Everyone remembers the morning the stranger came to town, speaking of sheep. The debate over whether he should be called a shepherd is a powder keg in the tavern, and the mention of his name is the spark.

He arrived with nothing but a rust-speckled toolbox and stood at the door of the town’s land office. 

Dust shimmered in a single beam of sunlight in the cramped office. The land agent, a man with thinning gray hair, glasses on the tip of his nose, and a smoldering pipe, peered up from his desk.

The man explained he wanted to buy the vacant plot in the hills above the town.

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“What do you intend to do with this land?”

“I’d like to raise sheep.”

“Wolves.”

“No. Sheep.”

The land agent raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t hard of hearin’; I said wolves.” 

He stood and traced exaggerated, dramatic circles around both areas on the map hung behind him, as though the man were dim.

“These woods have wolves,” he said in a slow, staccato rhythm. “Wolves eat sheep. You can’t have sheep there. Have a nice day.”

He sat and returned to his paperwork. The stranger didn’t move.

“Can I buy it anyway?”

“Do you have sheep?”

“I’ll find some.”

“You don’t have a place to live.”

“I’ll build one.”

After the land agent had exhausted all of his questions, he drew up the land deed.

People from the town he came from asked the same questions. He didn’t let them anger him the way they used to. The questions are ghosts, phantoms lurching outward, grasping for him under the guise of protection. 

He worked in the sun, building his modest home and barn while the green grass grew tall and danced in the wind, carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers. The townspeople paused on occasion to watch his progress in the hills, offering reactions he would never know. 

When he walked down the road to town, he was kind to those he met, and they were cordial in return. Conversations were pleasant, and he often shared a laugh with the store owners when buying more materials. 

It wasn’t long before people began to refer to him as “the shepherd,” mocking him for his lack of a herd.

He wondered why no one asked questions anymore. He obsessed over it, walking the winding gravel road with the thick forest reaching out from the west side like jagged claws. The only alternative was to obsess over the watchful eyes of wolves hidden in the dark. So he walked, his eyes on the rolling hills illuminated by the setting sun, the landscape glowing otherworldly as he admired it from the shadow of the woods.

He worked from sunrise to sunset, making countless mistakes along the way. Some were so simple in nature that he’d be forced to stop and scratch his head, baffled at his incompetence. He found it even harder to believe his hands had done the fixing. But he continued, sure that once he finished the fence and sheep filled his pasture, the town would see he was a shepherd. 

That thought became his North Star on his trips to town, gazing in awe at his new home from the shadow of the woods, silent wolves stalking him under their cover. He smiled as he slipped into a daydream: a flock of sheep sweeping across the green hills like a school of fish in open water.

The fence began as wood, crooked planks leveled out with each addition, until it shifted to a stone wall for no apparent reason. Jagged, uneven rocks turned into stones that fit like puzzle pieces. Soon, they formed an enduring rock wall sure to outlast him. And last, in another peculiar change of material, the fence turned to sagging wire—barbed, snarled, and rusted—stretched between leaning posts. The final wires he strung were taut, enclosing the pasture his sheep would call home.

The townspeople walked the hills, passing sections of the fence in various states of repair. They returned to town with silent impressions and whispered theories.

If they had asked, he would have explained that he used different materials to prove to himself that he could. When the planks got level, the work became mundane. As he hammered nails, theories of the most efficient way to build a rock wall filled his mind to the point of obsession. When the wood ran out, he found rocks and began to test his hypotheses.

With the fence complete, the shepherd roamed the hills in search of sheep. Along the way, he met a stray dog in need of work. They shared meals under bright blue skies in the hills and became fast friends. Some trips kept them away for weeks, but the shepherd assembled a modest flock.

As the sun dipped lower and greens gave way to gold, the shepherd allowed a moment to pat himself on the back. He had a pasture, a home, a barn, a fence, a sheepdog, and thirty-five sheep. He was a shepherd; there was no doubt. 

One morning, as the sun slid behind the now-bare forest, he thought of the wolves. Without their green cover, the trees bared their teeth. Winter approached, and he didn’t have time to worry about wolves. His focus was the flock. 

He wanted to train his sheep to return to their sheepfold without having to herd them. 

A cold wind followed him into town, curling beneath heavy grey clouds. It was quiet now. Eyes burned holes in his back, peering out from behind darkened windows. The soft, rhythmic tap of his shepherd’s hook announced his presence.

He walked into the blacksmith’s and came out in less than a minute, a triangle chime in his hand. He made his way back up the hill, hood up and head down, the breeze nipping at his cheeks. 

That evening, when it was time to bring in the sheep, he sent his dog out alone and stood by the fold, chiming the triangle in time. Hoping its pleasant music would teach the sheep to come for food at day’s end or, in more dire moments, stay alive.

The first night, only a couple of sheep came bounding over the hill. The second night, none came. 

Too far out to hear, the shepherd reasoned.

On the third night, after a few minutes of ringing, the entire flock came over the rise.

Pride swelled in the shepherd’s chest, only to drain to his gut when he spotted a wolf, nose inches off the ground, sniffing the fenceline for weakness. The shepherd straightened. The wolf froze, locking eyes with him, beginning an arrogant, deliberate trot, never looking away. 

His dog snarled from the other side of the fence as the sheep began to scatter in fear. The shepherd wasn’t ready for this fight. 

He dashed to his barn and grabbed an old dinner bell. Back outside, he swung it over his head in furious arcs, a guttural cry ripping from his throat. The wolf bolted until the darkness of the woods consumed it. His dog’s barks echoed across the pasture into the night.

That night, he collapsed onto his straw bed. 

Were the sheep coming to the chime or fleeing from the wolf? 

The wolf came to the triangle and ran from the bell. 

The shepherd made a decision: 

He would train the sheep with the bell.

He would teach the wolves to fear it.

Whether or not a bell could serve this dual purpose was a question he intended to answer.

The gray buildings bloomed into gold in the rising sun as he walked into town. Soon after, he came back up the road, a bundle of lumber under his arms. White plumes of breath drifted behind him in the cold, sunlit air. 

A few early risers in the town caught a glimpse as he passed by with wood. By mid-morning, everyone had made up their mind: the shepherd was fixing his fence.

As the shadows grew long that afternoon, the woman who lived in the cabin in the woods rounded the bend to the shepherd’s pasture. Though they were each other’s closest neighbors, they had never spoken. 

She halted when she saw him not tending to his flock. Not repairing his fence.

He was digging.

Mounds of dirt surrounded the shepherd, his back hunched as he worked to carve a hole into the earth.

He stood and stretched when he caught her in his periphery. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, smearing dirt across his forehead. He lifted a hand to block the orange sun as it teetered on the edge of the forest, hungry for light. 

Her face came into focus, half-lit and watchful, and his dust-caked face broke into a warm, easy grin. He waved. 

The woman raised her hand in return and flashed a smile before walking down the hill.

His dog barked. The shepherd turned to the sheepfold and fetched the dinner bell. 

The woman flinched when the violent clang echoed through the hills. She paused, her heartbeat thumping in her ears, expecting the soft chime of a triangle. Another sharp ring, as she heard a rustle in the woods behind her, followed by a guttural, canine whine.

Gravel crackled underfoot as she quickened her pace toward town. 

The few sheep that came to the triangle scattered over the crest of the hill at the clanging. The shepherd expected this. He rang it again.

A wolf trotted, cocksure, along the fence as it had the day prior. He slung the bell in wild arcs over his head, and once again, the wolf darted for the woods.

The shepherd smiled as the trees swallowed it, and the flock came bounding in from the pasture. His dog barked, short and sharp, before skittering into view with its tail between its legs. The dog veered left as a lone wolf burst from a weak spot in the fence, in pursuit of the flock.

He rang harder. He screamed till his throat burned. 

It was no use.

Tears cut bright trails through the dirt on his cheeks as the wolf took down one of his sheep in the pasture. The wolf licked the blood from its paws, belly full, and stared at him. He stared back, unmoving, until the wolf spun and trotted off into the woods. 

The shepherd sat in the grass for a long time, gnashing his teeth.

When word spread about what the woman witnessed, the townspeople turned their eyes to the pasture. No one could make sense of it. Why wasn’t he fixing the fence? 

He marched down the road into town, snarling breath hissing from his nose. His eyes scanned the tree line. He seethed. 

He stomped to the blacksmith’s door and knocked. A moment later, it creaked open a sliver, revealing his wary face.

“Closed.” The blacksmith looked him up and down, covered in filth. 

“I need a bigger bell.”

“Don’t have one. Good night.”

The shepherd caught the closing door with his foot and peered over the blacksmith’s shoulder.

“I want that bell.”

The bell was substantial. Heavy. Its bronze surface black with soot in places and tarnished in others. A hairline crack serpentined across one side. 

“That hung in a chapel that burned down years ago. What use do you have for a bell like that, holding mass for your sheep?” The blacksmith chuckled at his joke and lit his pipe. 

“Is it for sale?”

“Well,” the blacksmith took a long draw from his pipe, his dark eyes narrowed, darting between the bell and the shepherd. Two white streams of smoke fell from his nostrils, “I suppose so. It’ll need some repair if you want it to ring, and I’ll have to arrange delivery.” He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I could have it to you in one month.”

“One month.” He stared at the blacksmith for a beat and handed him a sack. “Deal.”

“Yes, sir.” The blacksmith peeked into the sack and nodded as a quick snarl escaped his lips as though catching the scent of an easy meal on the wind. “One month.”

“Thank you.” The shepherd turned on his heel and made his way out of town, lantern clanging at his side.

The blacksmith stood in his doorway, watching him. 

The general store owner stepped outside, glanced from the shepherd to the blacksmith, and raised a puzzled brow.

The blacksmith shrugged and closed the door.

The townspeople peeked through their curtains, watching the orange glow of this lantern fade into the dark.

He was already working when the sun rose over his pasture, beginning a daily routine the townspeople would come to know well.

Each morning, he rose before dawn and worked in the cold, damp barn by the light of his lantern. The scent of hay and earth hung in the air as he measured lengths of the rope, sorted heavy chains, and cut and smoothed wood. By week’s end, both thumbnails were purple, his hands stiff and blistered, riddled with splinters.

Yet, every morning, he worked as the sun rose, listening to his dog’s slow, steady breathing as it curled up in the entryway.

At noon, the shepherd made a daily pilgrimage into town while the sheep grazed.

That first week, the townspeople gaped at his physical deterioration. They gawked at his hands, aging a decade with each passing day. The shepherd always smiled, nodded, and said hello.

And once he passed, they bustled in his wake, whispering theories about what in the hell he was doing up there. 

He spent his afternoons digging and moving earth, the sun hot on his shoulders. His fingernails grew jagged, caked with dirt like long-buried arrowheads worn down by time. 

He thought of the townspeople as he worked. He laughed as he wondered what they must feel, what they say about his existence.

The dog tilted his head, confused, and let out a whine.

The man let out a belly laugh. “Yep,” he said, “that sums it up.”

He shook his head and went back to work. He kept at it until the black spiderwebs of forest shadow crept across his pasture in the dying light.

By the third night, the townspeople were expecting the bell. They moved to their chosen vantage points, watching the carnage in disbelief.

The wolves emerged from the woods, tongues smacking. One by one, they broke off, circling the fence at quiet, measured intervals. The bell rang and rang. It did not stop them.

As the wolves took their posts, the sheep began to bleat and scatter. The shepherd’s dog, unshaken and vigilant, worked the flock the best he could while the shepherd shook the bell with desperate force.

The wolves breached the fence all at once. They fanned out and fell into stride behind the herd, closing the gap in a silent, confident advance. 

Night after night, the shepherd’s flock shrank. 

He swung the bell over his head as he locked the surviving sheep into the fold, watching the wolves feast in his pasture. They ate until nothing but crimson-stained wool surrounded them, and the sky turned black as they made their retreat into the woods. He would wait for the sole, haunting howl that would echo from its depths. His returned scream of agonized rage marked the end of the night’s terror.

This was the pattern. 

Every day. 

All month.

The townspeople grew bolder. 

They altered their walking routes, timing them for when the shepherd was away from the sheepfold, desperate to know what mystery he was digging up.

What could be more important than fixing his fence? Than saving his sheep?

No one could agree on a theory.

The blacksmith hired the usual team he called on when something heavy needed moving, and they carted the bell up the road to the shepherd’s barn.

The townspeople followed.

The team hung the bell in short order. By midday, a tarnished bronze bell gleamed from the barn’s eaves, catching the high afternoon sun. 

The shepherd stood below it, marveling at the new bell, smiling as the moving team returned to town. He turned to the townspeople gathered along his fence and pointed to the bell. 

“Not bad!”

The townspeople stood expressionless, eyes on him.

The shepherd shrugged, shuffled to the front of his sheepfold, and studied the smooth ground where he had once turned the earth. He turned in a slow circle, eyeing the ground, stopping a few times to smooth some dirt with his toe.

Satisfied, he exhaled, shuffled back to the barn, leaned into its shade, and slid down against the wall.

He took in the bell one last time, closed his eyes, and slept.

The townspeople remained, like statues lining the fence, watching the shepherd sleep as the icy shadows of the forest reached to touch their backs. 

His dog nudged him with a low whine, and yelped. The shepherd’s eyes snapped open. He shook the sleep off and sprang to his feet.

The crowd began to stir in anticipation of the first ring of the bell. 

The shepherd disappeared into the barn and returned with the dinner bell in hand. The crowd murmured.

His chest expanded as he drew in a long breath through his nose.

He rang the bell hard and fast, its sound cutting across the hills. 

No one near the barn could see the wolves coming, but they felt them.

The faint bleating of the sheep rose from the pasture. The shepherd’s dog barked sharp commands, herding the few sheep that remained.

The townspeople tightened their grips on the fence before them, stone, wire, or wood, white-knuckled.

The smaller herd meant the wolves had an extended chase. The sheep were nearing the sheepfold as the pack strode behind, eager for their meal, calm and confident.

The shepherd stood firm, ringing the bell.

As the dog culled the sheep into the sheepfold, the townspeople let out a collective sigh, the first night in weeks without death.

But the shepherd did not shut the gate.

He kept ringing the bell, backing away toward the barn as the wolves advanced, stalking. Their bodies sank, shoulder blades rising with each step, eyes locked on the sheep.

The shepherd reached the barn door. He rang the bell once more, mouthing something to himself.

He vanished into the barn and hurled his scant weight into the bell pull. 

The dinner bell gave a hollow clang as it hit the dirt. 

For a moment, the world stood still.

The enormous bell rang out, a thunderous gong that sent wolves flinching and townspeople clapping hands to ears.

As the bell swung back, the taut line jerked a lever upward. A chain shot through a groove in the earth, linking the barn to the sheepfold. 

Wooden spears burst from the earth, their tips dripping with wet, tar-like mud, circling the pack of wolves as the bell let out an echoing chime.

One wolf darted for the woods and yelped as a sharpened tip tore into its belly. The pack froze a moment before it erupted in snarls and howls. 

The shepherd stood in the doorway of the barn, his silhouette bathed in sunlight. Stone-faced, his chest rose and fell in a smooth rhythm. His dog sat at his side, looking up to him.

He scanned the wolves, caged but alive, for a moment before he turned to the silent crowd.

His expression softened. 

He smiled the same smile he always had. He raised a hand and waved as if it were a typical afternoon. As if this were just another day. Sweat shimmered on his brow in the light that now seemed cast only for him.

The townspeople gave no reaction. There was no applause. No cheers, only silence.

At the back of the crowd, he spotted a hand held above their heads in greeting.

The shepherd squinted into the beams of forest-filtered sunlight, and there she stood—

The woman, his neighbor.

The corners of his mouth pulled closer to his ears in a warm smile.

He watched them go, eyes on her until she disappeared down the hill. 

He looked down at his dog, whose body gave an expectant wiggle before the shepherd scratched him behind the ears.

He gazed out over his pasture, golden in the setting sun. He exhaled.

“Let’s get to work on that fence.”