The Cloud Shepherd

He’s fat. He holds himself well, but his flesh rolls out and over his waistline. He wears a dark yellow corduroy blazer, stained white shirt and rainbow tie. His movements are affected but timid; when he stands up to speak, he smoothes down his coat theatrically. He clasps his hands as if in supplicative greeting, and pauses frequently for breath. He has a grating accent.

“To become a successful eggsmith,” he says, grandly, “requires dedication. It isn’t something that happens, you know-” Here there is a pause in which he surveys the audience with interest, as if only now seeing them. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “-overnight.” Charlie is, at least briefly, in his element.

The room is low and lit by two floor lamps that stand in opposite corners. Charlie himself is delivering his speech from the center of one end of the place, towards the two couches and six chairs that make up the audience’s seating. This is actually Charlie’s living room over the store he himself owns, near the corner of Bisby and Grath.

“The best thing about being an eggsmith is that one doesn’t actually make the eggs oneself.” Now his hands are moving as if of their own accord, gesticulating happily. “Eggsmiths but paint the eggs, paint them in varied and marvelous colors.” The lights are inadequate, and shadows wash the room. A hand goes up in the audience.

“How long does it take to paint the average egg? And how much do your eggs sell for?”

“Sell?” Charlie is taken aback. “I don’t sell eggs. I paint them – but paint them in varied and marvelous-”

“But then where does your money come from?”

“I guess I don’t always paint them,” the eggsmith continues. “Sometimes I-” and then the previous question penetrates his thoughts.

“Money?” The conversation has taken a sinister turn, and Charlie is not sure he likes it. His hands, still moving detachedly, are now wringing each other apologetically. All eyes are on the fat man. In desperation, he reaches behind his back and removes a colorful egg from his buttocks pocket.

“See?” he says, relieved: the audience seems distracted. “See what I mean?”

The rest of the demonstration finishes quickly, and the guests leave, perhaps disappointed. Alone, the eggsmith sighs deeply. His hands brush his hair from right to left, fixing his comb-over. The egg returns to the pocket.

Why does he even bother inviting them? No one seems to understand his trade anymore. With a dejected laugh and a shiver, he sits at his small, round kitchen table and reaches behind his back to the counter. Without looking, he pulls out a large jar and sets it in front of him. It is blue and white, and glazed. He pulls out from behind him another jar, this one smaller.

From this jar Charlie removes a sweetcake. It has sugary crumbs on top and puffy filling. He sets it in front of himself carefully, his hands finally calmed and in sync with his arms and his intentions, for once. He doesn’t eat the cake right away – he turns to the bigger jar. From within he removes an egg, startlingly white and pristine, and a paintbrush. He sets the egg in front of him and it does not roll anywhere: it fits perfectly in a small groove in the table. All of Charlie’s motions are now smooth and untroubled; graceful and intentional. There are no more theatrics.

With nimble fingers, Mr. Charles (as some used to call him) pulls apart the sweet. The flesh of the moist, baked cake slides apart, revealing the orange cream filling. He takes the paintbrush – small, ornately carved, made of what seems to be bone – and dips it into the cake. Gleefully he dips the brush into the cake and then into his mouth, his sensory output registering sugary pleasure. He dips the brush in the cake again, but this time does not return it to his mouth. Instead he carefully, ever so carefully but confidently brushes the egg. He brushes one line from pole to pole in orange cream, and then another line a quarter-turn away. Then he sucks the brush clean.

Now he needs another color, so he turns the brush around. The back is sharp as a knife – it is a knife; he’s sharpened it himself. With only a moment’s hesitation, he holds his breath and inserts the knife under the skin of his left thumb, on the bottom. The incision is precise and purposeful; the blood flows in a manageable trickle. He sets his thumb over another indentation in the table and lets the blood drain out until the well is full. Then he removes from the large jar a white cloth, stained and blotched with blood, and he ties his thumb. Now he has red.

Charlie dips his brush into the red and paints his subject with careful determination and no lack of skill. As he paints, he reflects on art and artistry. He considers his eggs to be art, but he never gets the respect he deserves. Maybe it’s because he has such a small nose. Strange that he would think about that now, but it is true – all his life he has felt that with they would respect a large nose. His head is small and smooth; it rests on his large torso so as to hardly make a bump in his elliptical shape.

After a few minutes of painting, the egg is a surreal but endearing mix of orange and red and Charlie needs another color. He reaches into his large jar once more and removes a bag of plant matter, dried and clumpy. He takes out a chunk and places it into a third indentation in the table. With his fist, he mashes it into the table until it is mostly pulverized. Then he spits. Thus prepared, the green ink makes a stunning addition to his newest creation. Charlie finishes painting and stares at his egg as it dries. He stares for a long time, but he does not know how long. It is not important. Finally he reaches in and pulls the egg out, appraising it critically. Satisfied, he sighs. He sighs often these days. His wife has recently left him, only he cannot remember if he has ever really had a wife, or if she is only imagined. She has not left a trace of herself in the house or the shop, and he worries that she has never really existed. Charlie places his new egg in his pocket and walks back into the living room with the two lamps. He is suddenly seized with a violent and familiar impulse: that reptilian imp has taken hold of his hands once more and suddenly, perhaps without knowing, he removes the egg and throws it through his open front window and out the second story room. It breaks on a cobblestone in the street, pointless and small.

---

Charlie’s day does not improve. It’s a small thing, one broken egg, but the little imp, as he likes to think of it, takes control more and more. The one time he knows he is safe is while he paints, but even that has lost some of its sheen. And those tourists! Who do they think they are, asking questions about money? Mr. Charles does not know where his money comes from for the simple reason that he has none. Who in the town would not spare him a cake, an egg, a dozen cookies, a steak dinner? What more could an eggsmith ask? But Charlie lacks something.

He decides he must go for a walk and so quickly descends his thin and dirty staircase. In a rare moment of lucidity he sees his own demise, like a flash of lightning in a cloudy sky – there he is, falling down the damn staircase, collecting spider webs and dust mites as he rolls, collapsing at the bottom in a puddle. It’s a shame, really. They don’t find him for six days.

It is with this and similar thoughts that he steps onto the cobbles of Grath. He looks down the hill at the familiar lake below in the distance and sees a small sailboat tacking in the wind; he wonders whether the owner lives in town or is only visiting. He debates whether to amble down and find out, but this would entail more ambling back up the hill later, a terrible prospect. In the end, he walks up Grath to the park instead and sits on his bench. There he removes from his back pocket a new egg and a small knife.

Not many people can carve an egg, it’s true. Mr. Charles knows this, but it no longer cheers him like it once did. He etches patterns and drawings just smidges above the gooey insides of the egg, sweeping lines and complex stipples. For a while everything is alright – the park disappears, his stomach does not rumble, the wife never was. Suddenly, pop! the egg shatters and splashes across his legs. This has never happened before; in his shock, he does not notice the young girl watching from behind.

“That was some carving,” he hears, and jumps.

“Who?” It isn’t a proper greeting, and he knows this immediately, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Mr. Charles…”

“Oh, it’s you. How are you, my dear?”

“I’m fine, thank you. The last time we spoke I was in a terrible state, but I’m better now.” He doesn’t remember the last time they spoke; his memory is a beautiful china plate, long unused.

“That’s good, then. My egg broke.”

“I see that.” There is a long pause, in which both look down the hill at the sailboat. It still tacks in the wind as if in a painting, forever tacking. Finally, she speaks again.

“Would you like a ride?”

“What?”

“My bike has two seats.”

“What’s this? A bicycle with two seats?”

“Surely you’ve seen one before?” Her tone is playful, and she walks around and looks at him. He has not turned to look at her before, and he does not meet her eyes now. She points behind him, so he turns. There is, in fact, a bicycle built for two. He turns back and his eyes alight on her legs, hesitatingly at first. She is wearing rainbow leggings and a long frilly skirt made of some light papery material, and her relaxed stance seems to implore the fat man to meet her eyes and come to her level, to ride down the hill on her tandem bike. He waivers.

“Let’s go, Mr. Charles!” She takes his hand and before he knows what has happened he is seated unsteadily, toes touching the ground. “Ready?” They ride down the hill, over the cobbles, and her skirt flaps every which way. Suddenly the imp doesn’t matter, the broken eggs are forgotten, and the sailboat grows closer. The bike bounces and weaves unsteadily. Charles thinks he should be afraid, but the sensation of the wind rushing by his face greets him like the return of a long-lost friend, pushing all misgivings aside. Then they are on flat ground again, and the lake stretches before them.

Mr. Charles stands at the edge of the lake and looks out at the boat. It is still tacking, just as it was when he first saw it. He is once again unaware of the girl; she is just another part of the day and the life that, more and more, seems to pass him by. The dock smells like barnacles. It is now, almost without warning, that the fat man feels a tear roll down his cheek. In the day’s second moment of lucidity he sees himself tacking against the wind for an eternity, without ever moving anywhere again. A duck catches his attention.

“Sad, sad,” it says, or seems to say.

“I know,” he mumbles, “only what’s the use?”

“Back, back!” The duck performs a series of neat turns, sailing back and forth with ease as ducks often do.

“I can’t go back. It’s been so long. I…” he trails off.

“Hey!” This time it is the girl, emerging from his peripheral vision without preamble. Though he still stands at the edge of the dock, he feels as though everything around him is moving. She looks at him from the side in a peculiar way, straight on and piercingly. Mr. Charles doesn’t like it.

“Charlie,” she asks, “do you have any friends?” There is a long pause.

“I once had a friend.”

She calls a farewell that he can’t quite make out as she cycles off along the path leading to Bisby Road in the direction of the farms on the east side of town, leaving Charlie alone at the dock at the bottom of the hill. Alone, but for the sailor, still just out of Charlie’s vision.

---

There’s a certain power in numbers. That’s what Jack thinks as he looks at his flock. So many of them, floating around. Jack is a shepherd. He sits under the lone and shadeless tree at the top of his hill, a grassy knob of a thing, and thinks about his life. He holds wooden panpipes that he has made himself some years before, and he wears only ratty jeans. Shepherding is easy but unfulfilling.

He talks about his job with Jenny sometimes. She is the girl who lives down the road from the cabin where Jack lives, a dilapidated mess of a house. Jenny is perfect and Jack is going to spend the rest of his life with her. She has a freckly face and red hair and her eyes open wider than normal, as if she is always slightly surprised. Jack loves that surprise – Jenny goes through life in awe at events that most people wouldn’t care about. Jenny is sincere and naïve.

Jack plays his panpipes, sitting in the shade of a cloud. His legs are sprawled out in front of him like a tent and his back fits perfectly into the crooked tree’s single grooved hollow. The notes flit out of the pipe like birds from a bell-tower. They waft over towards the flock, they encircle the flock, they direct the flock. Jack herds his charges with music.

Later that day, after he has eaten his midday meal of corn and beans from the night before, Jack notices Jenny’s shape approach; he watches her drop her tandem bike near the road and continues towards him on foot. Jenny has an odd gait that he has noticed long ago – a step, step, stretch, step rhythm, where every third step is longer than the others. She smiles simply as she approaches. As she gets closer, that awkward moment between the time a couple can see each other and the time they can speak to each other comfortably, as can so often bother acquaintances meeting on foot, does not bother the two young adults. In fact, neither says a word; neither has to. Jenny only bends down to Jack, pecks him playfully on his long, thin nose and then spins around and sinks down into her customary position in the grass, head resting on his chest, body between his sprawling legs.

Jenny has no parents. They died before she was two. She lives comfortably with her father’s sister in an average, solid house. Jack never goes in, though Jenny sometimes asks him. Jack himself lives alone, as he has for two years, ever since his father ran off. Nobody can fault Jack for his poverty, all things considered. This day in the shade, though, neither one is thinking about class differences or lost parents. The sky is an azure forest, the earth a tiny acorn hanging from an enormous oak. The immensity of the universe is somehow more evident here, in the backcountry farmland off Bisby road, than in most other places across the planet, though of course the two have no way of knowing that. It is, however, reflected in their conversation, once Jack finally speaks.

“I’d like to do something else with my life,” he drawls. The words drip out of his mouth with a complete lack of any hurry, belying the sentiment they express. Jenny is not surprised.

“It’s not right for a man to sit under a tree all day, every day,” she says, “however important his job may be.”

“It is important, though.”

“That it is.” As if to punctuate this last sentiment, Jack blows expertly into his panpipes for a few seconds. The flock is brought back to order.

“But,” he wonders aloud, though it is something that they have discussed before, “what if I just let them alone?” Jenny doesn’t answer, having tired herself with this conversation long before.

“A shepherd should be allowed to sell his flock. Or even just leave it and go off into the world. We could just leave, Jenny.” As he says this, she stands up and looks at him. Her brown eyes are wide open. Jack stands up as well, because he hates being seated when others around him are standing. It makes him uneasy.

“Ok, then,” Jenny says. Jack is confused – this is a new take on a well-trodden conversation.

“Huh?”

“Let’s leave.”

“Good. I’d pack, but I already have my panpipes right here.”

“One thing, though. You must someone to take care of the flock.”

“Oh.” The lovers stare up at the sky for a while, then, because they cannot speak of the flock without thinking about it, and they cannot think about it without looking at it.

“Bring one down here,” says Jenny, so Jack plays a different sort of tune on his pipes. The air, imperceptibly at first but then very obviously, begins to chill. First Jenny cannot see the cabin, then she cannot see the road, then she cannot even see the tree. Then she cannot see her own hand, but she can feel his body against hers, shivering with delight, wrapped as they are in a dense, living cloud.

---

            They lie on their backs, side by side.

            “Who are you?” Jenny asks. The clouds drift contentedly, one or another constantly shading them from sunlight. The grass dips in the breeze, and the cloud shepherd’s panpipes sit propped against the tree.

            “What makes you tick?” she continues, as if thinking aloud. And maybe she is. But he answers. He thinks for a long time first, and then answers in a tired voice that might border on ennui.

            “Last month I killed the neighbor’s dog. They never found the body.” At this startling answer, even the clouds momentarily pause mid-float. Jenny is wordless.

            “I had to kill it, Jenny. You should understand that if you understand me.” They are silent again, but this is not a pleasant silence. The flock returns to its grazing as if mindful that it not appear to eavesdrop.

            “It was old. It limped all the time. It had fat hanging from its sides but it still looked skinny. Its teeth were all broken and rotten so it couldn’t chew. Its skin was the color of mud and urine. It was deaf and mostly blind. It whined almost constantly. The neighbors didn’t care – you know them, they never do anything! – I don’t even know their names. It was all up to me, watching that thing in the road day after day, knowing how terrible its life must be. It didn’t even take much, I just-”

            Here she interrupts him. “It’s alright,” she says. “I understand.” These are the words he needs to hear. But something isn’t right. He looks at her and he can see that she does not really understand, that she would never kill a dog, that tears are welling up in her eyes. He needs Jenny to more than empathize; he needs her to feel complicity. He wants his actions to meet with her approval for the very reason that she is him and he is her, that they are made for each other and are so similar that they might as well be each other. He does not know how to explain this but knows that it is terribly important. He knows he loves her, but he needs to be alone. This time, Jack stands up first.

            “What?” she says.

            “I need to go.”

            “Go? You can’t go!”

            “I have to take your bike.”

            “And the clouds?”

            “You watch the clouds. I’ll be back soon.” He is already ahead of her, beyond her, flying free as he runs down the field, picks up the bike, and pedals up Bisby.

By the time she collects her wits and thinks to mention that she cannot play the panpipes, he is out of hearing and soon out of sight.

            Jenny sits back again and sighs. The pipes, vessel of so much fun and life when Jack is around, now seem dejected and dead. The clouds appear agitated, understandably, so she picks up the instrument. Now what? She hesitatingly brings the panpipes to her lips, and the flock can feel her hesitation. Everything tenses in anticipation of her first attempt at music, but of course she fails utterly. The sound that comes out of the pipes is weak and tuneless; the clouds recoil in horror, the pure air is shattered. Wait, she thinks or maybe yells, alarmed. Wait – but it is too late. The flock is unchained; like an angry mob they charge down the road where a cloud of dust from the bike is still visible. Wait – but the panpipes are useless and the sun bears down angrily on Jenny. She never could lead anybody. Dejectedly, she begins to walk up the long road towards town.

---

The eggsmith still stands on the dock at the bottom of the hill. The water laps against the rotten wood, in and out, like the breath of an old dog asleep. The sun still shines down into his eyes, obscuring his vision. The sailboat still floats offshore, tacking against hope. Nothing has changed, and yet something is changing – Mr. Charles can feel something changing. He has been standing on the dock for some time now, and the boat still does not move. He finds this intriguing, which is to say, he is intrigued. Mr. Charles cannot remember the last time he has felt curious or intrigued or interested in anything beyond the next egg, the next meal. He leans forward.

Momentously, these few centimeters bring the boat’s sailor almost within sight. If only the sun were not shining into his face! If only he could move just a little closer – he feels as though a moment of clarity is just beyond the bend, like the sun breaking through the clouds or like emerging from a deep sleep. The world waits quietly; the stage is set. The eggsmith’s eyes strain.

Without warning, the moment is gone. Shattered! There is no figure, there is no boat, there is no lake, there is no dock, and then there is no eggsmith. There are only clouds, clouds everywhere, their ethereal movement blanketing the lake in languid, chilly fog. Mr. Charles reels back in fear, though he cannot be sure whether he has physically fallen or only feels like he has – he cannot see anything. In the gray mist, he relives a memory from his youth, a childhood memory long relegated to a pile of discarded episodes like so much old clothing. Hazily, he recalls a cheery dog and a quaint farmhouse off Bisby, a yellow Sunday morning and a warm cup of milk, a dog’s tail’s rhythmic thumping. He wonders why he hasn’t thought about his dog in such a long time; he wonders if the dog is still alive. Then he remembers the boat – it isn’t fair! The clouds should be brought to order.

Mr. Charles takes an egg out of his back pocket and holds it in front of his face. Its white surface blends into the clouds such that he can just barely make it out. He takes his knife and with quick dexterity cuts off a piece of his beard, threads it through the egg. Some more hurried work and he is done – he does not even have to think. He notices as well that his hands are all his own – he feels in control for the first time in a long time, which is why he is not surprised at all when he throws the egg up into the air. It arcs over the lake with magnificent force, spinning laterally. When it reaches the peak of its journey it explodes, of course, showering egg over the clouds. The effect is quick – the clouds back off the lake, scared and surprised. They group together, as if in congress, and then float down towards the eggsmith, clumped together respectfully. They form a circle around him and wait, but he does nothing. He only stares out at the lake – it does not surprise him that the boat is gone.

Mr. Charles realizes that he is quite clearly alive. The clouds start to drift, so he pulls out another egg. Instantly they regroup and he knows that they are his and his alone. He turns around and starts the long walk up the hill, not even glancing back at the mass of clouds following behind him.

---

            Jenny and Jack arrive at the dock at the same time, Jack on the tandem bike and Jenny on foot, panting. It is a long walk from the farmland, but Jack has gone an even farther distance. The former cloud shepherd smiles at Jenny as he walks the bike to her. She smiles back. They are just in time to watch the retreating form of the eggsmith, and of Jack’s former flock. Then Jack waits sheepishly for a while, because he knows that what he did was at once necessary and wrong. He hopes she understands how grateful he is, now that he can share with her the adventures he’s just had and they can laugh in complicity. She breaks the silence.

“Tell me where you’ve been.” Even as the words leave her mouth he is speaking, regaling with pleasure. He basks in her attention as he recounts epic tales of merriment and wonder, awe and grace. Her initial frigidity thaws and melts before the stories of stowaway journeys to Egyptian deserts, exploratory expeditions to savage jungles, nights on the street and audiences with kings. She is there with him because they really are the same person, but also because their sailboat awaits at the bottom of the steps alongside the dock. Even still it is obvious that the adventure has only begun, so without hesitation she takes his hand in hers and they cast off for the novelty of distant shores.