He is only fifteen years old and at a station in life that some might wish he didn’t exist or he is locked up in cryptic alleys polishing crude gems for opulent eyes. Some would say he is cocooned where he is. Others would envy his pristine world, a scenic paradise on the mountain top that they dream to walk someday with the angels, in the sky.
He sharpens his sickle as his mother prepares breakfast. She says it is too early and cold to leave home but he says all will be well. He seems not afraid of the wolves but the imminence of change everyone in the village is talking about he admits petrifies him. For the third time that morning he asks her when it would happen, and again, she reassures him that it is nothing to worry about.
The allure of the green pasture, a veritable carpet of hope to tread that nurtures life in harrowing times whose tapestry of discord sullies guiltless ogles must soothe his angst as he makes his way behind his flock to the hills overlooking the village, his two Alsatians not far behind. Not even the dense morning fog seems enough to dampen his zeal for a way of life that he says he is unwilling to trade for any else. So he trudges on.
As he sits at a stone’s edge gazing into the mist, his stick in one hand, in the cupped other rested his chin, his rubber slippers by his side, ready he seems to act to ward off danger, his thoughts must be laden with the prospects of an uncertain future judging by the song he soon starts to sing extolling the mystique of hope. Yet, he intersperses the lyrics with sighs of what seems to be resignation by a besieged soul.
It all started with word spreading round the village about a sell-out. With innumerable years of history famed for the resilience of a culture steeped in atavism, content it seems to flourish in pittance as judged by neighbours who nonetheless openly crave what they perceive they lack that it has aplenty, the village, some say, is going to change forever. Yet, no one seems to know the reason why, or so it seems until now.
Since his father died two years prior, he does not tire telling his mother that he would take care of her and protect her from the patent machinations that even a small village would find hard to dismiss has the potential to wreck its age-old coherence, something on which the lives of its peoples hinge, a communality to which they ascribe its longevity as many others in its milieu crumbled over time embracing the very intrigues it now faces.
And he appears determined to keep his word, the lessons he learned from his father even at an early age now elements of his repertoire of craftsmanship tending his flock. He insists he has grown up and his fragile frame notwithstanding, confident to confront any foe in any frock. He tells her not to hide anything from him. He seems to know that she is so emotionally frail at the moment that she presents albeit unwittingly fodder for those he once asked her the reason they pry so much into her affairs.
Even as she resists family pressures to rendezvous with her brother in law, an ancient custom following her husband’s demise, insisting her son would take care of her, that she is the target of village gossips leaves no one in doubt, apparently. Yet, she says she is fine whenever he brings the matter up, to which his typical response is for her to know that he is now a man.
Lanky with a toothy grin, he clearly exudes confidence and charm which people say his soft mien belies. As a teenager whose cognitive progress some would insist lags behind his looks, she must be aware of the jest implicit in her support for his goal. Yet, she refuses to budge. A recent trip to the village by a government official seems to be her bane, as she struggles it seems to shield him from her mounting woes.
That she has since been renovating her home does not appear to count, at least in her favour. Indeed, it only seems to reinforce the conviction of her family. Given the isolation of the hills, village cohesion assumes more than neighbourliness and everyone is related in some way to the next. It is therefore unlikely perceived as accidental that her brother in law’s house has to go.
As if that does not suffice, she now faces the wrath of the village for suggesting to the official it needs a bit of modernizing. Her son often wonders aloud why no one seems to care about them, other than come to the home with rancid tones. She tells him life is sometimes a mystery. He replies it seems it always is. It is obvious that he wants to do something to make his mother happy even as she conceals her feelings it seems for his sake.
When on her birthday he does not respond to his mother’s wakeup calls, the panic in her at once evident, hardly could she have imagined that he is miles away from home. It must have been easier for her to see the wheel of villainy in her midst operational on a milestone as she ardently prays out loud for divine intervention to save her son, and for the roulettes that slice her soul to spare his.
Later in the day, just as the village elders sit to discuss his case, he emerges with the government official who joins the meeting to clarify the issues he earlier raised. The rest of the village is at the periphery, his mother by his side, her joy at his return unbound. Tears well in her eyes as the village elder declares her innocent of any wrong against the village and indeed, apologizes on behalf of the village for tarnishing her name.
“You’re sure now a man,” she says smiling demurely at her son as they head back home.
