Why the boy cried wolf
I do not own The Boy who cried wolf
He lay on the grass with his three sheep, affectionately named Tom, Dick and Harry, dreaming about chardonnay. He was too young to drink it but ever since he had stolen it from his father's wine cellar in anger, he had believed that chardonnay was the most romantic-sounding wine in his village. He wished he could some day share it with someone he loved. If his mother was still around, he would have shared it with her but she had left when she grew tired of his father's abusive ways. He still remembered the kiss on the forehead and the promise she made to return. She had told him to take care of six sheep, three of which he had lost when he had cried "WOLF" and meant it. And just like he had failed his mother, she had broken her promise and never returned.
The three sheep he had lost were named after the fairies in Sleeping Beauty: Flora, Fauna and Merryweather. He knew his mother hadn't trusted his father to take care of her sheep. They had been hers and hers alone. She had brought them up when they were just lambs and she was a young teenager. She used to always talk about how they would mate and provide them with lambs but she left before that had ever happened. What she didn't know was that she shouldn't have trusted him either. Any hope of getting lambs now was all lost and it was all his fault. Or maybe it was his father's fault for drinking so much and being the reason fro him wanting to lie about the wolves in the first place. Was it a lie? he had believed it himself at first, so maybe it wasn't exactly a lie.
He could remember the day almost too clearly. Playing and mucking around with his friends, making up dumb dares like jumping into the river with a vine or climbing up to the top branch of the tallest tree. He had been enjoying himself immensely until one of his friends asked him to steal wine from his father's private cellar. He had immediately been reluctant and something uneasy had decided to settle down in his stomach. He had eventually decided to go t , not realising or being aware of the fact that to get to his own house, he would have to go through the town itself. A place, where his father often resided, drinking beer to his heart's content and getting drunk. And where his father would definitely recognise him because where his father forgot everyone else, he never forgot him. He never forgot to publicly insult him either or beat him to his knees.
He hadn't been thinking straight at all. All his father really had to do was tell him he was a good for nothing and slap him once. That did it. The laughter of his friends was unbearable and it made up his mind for him. He was definitely taking that wine, whether he drank it or not. His father didn't deserve it. But neither, he thought, thinking back, did he. He had grabbed the first bottle he had seen with a cheer from his friends. They snatched it from him and used a cork screw to open it. He remembered the smell best, the sweet smell of the chardonnay, leaking all over the floor because his friend hadn't bothered to stand the bottle upright when he opened it. He'd had it between his knees. He had drank more than he expected himself to that day. Mainly because he had wanted to forget the whole incident with his father and also because he hadn't been able to resist the sweet taste of chardonnay.
He had stumbled back to the field to check on his sheep. There were still six sheep there but he was dizzy and disoriented, filled with fear. It had occurred to him then that something was lurking nearby, preying on him or his sheep. He called out, "WOLF! WOLF" because he didn't know what or who was nearby and he felt impending doom. He kept on crying out, until he felt he was safe and the towns people surrounded him, filled with anger. He realised that it had been nothing but his imagination and apologised. Afterwards, he drifted into asleep, surrounded by his six sheep, Tom, Dick, Harry, Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather. And all would have been well if this sleep had been peaceful but it hadn't. He had had nightmares that chilled him to the bone and made him jerk up from the grass covered in sweat. It was close to dark now and the sun was setting. Once again, fear filled him, and his head ached.
"WOLF WOLF WOLF!" he cried again, certain that there was something close, something ready to pounce. Yet after he had yelled this word multiple times at the top of his voice, he had heard nothing. There was nothing there. The towns people came again, even angrier this time, that he had dared to fool the whole town once again. But he insisted that something had been there, that he hadn't been misleading everyone and telling them worthless lies. It was all true if they would just believed him but they left him, thinking he was drunk and that he was a fool, no better than his father. Feeling defeated, he had sat down, watching the sun set completely. He didn't understand what had possessed him to scream out like that. He hadn't been in danger, it had all been a dumb dream.
Lying back down, with his eye on Flora, he heard a growling noise. He dismissed it at first because he thought it was the wine playing tricks on him. Or maybe it was just his crazy imagination. At least, that's what everyone else thought. The growling became louder and louder, but he continued to ignore it. Fear was playing tricks on him and it had been a crazy day. He settled down on the grass and placed an arm around Merryweather. She was the smallest and she was still a little lamb, she was also his mother's favourite. Or at least, she had been. By the time he realised the growling had not been his imagination, it was too late. He jumped up, and eyed the wolf in front of him. Fear pulsed through his veins and the realisation that he hadn't been lying. He grabbed Tom and Harry because they were the slowest and ran. He ran down the hills and across the fields. The one time he tripped over and scraped his knee, he thought he was doomed, he could just hear the gnashing of teeth behind him. But he had got up and sprinted, knowing that his life and the life of his sheep were at stake. "WOLF WOLF!" he cried, desperate, but no one came. He continued to call out.
His sheep... He had turned around and seen one. He had two in his arms and one behind him. The wolf was gone, probably satisfied with what he had taken. He had sat down and cried for a long while for the loss of three sheep, including Merryweather, his mother's favourite. Then, he thought that they had probably wandered off somewhere while he had run and they were still safe. So he had retraced his steps in order to find them. But he couldn't find them either. Curiously, there was no blood on the tracks, no sign that they had been dragged away or that they had ever existed. If his mother came back and found them gone, she would slaughter him, and blood would be all over the wooden floors of their house. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought of himself before the sheep? He tried to console himself that if he had died, there would be no sheep left, but he still felt helplessly guilty.
That day would haunt him forever, as the day his mother left had. It was pointless to worry in this way, but nobody trusted him now. His friends had raided his father's cellar and long abandoned him, thinking that he was a fool for crying out when he was drunk. But he knew that he hadn't been. That he had been sober the second time and the third time. He lay on the grass, tracing the shapes that the clouds made. A shadow passed over him and he looked up to the face of a young woman with three sheep. Flora, Fauna and Merryweather... he thought, But I thought I lost them...
"Son?" the woman enquired and smiled. He jumped into her arms.