CHAPTER 8
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By stepping on to a ledge outside his door, Turgen on a clear day had a wonderful view of the valley below and the mountains above him. When he tired of watching the tiny figures of men and women scurrying about at the foot of his hill, he had only to turn his eyes upward to see a different and fascinating sight. For there, dodging among the crags, were specks which he knew to be wild rams.
“How do they live?” he asked himself one evening. The hills were barren except for sparse tufts of moss, an occasional thin clump of grass, and now and then a tough, hardy shrub that could not contain much nourishment.
His curiosity and pity aroused, Turgen watched the rams intently all that season and the next. He could make out nine individuals of what he assumed to be a family--or, as he called it, a tribe. In summer one lamb--or it might be two--were added to the number, but they disappeared with cold weather.
Then Turgen began to worry. For with the cold weather came snow to cover the moss and grass and dry up the meagre shrubs. Even at a distance he could sense the animals’ despair as they searched avidly beneath the snow for any poor morsel to chew upon. Their grey-brown wool hung loosely on them now, and they moved indifferently, without spirit. Unless there was a hint of danger. Then they would lift their heads proudly and take themselves into the distance with incredible lightness and speed.
“Poor things.” Turgen spoke his thoughts aloud. “To think that I used to hunt you to kill you! What harm are you to anyone? You who ask only for freedom.”
But pity could not help them. He must find a way to give them practical aid. He considered one thing, then another. At last he fixed upon a plan.
First he built a light sleigh which he loaded with hay. Then, putting on skis, he pulled the sleigh to the ridge of the next mountain, dumped the hay, and returned home. Not a ram was in sight, but he could feel their inquisitive and fearful eyes upon him from behind the boulders farther up the hill.
From his own door he watched them approach the hay warily, circle it and trample it, and stoop to nibble at it. They seemed to fear a trap. But when he went back to the spot the hay was gone. After that he took frequent offerings of food to them, and gradually the rams came to accept his gifts without hesitation. Although they never approached him when he visited the feeding ground, he caught glimpses of them in hiding, awaiting his coming. In order to gain their greater confidence, he made it a point never to carry a gun. He even gave up his habit of carrying an iron-tipped stick which helped him in climbing. For he knew that all animals fear the rod which gives forth noise and fire.
It was not easy to conquer the fear of these wild creatures. It needed patience as well as understanding. But Turgen had both. Season after season he gave them care and attention, and was rewarded by knowing that they accepted him and depended upon him even though they did not fully trust him. A time came when they no longer hid from him but stood watching from a safe distance as if to determine what sort of being this was from whom they received nothing but good. And he had another satisfaction. The food he gave them worked a miracle in their appearance. They were no longer the sad, dishevelled animals of former days.
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His heart leaped for joy one day when he went to the feeding ground and discovered the entire ram family gathered in a group on a little mound near by.
“Eh!” Turgen declared with pleasure. “You are truly a good-looking band--strong and healthy. And you eat now as if you enjoyed it.”
The rams eyed him gravely, with an expression that might have been gratitude on their long homely faces.
“Yes,” they seemed to be saying. “Perhaps your pampered cattle down below would not thrive on this fare, but for savages like us it is nourishing. You see, we are not looking to put on fat, merely to survive.”
With these friends, who had become like his own children, Turgen knew that he would never again be lonely as before.
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