he pressed forward. Vacant the thought to question the shadow, the shepherd surveyed the land now fully aware that his flock is no longer grazing in near sight.

“BAAAAA” pleaded a sheep

Another howl rang out, and several seconds after the howl a snarl came in toe. The shepherd wasn’t aware, but the sound of the howls and snarl came out towards him in an unorthodox manner. Instead of dispersing in a natural manner that audio waves frequently experience, the sounds of those in the forest rang out in a path directly related to the ominous shadow. The sounds coming from the forest entered an isolated path that traveled directly from the source into the shepherd’s vicinity; the shadow was amplifying the sound.

               After several idle movements, the shepherd began to process the howl, the forest, and the sheep. A look of peril shot across his face as he began to grasp the severity of the situation. Lifting his robes and thrusting his staff into the air, the Shepherd ran feverishly towards the source of the noise; the shadow. It was regressing as he progressed, but the snarling and howling remained funneled into his direction. Another howl rang out, once again followed by a snarl, but this time punctuated with the sound of a sheep screaming. The screams of the sheep were something akin to a humans screams, their sound reaching pitches as high as a screaming woman. The shadow still in tail, the shepherd began to pick up his pace. Soon he reintroduced the shadow to its origins as he reached the forest. Pressing into the forest, the sounds of the howling and screaming began to pick up its pace and became a constant part of the soundscape. The sheep were shrieking, and a howling, snarling beast was causing it.

               The shepherd reached the edge of a hill in the forest, before pausing. The air was drunk with the smell of filth and stale blood. Looking over the edge, the shepherd saw a humanoid figure covered in fur tearing apart his sheep with a clawed grip. Losing his footing, the shepherd fell down the hill face first. Gathering himself at the foot of the hill, the shepherd was 20 yards away from the massacre. Looking up into the sky the shepherd spoke,

“I am bound to my flock, and my flock bound to me.”

Upon finishing the last syllable of that sentence, the Shepherd began to edge closer and closer to the violence. He took refuge behind a nearby bush, but didn’t remain there long. Ending his idle tune, he ran directly for the sheep, robes in hand and staff outstretched, the man began his assault. A sheep was screaming desperately as the humanoid figure ripped it limb from limb; stripping the sheep not only of their wool, but also their skin. The shadows cast down by the moon quickly enveloped the shepherd circling him with increasing intensity as each sheep was torn apart. Ensconced in a deep feeling of sureness and purpose, the man charged into the beast, shadows swirling around him, staff guarding him, he threw himself at the monster. He was thrust back by the swing of the beasts arm, falling head first into a nearby boulder, cracking his skull as bone hit rock. Sounds of the sheep screaming and the beast snarling were slowly drowned out by the oncoming darkness of unconsciousness.

               The shepherd regained consciousness and soon felt the earthen ground underneath him; ground that was warmed by a shining sun. The tingle of the blades of grass brushing past thick beard brought him to the present. A barren sound of deafness permeated the air as he opened his stark auburn eyes and looked out into the distance. His face and hands were smeared with blood, and the grass beneath him was stained scarlet. The shadow of the forest extended to his position, encapsulating the scene with an ironic visual palette. As the man looked further into the distance, into the forest, he could see a section of the ground drenched in blood and littered with the remnants of torn apart sheep. As his gazed move further and further beyond his position, the shadow matched his eye sight and withdrew to the forest as he surveyed the scene before him. The shadow withdrew just enough to lie gently across the carnage, coating the sheep in an air of remorse, a feeling that now entrenched the shepherd. Not clear as to why he was feeling remorse, he gazed down at the blood caked onto his hands, and then to the pile of dead sheep; a rush of freedom and anger surrounded him and drove his eyesight to see a path between him and the sheep paved with blood. A benign voice spoke out from the shadows of the forest and said, in a very crooning tone, ““I am bound to my flock, and my flock bound to me, but surely I can be more than a shepherd, surely I could walk a path that ends in debauchery or worse yet, treachery.”