Still, I don’t think my lambs will move for him. Not for a stranger. They’ll spook up the slope, or down at best.
A moment later, I watch, slack-jawed, as he herds them in a straight line across a smattering of boulders, over a dozen or so meters, driving toward the next cluster of sheep.
I clench my jaw and give a shake of my head. Lucky break there. He won’t be able to move this larger group. No chance of that.
The Carnegie’s a good stretch away now. I can hear his low voice, but I can’t make out his words, although the rain has quieted down a bit. I watch in shock as he gathers the two small groups together. They move as one great splotch of white down the dark hillside.
What’s he saying to them?
I get to my feet, and I want to move closer. I want to see what he’s doing. What is it about him? Is it posture? Something about his footing? Was his mother part border collie? Makes fine sense, given he’s a son of a bitch.
I’m holding my breath as he gets the sheep to move along beside him, gaping as he moves them down the slope a bit to where the gulch narrows. The way it stripes the landscape, he can’t get them down into the valley without crossing it.
Let’s see him try this! He steps out ahead of them, and then starts walking backward through the water. He doesn’t stumble or slip once, and soon he’s standing in the middle of the flowing gulch.
The flock won’t follow. My fluffins will cross gulches when it’s not raining, but when the runoff flows this swiftly, they won’t move, even for me. They won’t move unless there’s two with crooks, coming at them from both directions.
Except…they do. My lead ram, Dumbledore, follows the Carnegie like a puppy. For a long moment, he’s the only one swimming toward Declan. Seconds later, the rest follow, turning the gulch white in the moonlight, spilling up around the Carnegie into a spread of slanted pasture not fifteen meters from the final cluster.
What is this?
My head spins as he neatly gathers the flock and drives them down the slope-side in a wearing pattern, moving side-to-side behind them, making a soft sound that, from here, sounds like a throaty hum.
Mike and Benny can just barely move this flock, and that’s with me assisting and no rain at all. The Carnegie herded them as well as I would have. I scowl at the splotch of white spreading over the dark grass. Maybe better.
I shake my head, hands on my hips. Of course he’s good at this. He’s likely good at everything, which is why he’s not Declan but the Carnegie—a wicked, arrogant pig of a man.
I start up the slope to where my forgotten pack sits. By the time I’ve got it strapped to my back, the Overlord of Ewe has got the flock grazing a patch of grass deep in the valley. Streams of runoff from the slopes pool at the valley’s center, then flow toward the Patches; beyond there, the gulches drain into the sea.
Operation Ewe must have taken fewer than forty minutes, and he never had to ask for my help.
I make my way down the hillside slowly, watching him move among the herd. He’s a dark blot gliding through a sea of fluffy pale, blurred by the rain that won’t stop falling. As I near him and see his large form more clearly, I’m surprised at how sparse and lithe his movements are.
Who is he?
A git. A self-enamored plonker of the highest order. Some people like to preen at all times. My mum used to call these people “showboats.” That’s what he is—a showboat. Quite a handsome showboat, I admit as I close the distance between us. He looks even better with his hair slicked back, pasted darkly to his forehead and his temples. Again, I think of pirates.
When I’m near enough for him to touch, he reaches for me, palm out, as if going for a handshake.
I draw my hand away, making my point. I’m burning to ask what trick he used, where he learned it. Instead, with just the briefest glance at him, I say, “You’re free to go back to the village now.”
Seven
Declan
Her head is down, so I can’t see her face, and she can’t see the grin I’m trying to hide.
“What did you think?” My mouth bends into a smirk as her eyes swing back to mine.
“Of what?” Oh, but she’s frosty. So nonchalant.
I hold my crook up, wiggling my eyebrows. “My skill with the crook, of course.”
Her poker face is on point. “It’s quite lucky that you found that crook. Not so many trees up there.”
I snort. “Not good at being wrong, huh?”
“What?”