The Shepherd's Hills
Chapter 14 of 7 Gifts & 7 Letters
Morning mist clung to the valleys between the rolling hills as Elias followed the silver compass deeper into shepherd country. The instrument glowed with increasing warmth in his palm, its needle now unwavering in its direction, guiding him toward a particular valley nestled between two weathered peaks. The wooden box pulsed gently against his side, confirming his approach to the third recipient.
Unlike his journeys to find Lucinda and Darian, this path led away from civilization rather than toward it. Each mile brought fewer signs of human habitation, the landscape growing wilder, more elemental. Rough stone walls appeared occasionally, dividing grazing territories without disturbing the essential character of the land. These boundaries spoke of stewardship rather than ownership, temporary human arrangements on terrain that ultimately belonged to wind and weather.
By midday, Elias encountered his first shepherds—three men tending a flock in a sheltered meadow. They watched his approach with the careful neutrality of those accustomed to solitude, neither welcoming nor hostile, simply observant. Their clothing, woven from their flocks' wool and dyed with plant extracts, blended with the landscape as if they were another natural feature of the hills.
"Good day," Elias called as he approached, keeping a respectful distance from their sheep. "I'm seeking a shepherd named Caedmon."
The men exchanged glances, something like amusement passing between them.
"Half the shepherds in these hills are named Caedmon," the eldest replied, leaning on his staff. "You'll need to be more specific."
"He would be elderly now," Elias explained. "He passed through Alden Village during the famine year, perhaps two decades ago. Shared food with families there."
Recognition dawned in the shepherd's weather-lined face. "Ah, you mean Old Caedmon. The one from beyond the High Ridge." He gestured toward distant peaks. "He keeps to himself these days, tends a smaller flock. Hasn't come to market in years."
"Do you know where I might find him?" Elias asked, the compass in his hand pulling insistently toward the direction the man had indicated.
The three shepherds conferred briefly, their highland dialect too rapid for Elias to follow. Finally, the youngest stepped forward.
"I can point you toward his valley, but whether he'll welcome a visitor..." He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished. "He's become something of a legend among us. They say he's given away more than he's kept throughout his life. Some call him wise, others call him fool."
"Which do you believe him to be?" Elias asked.
The young shepherd smiled. "The line between the two is thinner than most realize."
He proceeded to give Elias detailed directions, describing landmarks and sheep paths that wouldn't appear on any map. As Elias prepared to continue his journey, the elderly shepherd called after him.
"If you find him, tell him Brennan's flock has doubled since he gifted those two ewes. He'll know what it means."
With this cryptic message to deliver, Elias traveled deeper into the hills, following increasingly faint trails as the terrain grew more challenging. The compass led him through a narrow pass between weathered stones, down into a valley more remote than any he had yet encountered. Here, the silence felt absolute, broken only by the occasional cry of a circling hawk or the distant bleating of unseen sheep.
As the afternoon lengthened toward evening, Elias noticed something unusual—a small group of sheep grazing nearby, their fleece marked with distinctive blue spirals unlike any he had seen in these hills. They regarded him with an intelligence that seemed beyond ordinary animals, their eyes following his movements with evident curiosity.
When he changed direction to approach them, they moved away in perfect unison, maintaining the same distance. Yet they didn't flee entirely. Instead, they seemed to pause, waiting for him to follow. The compass in his hand trembled slightly, its needle aligning precisely with the direction the unusual sheep were leading him.
"Very well," Elias said aloud, addressing the animals directly. "I'll follow."
The strange procession continued for nearly an hour—Elias walking steadily, the marked sheep always ahead, pausing occasionally as if to ensure he kept pace. They led him along a stream that cut through the valley floor, eventually bringing him to a place where the valley narrowed and turned sharply. As Elias rounded this bend, a small cottage came into view.
Built of local stone and timber, the dwelling seemed to grow from the hillside rather than impose upon it. A carefully tended garden occupied the southern exposure, herbs and vegetables arranged in concentric circles. Smoke rose from a simple chimney, confirming human presence in this remote sanctuary.
The marked sheep trotted ahead, gathering around a figure who had emerged from the cottage at their approach—an elderly man whose age was evident in his stooped posture but contradicted by the fluid ease of his movements. He greeted the sheep with gentle pats, speaking to them in a low voice that carried like music on the evening air.
Elias approached slowly, not wishing to startle either man or animals. The wooden box grew noticeably warmer against his side, confirming what he already knew—he had found Caedmon, the shepherd who had once shared bread during famine, whose kindness had rippled through decades to bring Elias to this moment.
"They don't usually bring visitors," the old man said without looking up, still attending to his peculiar flock. "They must see something in you worth the journey."
His voice carried the distinctive highlands accent Elias remembered from childhood—consonants softened, vowels extended into something almost musical. When he finally looked up, Elias saw eyes the pale blue of distant horizons, set in a face carved by weather and time into something resembling the surrounding hills themselves.
"I've come a long way to find you," Elias said, the wooden box pulsing like a second heartbeat against his side.
"Have you indeed?" Caedmon straightened as much as his aged spine allowed, studying Elias with penetrating attention. "You have the look of the stone country about you. Alden, perhaps?"
"Yes," Elias confirmed, surprised. "How did you know?"
"The dust never quite leaves you," the shepherd replied with a small smile. "I passed through there many times in my younger days. The quarry village with the ancient well."
Elias took a step closer. "You visited during the famine year. You brought food to families, including mine."
Caedmon's weathered face registered only mild interest, no particular recognition. "Did I? That would have been... many years ago now." He gestured vaguely toward the cottage. "Memory fades like evening light. I've traveled many roads, helped where I could. The details blur together after so long."
The realization struck Elias forcefully—the act that had remained significant enough in his life to become part of the Gratitude Work was one of countless small kindnesses Caedmon had performed throughout his life, not exceptional enough to stand out in the shepherd's memory. What had been transformative for Elias's family had been simply how Caedmon moved through the world.
"You shared bread with us," Elias continued, feeling compelled to make the shepherd understand the significance. "Grain too. Enough to last until the next harvest. You said, 'All of us need help sometimes. Today it's you. Tomorrow, someone else.'"
Something flickered in Caedmon's pale eyes—not quite recognition, but a certain softening. "That sounds like something I would say," he acknowledged. "Though I've said similar words in many places." He studied Elias more carefully. "You would have been a child then."
"Ten years old," Elias confirmed. "You spoke to my father, but I remember your voice, the way you refused thanks."
Caedmon nodded slowly, then gestured toward a simple bench beside the cottage door. "The evening grows cool. Come, sit. Tell me what brings a quarryman from Alden to these remote hills after so many years."
As they settled on the bench, the marked sheep gathered nearby, watching with their uncanny intelligence. The wooden box seemed almost eager now, the completed letter within it ready to fulfill its purpose.
"I've been tasked with a journey," Elias began, choosing his words carefully. "Writing letters of gratitude to seven people who shaped my life, though they may not realize it. You are the third recipient."
The old shepherd listened without interruption as Elias explained the Wanderer's appearance, the wooden box that could not be abandoned, the transforming sky that had followed him from Lucinda's lighthouse and Darian's tower. Throughout the explanation, Caedmon's expression remained thoughtful rather than skeptical, as if such wonders were merely uncommon rather than impossible.
"The Gratitude Work," he said when Elias finished, the term clearly familiar to him. "I've heard tales, though I never expected to find myself part of one." He gestured toward the sky above them, where blue now dominated, with streaks of gold and purple painting the western horizon as the sun began its descent. "The colors return. That much is evident."
"You're not surprised?" Elias asked.
Caedmon smiled faintly. "At my age, surprise requires either extraordinary events or limited experience. I've seen enough to recognize that the world contains more mysteries than our minds can encompass." He glanced at the wooden box visible in Elias's satchel. "You have written this letter, then? To thank me for bread shared during famine?"
"Yes," Elias confirmed. "Though finding genuine gratitude for a half-remembered act presented its own challenge."
The shepherd's gaze grew distant, focusing on something beyond the physical landscape surrounding them. "The most important gifts are often the ones we give without intention to shape another's life—simple acts of sharing that contain no expectation of return or recognition." He turned back to Elias, his eyes clearer now, more present. "That you remember at all is surprising enough. That you've carried it within you all these years is... humbling."
In that moment, Elias saw beyond the weathered exterior to the essential nature of the man before him—someone who had given freely throughout his life not to be remembered or praised, but because giving itself was as natural to him as breathing. The impact of such a life, impossible to measure, rippled outward through countless small acts that others might forget but that shaped the world nonetheless.
The wooden box seemed to recognize this realization, glowing warmly through the fabric of Elias's satchel as the sun touched the mountains to the west, painting the Shepherd's Hills in colors they had not worn in generations.🦉