The Shepard and his Muse

The brightness of the full moon peeked through the night, casting a beam of light upon the bookshelf in a child's bedroom.

As the old man prepared to close the door a tiny voice spoke. "Grandpa, can you tell me a story before bed?"

With a knowing chuckle and smile he responded. "Of course, I can." And with that he moved towards the shelf to pick out a book. Once more, the tiny voice called out. " No, not a story book, I want you to tell me a tale, please."

"And what tale would you like me to tell you?" Knowing the answer.

"The Shepard and his Muse.” Came the reply.

"Again?"

"Yes, please."

Smiling as much to himself as to his grandson the elderly gentleman turned around, approached the bed, and sat beside the child.

"Okay, first let’s set the mood." Reaching over he turned on the wizard shaped lamp. A soft light burst forth from the wand, scattering the ceiling with an array of stars that spread overhead.

The child snuggled under the blankets and closed his eyes. As his grandfather spoke the first words of the tale. "Once upon a time."

Pausing the grandfather whispered, "I have always loved that line."

Peeking through squeezed eye lids, the young boy asked. "Why?"

"Because it speaks of such promise."

Clearing his throat he continued.

"Once upon a time, there was a Shepard who lived in a beautiful land. Two rivers flowed through his fields and the trees spread their branches to welcome the sun. Fall was fast approaching; the ground was carpeted with bright colored leaves and the scent of a change hung in the air.

Now this Shepard was an ordinary man with an exceptional gift. He could weave a tale like no other. Once a week he would head into town and sit with friends and strangers in the local pub, or park and they would listen to him speak. In time the strangers would become his friends, that too was a gift he had. People would travel from far and wide to hear him share his stories. The tales told were never the same, no one ever knew what to expect. But no one was ever disappointed.

When asked how he came up with such wonderous yarns, his reply was always the same. 'I have a muse who inspires me.' No one took it literally, they just thought he was secretive. They were okay with that.

What people didn't realize was that the Shepard spoke the truth. He couldn't tell you exactly when it entered his life, it just happened. This familiar shadow shimmered, always just beyond his reach. His constant companion. He didn't know what to think when he first experienced it. Wonderment, joy, confusion, bewilderment, but never fear. He knew this form, which resembled himself. He felt it was always there but hidden until the time was right. One day it entered his life and has never left him since.

He didn't have a name for it, a conscience, a guide, a helpful spirit. He settled on 'Muse'. Because from this form came ideas, thoughts. Words that were always in him now flowed out unfettered and unrestrained. His muse forced him to break out of his mold and create a new beginning for himself.

Whispering in his ear to try things, explore, share. His muse encouraged him write the stories that were in him and to reach out to others. To share his emotions in words with all the world. And so, he did, hesitantly at first than courage took over. Soon his words would find homes in other minds and imaginations.

All was good, then one morning in the very early hours before the sun rose. The Shepard awakened to feel the familiar presence, only this time it was slightly different. It was further away beckoning for him to follow. Quickly getting dressed the Shepard rushed down the stairs, grabbing his coat he opened the door of his home and entered the early morning darkness.

He watched as his muse climbed the little rise just outside his rather large building he called home. Joining his muse on the rise he stood in silence. The Shepard loved this view, from here he could see most of his estate. He sat on a stone watching the sun as it crested the horizon, fading out the blackness that once covered the land. First light breaking free from the confines of the beyond sharing the promise of a new day. Watching the sun rise, something he hadn't done for very long time, and wondering why? Witnessing the beauty of dawn brought him inspiration.

He loved the idea, of being here in this moment. Glancing up he saw his familiar shadow, shimmering in the morning mist. Once more beckoning for him to follow. All morning and into the day he wandered his fields. Memories flowed from him like never before. Each place held a magic story, a tale of what happened and what could be. The possibilities were endless. They came to a shack where the sheep would shelter out the storms. It was here he found the little black book he thought was lost. Tucked away in the rafters. Opening it, the words hung on the pages waiting to be read. They were ideas he had, stories to be told. He smiled, after all why wouldn't he, it was a beautiful day and he found something he once thought lost.

Glancing up he noticed his muse was further away, standing in a field with a yellow glow. His feet took to movement, and he went where his steps lead him. He found himself amongst a combination of marigolds and dandelions, unusual for this time of year. Thoughts of lemonade danced in his head. He turned to comment to his muse, but it was gone. He spun around only to freeze when he saw where his muse was now. Standing motionless atop a hill under a lone tree. The Shepard's heart sank knowing what was there. With a heavy sigh he trudged up anyway, his muse wanted him there.

As the late afternoon sun continued its journey, a beam of light broke through the now greying sky and shone upon two unmarked graves that lay beneath the single tree. One slightly smaller than the other. His breathing became shallow, and his head hung lower knowing who lay there."

"Grandpa, who was in the graves, you never say."

Placing a wrinkled hand upon the Childs head he said in a distant voice. "No one is sure. They say he wrote a story about it once but would not put it to voice."

"Why?"

"His heart was broken."

"Oh." Sitting up in bed the child turned to his grandfather and asked an innocent question that tugged at the soul. "Grandpa, what becomes of the broken hearted?"

Reaching out to hold the Childs hand he softly said, "You shouldn't worry about those things. It's getting late, lets continue shall we?"

"For a few moments the Shepard and his muse stood there, and then the most wonderous thing happened. The flock of sheep who were only moments ago scattered and wandering aimlessly, now gathered as one to surround the tree and the Shepard. One by one they paraded towards him, and gently butted their heads against his hand and then silently walked away. His favorite, Pippa was the last to say farewell. She nuzzled his hand and gazed into his eyes before leaving his side. Turning to watch his flock return to the field, a sense of joy warmed his soul.

They strolled the land for the remainder of the day, him, and his muse. When they had explored his entire field he knew it was time to return home. His mind full of ideas that needed to be shared.

As they stood high upon his land, in the distance he saw the grand old barn basking in the light of the setting sun. The painted sign on the roof, now faded but still visible. No longer entirely readable except for a few letters that sort of looked like the words 'Rock City'. But that made no sense. The barn was here when he purchased the place. It was a big decision to move here. He was born across the sea and refers to himself as living on the wrong side of the water, in truth he now called this place home. There was a beauty in the soil that now tied him to this place.

Breathing in the scents of fall, enjoying the smells knowing winter would arrive soon. He was suddenly overwhelmed with an unknown feeling. 'An eeriness and impression of seeing something for the first time' or what his new homeland people refer to as 'jamais vu', which means 'never seen' . He had the urge to go home.

Standing in front of the ancient door of his Maison, he took one last look around. Life was good. He had stories to write and tales to tell. He recognized today for what it was. The muse was telling him he was about to become part of a new story waiting to be told. Side by side they walked into his home and closed the door."

A heaviness hung in the room, as the child gave his story teller a hug.

"Now, time for sleep."

"Grandpa, you're supposed to say, The End."

The old man smiled, kissed his grandson on the forehead and spoke. “Who said it's the end?"

Leaning over he turned off the light. As he was closing the door a soft voice whispered in the dark. "Goodnight Grandfather."

"Goodnight Tom."

Thank you for reading my story.

Jason.

This is dedicated to a great author who was a mentor without knowing it and a friend who I never met in person. A strong influence and voice on Vocal and Vocal social groups. His voice was silenced too soon. You will be Missed Tom Bradbury.

Below are a few of his stories I wove into the tale you read:

Not all doors are made of wood. Not all keys are made of metal.

Tom Bradbury,

https://vocal.media/earth/how-to-make-dandelion-lemonade

https://vocal.media/petlife/what-becomes-of-the-broken-hearted-9b8vj6075o

https://vocal.media/poets/the-wrong-side-of-the-water

https://vocal.media/fiction/ramblings-in-hypoxia

https://vocal.media/confessions/the-mornin-after-the-night-before

The works of TOM BRAD:

https://vocal.media/authors/tom-brad