The Shepherd of Sleeping Keys
The boy had been watching the old shepherdess for three evenings before he finally asked about the keys.
There were nine of them at her belt—iron, brass, one almost black with age. Yet there were no doors on the hillside.
At dusk, when the sheep began to settle among the rocks, she chose a small brass key and pressed it gently into the wool behind an ewe’s ear.
The animal gave a long sigh and lowered its head.
The boy stared.
“What does the key open?”
The shepherdess looked at him.
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Then why do you do that?”
“My mother did.”
“Why?”
“Her mother showed her.”
The boy waited.
The shepherdess turned the key once between her fingers. Another sheep folded its legs beneath itself and became still.
“But why does it work?”
She smiled.
“If you find out, tell me.”
The boy frowned. Keys were made for locks. Everyone knew that.
The next evening, one of the younger sheep would not settle. It paced between the stones, restless and calling.
The shepherdess held out the little brass key.
This time, the boy took it.
He copied the movement exactly.
A moment later, the sheep lay down.
The boy then understood. Even though he didn’t.
