Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: White (10/29/09)
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TITLE: Egunstenti: A Shepherd's Story | Previous Challenge Entry
By Janice Fitzpatrick
11/05/09 -
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Egunstenti emerged and began to set up camp. He reached for the “radiofonía” that had recently been given by Franco, the old graying herd owner, with kind eyes.
The man seemed to understand how the youth felt. He too had moved from Spain himself, years before, an immigrant in search of a dream, when he first came to this land called Idaho.
Now Egunstenti would be a herdsman for three long years, a leader of woolen creatures with stick legs, or “ovejas,” and they wouldn’t know a thing about soccer.
Blistered hands gripped the box of hope as Egunstenti turned the knob until he heard a familiar voice. “Buenas tardes amigos.”(Good evening friends.)
He listened closely as a woman's soothing voice began to send wishes to unseen comrades of the hills, and tell of the weather and news of a land far away.
He reached for the grass stained sphere, its black and white patches spiraling in the air, as he spun it on a finger. “Tell me the soccer scores,” he begged.
Egunstenti had to know.
Soccer was his life. Although he had traded the freedom of playing in verdant fields with team mates, for hills that never seemed to end, and a flock of ignorant sheep, it helped to still hear what was going on in his homeland.
“You have to listen to Aidia Corazon,” Franco suggested when he presented a radio to the youth. “She will help pass the time away. She is also from Basque decent.”
The faceless ashen box of wires had become a transport, from isolation and loneliness, to the beautiful villages a world away, where momma and papa waited for his return.
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Though thoughts crowded his head, his belly spoke louder. Soon sparks of orange flickered above the ground and supper; a pot of lamb shanks and vegetables, simmered under the shadows of the trees.
The fragrance filled the air, bringing memories of mama’s homemade “paella” and his homeland across the sea, from the Pyrenees Mountains to visit once again.
While majestic knights of emerald stood silently against an azure sky, rows of youthful aspen saplings stood, their small branches waving in the breeze, as if inviting him to come and sit a spell.
He first scanned the hills that overflowed with white balls of fluff and a few sheepdogs, before he settled down by a tree trunk, with knife in hand.
“You should visit with Maria and I and the other herders. Lots of townsfolk stop by. You never know who you will meet.” Franco’s chuckle and earlier invitation now rolled around in the youth’s mind but he kicked it out of his thoughts quickly.
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As the sun slowly bent its head behind the knoll, like a weary lamb ‘neath its mother, Egunstenti began to etch.
There was a common bond he shared with the previous weary travelers, whose unspoken stories were engraved, as well as his.
Occasionally he drew cartoon sheep guarding a net or a soccer ball spiraling through the air, but most of his renderings were of family, and the Pyrenees village he grew up in.
Carved images took shape in the flickering of the oil lamp, impressions of his soul, scratched upon the soft canvases of aspen, and there they would grow, shepherd’s chronicles.
He remembered hearing Franco mention that God was the Good Shepherd and man was his sheep.
For a long time, the only thing Egunstenti had followed was a soccer ball and maybe a pretty girl now and then.
“If you are the Shepherd please show me,” his request rose above the hills of grazers towards the evening sky.
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Moments later headlights blinked just yards from camp. It was Franco and Maria, with coffee.
His laughter was followed by a sweet aroma that drifted from the covered ring shape that the old woman carried. “We thought you might like some fresh baked bread.”
Egunstenti peeked under the cloth. “Roscon, like mama’s.”
This night, as three conversed about soccer, herding, and the Pyreneese way of life, one shepherd would become a sheep, and find his way home.
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