The Shepherd first met the Warrior when he was thirteen years old.
He knew of him before that, of course. Everyone in the village did, as did the folk of Shulkedorf and Engeldorf, on the other side of the Peak. Sure, his grossma used to say that she had met him, but it was more than that. He, like all else, were raised with stories of the Warrior of the Peak, the protector and judge, who came to gut highwaymen and naughty children alike. But by thirteen one already knows. One has started working the sheep or the goats on one’s own, so one knows. There is no Saint Nicholas that brings gifts on winter solstice. You won’t marry the girl you first dance the Tanzlinde with, nor will your nails turn to worms in your belly, if you swallow after you bite them off, nor will you burst into flames if you walk outside during the Judica. Such tales are for children and so was the Warrior to the Shepherd.
Until, of course, one meets him. Until one is brave – or stupid – enough, to walk the path and lead the flock beyond the Snowline. And even if one does, even if one manages to suppress that fear, that carefully instilled since birth fear of the Immerfrühling peak, even then, one might not see him and most don’t.
But the Shepherd did. He was there, for him. Many times over.
The first time was at summer, his thirteenth, or maybe the end of spring. It must have been, he later said, for the path was open and the sheep were shaven. He remembered because the Warrior commented on the sheep, and the snowline was but a series of marks on stone and a stroke of mismatched coloring on the grass – one side greedily looking for the sun after months under the snow, the other untouched, unafraid, unashamed of its bloom. Later, the Shepherd claimed that it was always easier to cross after the snow had melted. It didn’t feel as scary, as otherworldly as when the snow simply refused to drop and stay beyond that invisible fence. But that first time, he walked all confident until he saw the snowline. He did not pause for long. Someone had called him chicken, so not even his hound, Skeja, and her barks of disapproval could deter him. Some sheep followed and Skeja did too, in the end. They walked cautiously along the path beyond the line, the sheep reinvigorated by the fresh grass. Then, what he thought was a shadow against the giant rock of the Peak, spoke. He did not understand its language, though it could have been he panicked so much that the words never truly reached him. He swallowed a scream, but the shadow simply spoke again, calm as a lake’s water. He said, and the Shepherd always remembered, even though he was running:
“Are you here to feed your shaven sheep? Or are you here to prove your bravery, shepherd?”
The second time he saw the Warrior was two days later. Large he was, he thought, large enough that his voice echoed in his mouth so loud and deep that one could hear it. He was hooded and cloaked, though his hand, sporting long red gloves, he thought, was resting absentmindedly, the way he had seen the mercenaries rest theirs on their swords. He welcomed the Shepherd and thanked him, though the boy did not know why. So he asked.
“Bravery is the discipline of fear,” the Warrior said, “and discipline’s the path to my ascension,” as if that answered the Shepherd’s question. “I ask again. Are you here to prove your bravery?” the Warrior continued. And truthfully, he was. He had run before and now he wanted to prove he was no chicken. So, he had to come again because he was no chicken. He said as much. The Warrior paused and his hand patted his sword thoughtfully. Then he looked at the Shepherd and nodded and spoke no more that day, so the Shepherd did not press his luck. He left.
The third time he saw the Warrior, it was that same summer, but they did not speak. He walked further up the Path than he had ever done before and saw the Warrior, cloaked and hooded still, sitting before an almond tree, its pale leaves dancing gently and impossibly around the massive bulk of the Warrior. The Shepherd saw him and, while he did not hide, he did not disturb the Warrior either. Hours later, the Warrior had not moved and the Shepherd left, leaving behind a piece of pie and milk.
The fourth time, the Warrior came to the Shepherd – or so the Shepherd had ever claimed since. He had led the sheep close to the Peak but never intended to cross it, for while drawn to the Warrior, he feared him still, much like his sheep feared the dog – and the wolf. So, he had found a spot under a rock that kept the wind away, and there he took out his flute and played. Not long after, another flute joined in, its sound soft and deep, like the wet breath of a riverwood in distant lands, complimenting the clear gale of the mountain wind his flute sang. Startled, the Shepherd soon kept playing, seeing his companion’s bulky shadow, sitting on the rock above. Five songs they played, then the shadow left, as quietly as it had come. And the Shepherd took his sheep home.
Years passed. Raiders died mysteriously when crossing the mountains, like grossma said they would. No children were gutted though – but some, kids and men grown alike, went missing when they tried to cross the Snowline and see the Peak. Ever had the Shepherd told them not to and even he would not go to the Peak lightly. But some said they saw the two, the Shepherd and the Warrior, roaming the mountains, far from the Peak. The Shepherd, they said, teaches him our land. But if he has been here this long, what need has he of being taught, some asked, and the inns would explode in argument. And ever the Shepherd remained quiet about his mysterious boon companion and only said “Respect the line. Cross not lightly into the lands of the Lord of the Peak.”
The Shepherd never got married, never had kids, to have kids of their own. Alone he spent his days on this world and while he knew many, not many did he call friend. Even with age, the Shepherd grew strong and bright his eyes remained. “Won’t you ever die, old man?” his fellows would ask. “Not yet,” he’d say. “Can’t go yet. I must wait to meet him a fifth time.” They’d tell him there had been many times more already, but he’d only laugh. “Many times we’ve walked together, yes” he’d say. “But only four steps I have taken,” he’d then add and laugh. “You’ll see.”
Time had passed, and even he had found the path to the Peak difficult to follow. But then, another spring came and the fifth and last time with it. And one night, a sleepless night, he got up in the middle of the night and shouted, “It is time.”
And he left.
At dawn, he reached the Peak. No longer was it empty, as he remembered. An archway had been recently erect in the place he had first seen the Warrior and, further up the path, he could see another and another further still. His eyes glittered with excitement.
One by one he crossed the gates. Men of paper were everywhere to be seen. Some were working wood and nail to erect strange buildings, others had plowed the earth (on the Peak!), others still washed clothes by a stream on a wooden path. All of them turned, as the Shepherd passed, and many began to follow him, while two rushed ahead, fluttering with excitement as they moved. The higher he walked, he started hearing sounds; short cries and yells and shrieks, sharp and pointed like the weapons wielded by their speakers. When he reached the almond tree, huge birdpeople were training around it, and giant red-skinned warriors, pitting their bulks against each other in arenas. But still, the gates led onwards and upwards, a fourth, then higher still a fifth. There, the Warrior awaited, under the fifth gate.
There was no skin to be seen underneath the armor, but under the hideously grimacing mask, two bright eyes looked cold and composed at the mortal.
“Are you here to test your courage, Shepherd?” a deep voice asked beneath the mask. The Shepherd smiled.
“I have not loved or been loved, I have not seen my children’s children grow. I leave no blood behind to miss. I walked with you my mountains a hundred times over. And now, I have seen your people, here, with you. I know that you shall still be cared for and so will my lands and other lands beyond. Is it courage still, I wonder? Or is it mercy?”
The Warrior’s eyes smiled.
“A just question,” he replied. “Tell me, old friend. I know you wanted family, another life. Do you see wisdom in the life I set you on now?”
“Let us find out, my lord,” the Shepherd said. The Warrior was quick and merciful in his test and the Shepherd never cowered.
This is the tale of the Shepherd, our Daimyo’s most beloved and most loyal servant. It is his will that you read this, as you cross to enter his service. It is his will that you know the dedication he expects. It is his will that you know the courage of those who dwell in Paradise and kill them with respect when you must. It is his will that an appropriate offering is placed upon this shrine to the Shepherd.
Welcome.