157 lines
3.7 KiB
TeX
157 lines
3.7 KiB
TeX
\herosection{The Shepherd of Souls}{chapters/2025.10.23-TheShepherdOfSouls/image/the-shepherd-of-souls.jpg}
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\DROPCAP{../../dropcap_c/dropO.png}nce upon a time \\
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there was a shepherd named Lior,\\
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who lived happily in the mountains\\
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with his wife and young son.
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Their life was simple and hard.\\
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Yet they had each other,\\
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and their sheep,\\
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and the mountains and valleys \\
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were so beautiful\\
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that words failed.
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One day Lior came home after grazing their flock,\\
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only to discover there had been an avalanche.\\
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Where his cottage had stood\\
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now lay a gash of rocks and debris.
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His home and family were gone \\
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without a trace — \\
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swallowed by the mountainside.\\
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All that was left \\
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was a newborn lamb,\\
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whom his wife and son had been caring for,\\
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who had somehow survived.\\
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He named her Flower.
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After that, \\
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Lior lived as one half-alive.\\
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He cared for Flower and his sheep,\\
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spoke little,\\
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and slept by a fire \\
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that burned low\\
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in a simple hut he built\\
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near where his cottage had been.
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The villagers left him food \\
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but no questions.\\
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``He's already part ghost,'' \\
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they whispered.
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One clear winter's night,\\
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Lior was foraging for firewood\\
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when a blizzard took him by surprise.\\
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Snow whirled so thick\\
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that Up and Down traded places.
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Disoriented, \\
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he stumbled and fell into a drift,\\
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and the cold overcame him quickly.\\
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His heartbeat quieted, \\
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faltering.
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In that stillness,\\
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he saw two figures \\
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in the blinding whiteness — \\
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his wife and son — \\
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smiling, patient.\\
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They didn't beckon him closer;\\
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they simply waited as if to say not yet.\\
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Their peace startled him awake.
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At dawn, \\
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he crawled out of the snowdrift — \\
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alive and aching.\\
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Near him, \\
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wedged between stones,\\
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lay an old shepherd's flute\\
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carved of mountain ash, \\
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crusted with ice.
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He didn't know who had left it there,\\
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only that it felt at home in his hands.
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At first, \\
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he couldn't make a sound with it.\\
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Eventually, \\
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notes came out, \\
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cracked and faltering.\\
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Over the long days of watching his sheep,\\
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he let the flute slowly show him \\
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what it wanted to sing.\\
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Sometimes he wondered \\
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who was playing whom.
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The villagers noticed\\
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the shepherd who had never smiled\\
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now played in the twilight — \\
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and the sheep gathered close\\
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as if listening to prayer.
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He played through sun and rain,\\
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through silence so wide\\
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the echoes seemed to open into forever.\\
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The sheep learned to follow the sound;\\
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the birds grew unafraid.\\
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And in time,\\
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his own heart began to keep time\\
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with the Otherworldly Music.
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When the fever came to the village,\\
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Lior came, carrying herbs and his flute.
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``Sometimes compassion \\
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is the only medicine left,'' he said.
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He played for the sick,\\
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for the frightened,\\
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for the dying.\\
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His songs sang of tender sorrow,\\
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and a strange, \\
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fierce joy.
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Some who heard them survived.\\
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Those who didn't, \\
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passed away loved.
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When Flower too fell ill,\\
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he played through the night.\\
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The flute's tone raw — \\
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human, pleading.
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When at last her small body stilled,\\
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the wind rose \\
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and carried the fading melody\\
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down the valley like a benediction.
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At dawn, \\
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he carried Flower\\
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to where his family had died,\\
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and laid her to rest\\
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in a small grave adorned with stones.
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Weeks later, \\
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the fever took Lior.\\
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On his last evening,\\
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he asked the villagers \\
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to open the window,\\
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so the wind could find him.
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They buried him next to Flower,\\
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his flute resting on his chest.
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That spring,\\
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when storms swept down the valley,\\
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the wind carried music — \\
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faint, but unmistakable.
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It was never quite the same tune twice.
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The villagers called it Lior's Song.\\
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And when someone died, \\
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they would say,
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``Listen — Lior has come to carry them home.''
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