#entry 06

At first, I wanted to incorporate it in my planner so I would be able to bring it with me everywhere. However I seemed to have lost my planner, so I had to compromise and have the gratitude journal written in my personal journal. I was excited at first, because it’s been four months since I’ve written in my personal journal.

However for the past week, I had trouble writing down what made me happy or what I was proud of in that day because of my bad memory. The days just seem so busy and that a lot of things are happening that I had difficulty recalling what happened. Initially, I wanted to write at least three things for the gratitude journal. Throughout the week, there were times that I forgot to write on the journal so I had to do it the next day, or that I felt so overwhelmed and sad that my memory became bad and had forgotten what occurred that day.

But despite this, writing those things made me feel as if a small weight off my shoulder was lifted. Even if I had trouble maintaining it or recalling my day, there was a sense of accomplishment in sitting down, mulling over what happened and writing down something that made me happy or proud.

Writing in a gratitude journal is not a foreign concept to me. I did a similar method back then when I was severely depressed. I used to write or draw in post-it notes “Reasons to Live” and posted them near my bed so that every morning I would have a chance to remind myself to keep going. Furthermore it’s something that my psychiatrist and counselor had recommended countless times.

In doing this ritual, I realized that these may be the “sparks of life” we were talking about in class. It further supported the idea that sometimes, being happy with the little things can be a drive for us to continue to another day. I always find it hard to see meaning in my everyday life because they feel very mundane and insignificant. Writing the gratitude journal doesn’t really negate that thinking, but it does help in dealing with the very exhausting thoughts I have almost everyday. It made me remember that self-care isn’t always going to be nice things - it’s a constant battle of fighting your thoughts and encouraging yourself to actually do things even when you don’t feel like doing it. It’s a fight and in order to win, we must first willingly and actively defend and attack instead of just passively letting things happen.  It reminded me that recovery and healing is a painful process, and that’s okay.

I may continue in doing this in the future. It’s low-maintenance and honestly kind of fun to do (especially that I can doodle beside the list since I’m putting it in my personal journal!). However I’m not completely sure if I will be able to. Like I mentioned, I have trouble actually remember to write things down and remembering what happened in that day. Maybe in order to further integrate it into my routine, I can do something like set an alarm to set aside some time to write on it. We’ll see... but for now I’m satisfied with what I already did for myself.

The Strength of the Shepherd’s Arm

David slipped another copper coin discretely into the small leather pouch carefully hidden underneath this tunic. Wrapping the long strips of leather on either side around his middle, the bag hung against his right hip. Mother would be pleased that her lotions, balms, and soaps had sold so quickly. Crafted from goats’ milk and dried lavender, which she hung in bunches all over the cottage, the fragrant cakes of soaps and pots of lotions were highly esteemed by all the women in the village. At market’s end, he would return home with enough coins clinking together in his pocket to pay the taxes on his parents’ small homestead.

As he waited for his next customer, David scanned the unusually busy square, recognizing most of the faces in the bustling marketplace. Four men whom he did not recognize stood apart from the crowd under the shade of a large oak tree, watching in silence. Their dark hair and eyes matched their demeanor. David had heard a group of rough-looking men had made camp in the woods. There was something in their cool aloofness which he did not trust.

They were not the only strangers at market. A furtive, hooded figure meandered through the crowd, occasionally exchanging a brief word with one person or another. David could not see the man’s face, if it was a man at all. However, David occasionally glimpsed a pair of strange, bright eyes, flashing at him from the shadows of the cloak.

Probably just an old beggar, David told himself without apprehension. His thoughts were interrupted as his best customer, Garret the blacksmith, approached the stall.

“Well, well, young David. I’ve a taste for a good goat stew! A roast, if you please,” the jolly man grinned, slapping several coins on the table.

David eyed the silver coins enviously. Sighing slightly, he set his hands on the counter and answered, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. Father says the flock is too small as it is. We won’t have any cuts until the nannies drop their kids in spring.”

 Eyeing the nearly empty table, the rotund smithy nodded. “It’s the same at every stall. There’s nary a roast nor loin to be spared for an honest man’s supper.”

 David quirked an eyebrow. “Odd.”

“Not if you believe the stories,” Garret answered. “Some say there’s a creature in the woods, picking off the flocks. Big. I bet it’s one of them rogue ogres—probably deserted after the Battle of the Eastern Mountains.”

David quirked an eyebrow. “Near Avonlea? Wasn’t it destroyed?”

Garret nodded, tapping a fat finger on the stall. “Aye! But at the very next village—just when the walls were about to topple—all the ogres,” he slammed his hand on the table for effect, “vanished.”

“You’re joking!”

Garret crossed his arms over his chest, “I would’na kid about such a thing as that, not when it involves the Dark One.”

“Dark One?”

“Och, you are thick, aren’t ya, lad?” the farmer scoffed. “You’d best spend a little less time on those hills watchin’ yer pa’s flock and a little more time down here in the real world with the rest of us.”

David shook his head, “Being a shepherd is real enough for me.”

The farmer chuckled, “Just like your pa, you are. Mind you, give him my best. I’ll be back come spring, more than ready for a good roast.”

As Garret walked away, David saw the mysterious hooded figure smirking at him from underneath his thick, embroidered hood. David shuddered when he glimpsed the unnatural metallic sheen of the man’s skin.

Suddenly, his attention was drawn by a disturbance at the front of the market. A small mass of people swarmed together around a single man, shouting and pumping their fists in the air. The clamor rose, drawing more participants and attention.

“Here’s the Duke, let’s hear his answer!” Cheers resounded as several sets of strong, tanned arms pushed a thin, but richly dressed, aristocrat onto the platform at the north end of the square. Not known to be a man of great courage, the gentleman looked rather unnerved at the forcefulness of the crowd.

The duke, who had inherited both his position and riches from a man far greater than himself, wrung his hands nervously. He stammered as he spoke, “I know that…many of you have lost livestock over the last several months. I’ve also heard the rumors of a large beast roaming the forest.”

The crowd erupted with shouts of, “Ogre! Chimera! Dragon!”

The duke pursed his lips and continued, attempting to silence the crowd with his hands, “With our entire militia serving on the front against the ogres, there is little we can do to protect against such forces. But I am prepared to offer a substantial reward to anyone who is able to slay the beast.”

                   In his peripheral vision, David saw the hooded figure begin to move toward the stage. However, before he could reach the platform, a loud voice called out over the populace.

 “Good people!” It was the tallest of the four men under the tree.  “Allow us to offer you our services. For a sum of 1000 gold coins, we will bring you the head of the beast in the forest!”

The crowd murmured. Some nodded their heads; others contemplated the cost. A thin, gray-haired shepherd shouted, “1000 gold? I’ve not two coppers to spare!” Another answered him, “And you’ll not have one if that monster devours the rest of your flock!”

The leader of the dark men spoke again, “If the fee is too dear, slay the beast yourselves.”

The villagers answered only with their silence. Women wept mute tears as the old, infirm, and cowardly stared wordlessly at earth beneath their feet. One woman, holding a squalling infant, cried, “Please, sirs, we’re desperate!”

David listened silently at his stall, his outrage growing by the minute. Who were these bandits, trading on the anguish of his friends and neighbors? Fueled by indignation, he leapt onto the table of his stall. His voice ringing with confidence, he shouted, “I will do it! I will defeat this enemy—at one-tenth the price!”

The crowd laughed. A fat farmer, chewing on a bit of straw, called, “Trust a young pup like you to slay a monster? I’d rather make a deal with the Dark One himself!”

Biting back his anger, David narrowed his eyes at the rustic. The enigmatic hooded figure began to weave his way across the square towards the heckler.

David opened his arms wide, ready to declare the truth. “Did I not slay the lion whose hide now lies beneath my father’s feet as docile as a housecat? When a bear threatened my father’s flock, did I not grab it by the scruff of its neck and strike it down?” He paused, chest heaving.

The village square erupted with laughter. “A likely story!” chortled the village barkeep. “And bless me, I’ve heard them all in my day! Kill a bear with nothing but the hands of a shepherd? I think not!”

David clenched his fists. Over the laughter he roared, “Trust me with this task! If I fail, you’ve lost nothing but a day, and you can surrender your coin to these men. But, if I succeed—”

“If you succeed, then I’ll pay the purse myself,” sniggered the duke, elevating himself by standing on David’s scorn.  

“Who will lend me their dagger?” David cried. None answered.

“Go back to the pasture, Shepherd!” cried the fat heckler.

Heat rising in his face, David stepped off the counter. Feigning deafness to the snide remarks of nearby villagers, he cleared his stall of the few remaining cheeses and soaps, stuffing all into his leather satchel. He left the market wordlessly. At the crossroads, he took the path into the forest.

Laugh all you want, cowards, he thought bitterly. He would show them the might of Jesse’s son and the strength of a shepherd’s arm. He would win the honor and respect of the village, and he would claim the heavy purse promised to the champion.

At the first creek, David picked up a smooth stone, rolling it in his hands, testing its weight. He carefully selected a few more, slipping each palm-sized rock into his leather satchel. Adjusting the bag to accommodate the new weight on his shoulder, David left the forest road.

It wasn’t long before he picked up the trail of a large creature. He was used to tracking the small, obstinate goats which frequently wandered away from his father’s herd. Following a huge beast through a dense forest was easy by comparison. The forest was littered with broken twigs, bent grass, and small tufts of sandy brown fur caught on thorns.

When he saw the first paw print, roughly the size of a large melon, he let out a sharp gasp. Not a lion. Not a bear. But, thankfully, not an ogre either. The print resembled a wolf’s, but it was far too large. He scratched his head in wonder. The animal had obviously been in the area for months. Its tracks crossed over themselves more than once. He must be on his guard; the den could not be much further.

The sun set as David continued on foot. He glanced up at the moon, full and bright, hanging low in the autumn sky. Wolves were nocturnal; the beast was likely to wake soon. Dry leaves rustled and twigs snapped beneath his feet. Too much noise, he thought to himself.

He came upon a clearing in the midst of several large poplar trees. In the center of the clearing was a large, crackling fire, surrounded by four thick logs. David guessed it was the bandits’ camp and wondered why they had selected this place. The clearing was surrounded by the massive tracks.At the southern edge was a single domed structure, constructed of branches, peat moss, and animal skins.

At the sound of low, hushed voices, he called into the darkness, “Show yourselves!” Three men emerged from the hut, glaring at the intruder. “Where is your fourth?” David called.

One of the dark-haired men spoke, “He is out, as you are, hunting.”

Beside the makeshift dwelling, David noticed a substantial heap of bones and skulls from every kind of livestock raised in the valley. Anger rising in David’s chest, he cried out, “Charlatans! You brought the very beast you promised to slay!”

Three pairs of glowing eyes—were they red?—smoldered under menacing, heavy brows. Hands lingered on sword hilts.

“What say you, boy?” challenged the shortest of the three.

“By night’s end, you’ll wish you had kept your mongrel on a leash,” David answered.

 David heard a whistle just inches by his left ear followed by a loud crack. Glancing behind, he saw an iron hatchet lodged in the trunk of a tree. His eyes darted in the direction of the bandits, so similar in resemblance to one another with their straight black hair and wild eyes.

“Take care,” warned the oldest of the men, his temples streaked with gray. “Many dark and dangerous creatures lurk in the woods.”

David, incensed, ripped the hatchet from the bark, tucking it into his corded belt. He answered steadily, “And I’m one of them!” Letting his remark hang in the air, he traipsed away from the camp, following the freshest set of tracks leading into the woods.

After another hour of careful tracking, he heard the howl of a wolf. He unwound his corded belt, emptying the coins onto the ground. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out one of the smooth stones, deftly setting it onto the flattened leather pouch. This wasn’t the first time he had turned his simple purse into a rudimentary slingshot. He held the sling in his right hand, poised at the ready.  

Behind him came a low, threatening snarl. Slowly, he turned to face the beast, his eyes widening in surprise at its enormity. It was a wolf, but it might as well have been a lion or a bear. The fur on its back was raised in warning. It bared its fangs which were unnaturally white for a creature of the wild. Its fierce, dark eyes brimmed with menace.

David spoke to the beast, raising his right arm behind his head, “Growl all you like. By sunrise, I’ll deliver your body to your masters, but your head and hide, I’ll keep for myself.”

His tone angered the creature, who took a slow step forward. Certain the beast was ready to lunge, David lifted the sling behind his shoulder and flicked his wrist rhythmically, swinging the stone behind his head. It quickly gained enough force that, once released, the impact would be fatal. Considering the brute’s lethal reputation, David could not afford a glancing blow. He would have to trust in the strength of his arm and the accuracy of his aim. David thought of the tree back home, riddled with pockmarks two inches deep, the scars of his idle practice.

The wolf issued an ominous growl and charged. Without hesitation, David released the stone, sending it flying through the air. It struck the massive creature squarely in the head, embedding itself with a sickening crunch in the beast’s skull like a precious gem in a bezel setting. The wolf crumpled and fell to the ground.

David approached cautiously. The brute’s side moved up and down, but just barely. David searched for the hatchet which had fallen into the underbrush when he removed his corded belt. With a grim frown stretching across his lips, David took the hatchet in hand and stood over the body of the beast, who whimpered faintly. Without ceremony, he knelt to the leaf-covered forest floor and slashed the beast’s throat.

He had just finished when he heard muffled steps in the leaves behind him. He paused before returning the bandits’ hatchet by heaving it in their direction. One of the men cried out as the blade struck his right arm. The others stared in horror at the bloody mess that had become the forest floor.

“What have you done?” cried the youngest whose eyes burned brightest.

“I’ve freed my village of a curse: yours. The rest of you should leave, and consider yourselves lucky to escape with your lives.”

David rolled up the hide of the massive wolf, securing it with the cord of his sling. He stood and faced the three men who were barren of all emotion save that of grief. He left them, turning a deaf ear to the weighted voices murmuring, “May you always run free beneath the pale moonlight, brother.”

By midmorning, David marched into the town square, already humming with commerce. David wound his way through the multitudes gathered in the market. As he did so, they began to murmur as they glimpsed the massive head, with its rows of cruel teeth, and smelled the pungent hide strapped to David’s back. He marched up to the top of the platform and lifted the beast’s head high.

Ready to prove his worth at last, he shouted, “Is it not as I have said?! See, who has brought you the head of the creature? It is the son of Jesse!”

The crowd cheered, applauding out of surprise more than joy. The duke approached and offered David a small purse, heavy with golden coins. David accepted his prize with his free hand. The duke turned toward the crowd and announced, “Bear witness to the strength of the shepherd’s arm!”

David searched the cheering crowd for one face alone, finding it at last. His father, oblivious to the jubilation surrounding him, stood several yards away, head bent in discourse with the hooded figure. The old man, his white brow knit in concern, nodded slowly, as the cloaked man’s eyes met David’s gaze. David glimpsed what he thought was a set of sharp, pointed teeth. When David made his way through the crowd, the man placed a hand on his father’s back, silently departing.

“Father,” David greeted as he shifted his pack.

Jesse, his eyes clouded and rheumy with old age, peered into David’s face. “So, you have returned. Your mother wept with worry. She begged me come and seek news of you.”

“I’m sorry,” David said, glancing at his boots remorsefully. “I’ll make it up to her.” He added with a question, “Father, who was that man?”

“An old…friend,” Jesse murmured with soft mystery, glancing away as if at some long ago memory. “He has just given me some…interesting news.” Jesse returned to the present and eyed the rolled pelt strapped to his son’s back. “Come, let us see what my son has brought upon his family.”

“Honor, Father,” he proclaimed. With sure motions, David unrolled the pelt, drawing the attention of those nearby. Let them look at the pride of Jesse’s house, he thought. “Even a shepherd deserves that much.”

Jesse brought his face close to the skin, so that his eyes could examine the hide. His father’s hands, wrinkled with age, stroked the pelt, first with question, then with sorrow. Tears welled in his father’s eyes.

“The creature—what was his name?” the old man asked softly.

David didn’t understand. “His name? I didn’t exactly think to ask.”

Jesse shook his head, white hair shining in the sun. He placed a weather-worn hand on the pelt and murmured, “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Incredulous, David retorted, “I saved the village! I slew a wolf which nearly destroyed the flocks of everyone in the valley, including ours. Monsters like these have to be put to death.”  

Jesse pressed the animal skin back into his son’s hands. “This was not a monster. This was a Child of the Moon.” Upon seeing his son’s confusion, Jesse continued, “Sometimes, the hide of a beast conceals the man inside. Few can see it, and many a good and innocent man has surrendered his life to the cry of an angry mob,” Jesse murmured.

David shook his head and held up the rancid skin. “Man or beast, this creature was neither good nor innocent.”

Jesse nodded his head in accession.  “Perhaps not. But neither was he without the hope of redemption.”

His father’s eyes flickered in the direction of the strangers. David noticed their sore condition. They moved quietly down the eastern road leading away from the village on foot, a few meager belongings strapped to their backs. Their number was only three. Where was the fourth?

Jesse’s gaze drifted across the familiar green hills to a far away land, even across time itself. “A leader must hear the cry of his people, but judge with wisdom and understanding. The arm of the shepherd may strike down any threat against his flock, but the arm of the king is heavy, and his reach is far. He must not lash out in ignorance nor in haste.”

David shook his head, not understanding, “Leader? King? I’m a shepherd, Father. It’s what I was born to be. The only thing I’m ever going to lead is a herd of goats.”

“Who can tell what you were born to be? Fate will decide. But, know this: You have the greatness of a king in you. Royalty is circumstance, and that can upend very quickly. Today, you led our village. One day, you may lead a kingdom.”