I was walking to Universitatis in a land of peacock stones of the sea and vast luminous green fields, dotted with thatch-roofed cottages. I rounded a hillock and was greeting by a lovely pastoral scene, like the painting of an artist longing for home.
There was a young man there, tending sheep, though for all intents and purposes he seemed to be enjoying the day while leaning up against a tree and keeping to its shade. With him were two boys. All were wearing the clothing of shepherds, though the boys’ dress was slightly cleaner and fancier than the young man’s. All three looked up at me as I approached and offered them my best impression of a local greeting. They turned to each other and smiled. But before the boys’ smiles could turn into laughter, the young man held up a finger and spoke to them.
“What can you teach me today of what you have learned since last time?” he asked them. I just stood there quietly; it seemed the thing to do.
The older replied, “We learned your prayer like you taught us, but I can say it fastest!”
“No you can’t!” The words became a brief physical battle until both boys began reciting speedily, switching back and forth, with an occasional punctuation delivered by foot or elbow.
“Pater noster…”
“Ár n-Athair atá ar neamh…”
“Sanctificetur nomen tuum…”
“Go naofar d’ainim…”
“Go dtagfadh do regnum tuum”
“Fiat voluntas tua, sicut an talamh mar a dhéantar ar neamh.”
They ended together with a resounding, “Amen!”
After a brief silence, as the breeze reclaimed the ether, and our heads nodded slightly with the branches, intelligence slowly returned to our faces.
“Did we do it right, Druid?” asked the eldest timidly.
“Well…” said the shepherd. “Well, yes, you did. And don’t call me Druid.” The boys didn’t know whether to smile or not.
“Boys, remember I taught you one prayer in two different languages. Next time, straighten them out into two and you will have time to learn the second half in each language.” The boys nodded eagerly.
“Practice a little bit now…quietly…before it’s time to go home. And I will also practice.”
The boys’ voices blended like a psalm as they helped each other to learn.
To the shepherd, it was like a bard’s gentle song over babies meant to be sleeping. He sat comfortably with his back to the tree, eyes closed and mind at ease. If a gnat landed on his nose, or a raven cried overhead, he would open one eye slowly, very slowly, until the interruption had passed. He would occasionally ask a question about something being said, or about anything at all, though he didn’t always seem to require an answer. Every so often, he would correct a mispronounced word, or ask that a line be repeated. He wondered if their efforts were answering their need, or if they were listening to what they were saying.
I could tell he was praying.
Today, one of the interruptions to his listening and meditating was the clanking of the bells of two cows grazing in the nearby field. A question for his students suddenly came to him from the sound under the sun and the dark beneath his eyelids.
“Ciúnas a pháisti!” he suddenly said. “Be quiet, children!” The ones who had been reciting, stopped. I, who had been dozing, awoke. The three of us stared at the shepherd.
“I have a question for you,” he told us. We all stood up at attention, listening.
“Imagine two cows, one black, one brown. They are being led into the upper pastures…”
“Like at Beltaine?” offered the younger boy.
“No, not like at Beltaine,” said one wagging, silent finger.
“Now, as the two cows approach the pasture gate, only one may pass between the posts at a time. So, one cow is leading, the other cow is close behind. But the second cow wishes to arrive at the upper pasture first. She tries to push past the first cow, which moves to block her way. Tails are swishing, horns are tossing. Suddenly, there is a bellow of pain from the first cow. The horns of the other have poked through the thick skin of her rump.” The shepherd paused.
“Do you all understand what has happened here?” he asked us.
“Yes!” came the boys’ voices and my nod
“Now, here is the question…are you ready for it?”
“Yes!” they shouted in one voice.
“Then here it is.” The shepherd looked long and hard into the face of each child as he asked, “Which cow can say, ‘I have both tail and horns at the same end?'”
The oldest spoke up first. “The first cow!” he guessed confidently, and the other nodded in agreement.
“Níl ceart!” the shepherd shouted back with a grimace. “Not right!”
“The second cow!” said the younger, while his brother agreed with his answer.
“Níl ceart!”
“Both cows?” asked the eldest timidly. The other repeated this answer, which was the only possible one remaining.
“Níl ceart!” was the shepherd’s answer, once again.
The boys and I looked at each other, wondering what the answer could be. What had we missed? Not the first cow. Not the second cow. Not both cows. They asked the shepherd if he would repeat the question.
He took a deep breath and retold the story of the two cows fighting for first place between the posts of the narrow pasture gate. He described how the horns of the one behind poked the behind of the one in front. Then he repeated his question, “Which cow can say, ‘I have both tail and horns at the same end?'”
“The first cow?”
“The second cow?”
“Both cows?”
To each answer came the same “Níl ceart!” from the shepherd, who slapped his palm against the ground each time.
The boys looked at each other’s blank faces and saw no glimmer of understanding. “We give up,” was their unspoken admission.
The shepherd then, at last, turned to me, his face showing that he expected an answer. All I could do was offer a sad shrug.
The shepherd glared at me, then at the boys. But his grim expression softened into grin.
“Neither cow could say it,” he told them. “In your eagerness to seem wise, to be first, you have forgotten what you have known all along. Cows cannot speak.” The boys slapped each other on the back for being equally ignorant.
“So, you, one walking to Universitatis. What do you have to tell me?”
“If you are he for whom this message is meant, and I know you are, I am to tell you, ‘Behold, your ship is ready.’”
“I see. The one who shrugs as if he is dumb, speaks like an angel. Boys, come here.”
They rushed to him and he patted their heads in blessing. “I am leaving and you will need to watch the sheep for a while. You will also need to tell your father that I have gone.” They nodded.
“Make certain you tell him in a timely way. There will be two sheep missing this evening, and you will find them but you will also get home too late and must jump into bed. In the morning, your father will leave for the outer fields before you rise, so you will have to wait until he gets home. He will no doubt be very tired, so you may have to wait to tell him by the following morning.”
“Or the next!” the boys blurted out laughing.
“Now, show respect to your Dadaí. He has shown respect enough to me for these past six years.”
He blessed them again and dismissed them, telling them to go watch the sheep. He said he would see them again when they had turned into men, and were no longer dumb cows vying to be first. Then he looked at me, nodded, and walked away.
I turned back onto the path on which I had been walking, the path to Universitatis. At one point, I reached a fork. One way was wide and seemed to lead to a beautiful valley. The other was rocky and narrow and it was impossible to see where it led.
I sat down on a stone, thinking. There was a day when I would not hesitate to take that wider path.
I am still sitting on the stone crutch of the fork, trying to decide which way to go.
