Jacob

In the meadow beyond the willows, by the hawthorn hedges and the dew pond, Jacob set out to call the sheep home.

The sun turned to gold as it fell behind the copse of Scots pine, and the bees left the heather and the gorse as a chill took to the air of the lengthening shadows.

The sheep were soon safe in the hurdled pen, a soft bleating sound in the dusk: safe from the night and all it might hold. But yet there was one whose cry was more urgent - a childless mother calling.

Many years before Jacob's seafaring Uncle Barnibus had returned from his final voyage with wild & exotic tales of the Coasts of Barbary and the Gates of Old Babylonio, of wildmen and curious beasts. And from his sailor's bag he had taken treasures & mementoes for the assembled and credulous clan: perfumes & oils for the ladies, a sparkling dagger or a rusty flintlock for the chaps. And for Jacob a huge and multicoloured shell from some far & distant shore of palms and azure seas.

Delight flickered in the young child's eyes - which turned to astonishment as old Barnibus put the shell to his lips: his breath blew the sweetest & saddest of notes which echoed around the cottage & across the churchyard.

So now Jacob reached within his robe & took the shell to his lips. It sang out across the darkening meads; across the lees and by the footbridge, by Denman's stile and the stand of willows.

High & sweet.

And there, far off, the bleating of a lamb caught in the brambles.

The good shepherd set off.

And soon mother & child were reunited. Safe once again.

Jacob returned to his cottage by twilight & by the light of the evening star.