The Sheep Under the Snow
A winter’s tale
The night of Winter Solstice found Brannan, Master Bard of ArMor-ys, urging his dappled grey, mountain-bred horse, Liath, through the deepening snow. A depression ahead provided the only indication of the track but in the distance a lantern glowed, indicating his destination: a shepherd’s hut.
The shepherd pulled open the door and greeted him. “Come in and warm yourself. I am just doing the same.”
Brannan dismounted, loosened the horse’s girth and covered her with a rough blanket before brushing the snow from his coat and entering the hut. Inside, a glowing peat fire warmed the small space.
His host bowed humbly, then said, “I see by your gold torc collar and your harp that you are a Master Bard. I am Colm. Sit on my cot and make yourself comfortable while I bring tea.”
Brannan set down his harp case and accepted a tin mug of a black brew. He sipped the hot, strong tea and questioned the shepherd.
“Your wet coat reveals you have been outside on this inhospitable evening. Do your sheep fare well?”
“No, Master Bard. I have penned most of them nearby, but four are still missing, including a ewe close to lambing far too early in this bitter weather. After I rest, I’ll be anxious to head out again, but Dílis here has tired himself with the searching.” The shepherd stroked the black and white dog at his feet.
The bard said, “My name is Brannan. Take hope, Colm. I will search with you. My horse, Liath, has the stamina to make a path for us.”
“I thank you from my heart, but where can we look for the sheep? Dìlis must be close to sniff them out if they are buried by the snow.”
“I have a method I may use. We will see if, with the Angels’ blessing, we may yet find them.”
So it was that the shepherd and the bard set off into the wild, white landscape. Brannan had attached the harp case onto Liath’s saddle, causing the shepherd to wonder aloud. They made a track into the likely places and stopped at a gully. The Bard dismounted and took his harp, named Mavrenn, from her case.
Colm exclaimed, “I have never seen such a harp. Surely, it must be fabled in legend!”
Brannan merely smiled, knowing his harp was indeed both beautiful and legendary. Her height reached Brannan’s shoulder when he knelt and held her against him. A rich, purplish wood formed her, with a figurehead of a woman’s head and shoulders carved from age-stained bone gracing the harp’s pillar. Spun brass and gold wire formed her strings.
Snowflakes settled on the harp as Brannan began to play. Immediately, the magic of the clear, bell-like notes seemed to grip the shepherd as he watched the Master Bard’s skilled hands bring forth a wistful tune, evoking the loneliness of the hillside and the sorrow of sheep lost under the snow. But as he played, the dog Dìlis’ ears pricked up, and he whined.
“Find!” The shepherd commanded as he let Dìlis go. The dog bounded through the thick, white winter blanket and began to dig with his paws. Very shortly, they heard the bleat of a sheep.
Moving slowly forward, Brannan continued playing until more bleats answered the chiming chords. The shepherd and the Bard recovered three such animals, but the fourth, the pregnant ewe, remained missing. The search for her seemed in vain as darkness threatened to overtake them.
The three searchers ranged further through the gully before stopping so the Bard could play once more. But this time, Brannan changed his melody to a joyful Winter Solstice chant that celebrated the sun rising in a new dawn.
They heard a muffled bleating, and the dog scrambled with renewed energy to an overhang of rock. Brannan encased Mavrenn and strapped her to the saddle again; then, he joined Colm and Dìlis in their careful excavation.
A hollow under the overhang revealed the ewe, who lay there, still bleating, but she did not come out.
The shepherd moved close and exclaimed, “She has given birth! There are two lambs. Help me, Master Bard!”
Brannan crouched beside the ewe and took a lamb from the shepherd, tucking the little body inside the warmth of his coat. Colm took the other lamb.
“Will they survive?” Brannan asked.
“They may, but only if we can get them and the ewe back to the hut in time,” the shepherd replied.
So Brannan rode in front, breaking a trail and carrying both lambs in his coat, while Colm and Dìlis urged the mother ewe to continue. The other sheep followed them.
The trek proved arduous, but the hut’s welcome firelight glow eventually greeted them through the gathering nightfall. Brannan fed and sheltered his tired horse inside the lean-to while the shepherd penned the sheep, save for the mother ewe: he brought her inside his dwelling.
The mystery of the Solstice night clad the cold, snowy hills in darkness, but inside the shepherd’s hut, all was warm and bright. Colm prepared humble fare: oatcakes and cheese made from sheep’s milk. Brannan contributed a small flask of wine for their midwinter feast. After they ate, the Bard leaned Mavrenn against him and played songs of joy and renewal.
Brannan was an honoured man, a renowned bard who had graced many a great Lord’s court but never one of such humble estate as this. It did not matter, and the Master Bard played to the shepherd as if to a king.
He watched the ewe suckling her lambs near the peat fire and smiled. Out from under the snow and the prospect of death had come new life, and shepherd and Bard rejoiced.
