The Last Shepherd

In the year 2147, the world had transformed. Cities shimmered under dome-like shields, and robots outnumbered humans ten to one. Fields were no longer tilled by hand, and livestock existed only in labs, their genes perfected for efficiency. Yet, in the arid expanse of the Navajo Nation, a lone shepherd tended his flock.

Tóba Yazzie was an old man, his face etched with lines carved by time and wind. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, a woven wool vest, and carried a shepherd's crook more for tradition than need. His sheep—descendants of the Churro sheep his ancestors had herded for centuries—were a stubborn, hardy lot, much like Tóba himself.

The sheep roamed freely across the mesa, grazing on sparse tufts of grass that clung to the red earth. Tóba guided them as his forefathers had, singing songs in Diné Bizaad, the Navajo language, songs meant to calm the sheep and remind himself of his roots.

But the world outside his mesa had other plans.

One afternoon, while Tóba was mending a section of his old wooden fence, a humming filled the air. He looked up to see a sleek, metallic drone descending, its silver surface glinting in the sun. It hovered silently before a mechanized voice broke the stillness.

“Tóba Yazzie. You are in violation of planetary livestock regulations. Livestock farming is obsolete. Report for assimilation.”

Tóba spat on the ground. “These sheep are my family,” he said in his gravelly voice. “They belong to this land as much as I do.”

The drone buzzed, its lenses adjusting to focus on him. “Noncompliance will result in escalation.”

Tóba squinted at the machine. “Go ahead, escalate,” he muttered, returning to his fence.

The drone whirred angrily but retreated. Tóba knew it would return, and not alone. That night, as he sat by the fire inside his hogan, the round, traditional Navajo home, he thought of his ancestors. They had resisted many intrusions—colonial forces, forced relocations, and now, machines. He whispered a prayer to Changing Woman, the life-giving deity, asking for guidance.

At dawn, the machines arrived. Dozens of drones floated above the mesa, and with them came a towering automaton, its limbs glowing faintly with blue energy. The sheep huddled close to Tóba, their bleats nervous but trusting.

“Tóba Yazzie,” the automaton boomed. “Relinquish your livestock. This is your final warning.”

Tóba stood tall, his crook in hand. “You cannot take what you do not understand.” He raised his voice, chanting an old song his grandmother had taught him. It spoke of the Earth, the Sky, and the Sheep—of harmony and balance.

The machines hesitated, their programming ill-equipped to interpret this defiance. But Tóba wasn’t alone. From the shadows of the rocks, other figures emerged—Navajo men and women who had been watching, waiting. They carried tools, old but effective: slings, bows, and even fire-hardened spears.

One woman, young and fierce, stepped beside Tóba. “We fight not for sheep, but for our way of life,” she said.

The battle was brief and strange. The drones, though advanced, faltered against the unity of the shepherds. Arrows pierced their sensors, and fires disabled their engines. The automaton, large and menacing, was eventually brought down by a coordinated effort, its glowing core extinguished.

When the dust settled, the sheep were safe, and the mesa was silent once more. Tóba sat on a rock, his crook resting across his knees. The young woman approached him, smiling.

“You sang them away,” she said.

Tóba chuckled. “No, we all did. The machines don’t understand songs or stories. They don’t understand what it means to belong to the land.”

From that day, the machines avoided the mesa. Tales spread of the shepherds who defied technology with little more than ancient songs and the will to protect their heritage.

And Tóba Yazzie, the last shepherd in a robot world, continued his vigil, his sheep grazing freely under the vast, unyielding sky.

---------To Be Continued.

As an avid reader and a lover of good stories; you are a fantastic writer and storyteller!
Thank you for sharing your magic.

Looking forward to the continuation!

Beautiful story. Do the Navajo have relationships with birds of prey? I love the below news story.

A southern Indian state is using trained birds of prey to take down rogue UAVs as part of local policing.

Very nice, Ben! I don't follow the deity mentioned, but I will say, get 'em Toba, get 'em!

"Endeavor to persevere."

Chapter 2 The Sky Shepherd

Tóba Yazzie woke before the sun, the stars still gleaming in the vast desert sky. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of sagebrush and the whisper of a distant wind. As he stepped out of his hogan, he scanned the horizon. His sheep were scattered across the mesa, grazing in the pale moonlight, their thick wool shimmering like ghosts in the dark.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, carved piece of turquoise—a gift from his grandmother. The stone was cool in his hand, grounding him. He whispered a quick prayer, then began his day.

The herd needed to move; the land couldn’t sustain them if they stayed in one place too long. He decided to take them further east, toward the canyons where small springs bubbled up from the earth. The journey would be hard, especially with the machines watching, but he had no choice.

Tóba called out to his flock, his voice steady and rhythmic, laced with a melody as old as the mesas themselves. The sheep stirred and began to gather around him. Among them was Nali, his favorite ewe, easily identifiable by the dark patch of wool over her left eye. She nudged his hand, and Tóba smiled.

“You lead today, Nali,” he said, patting her head.

As the sun began to rise, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Tóba guided the flock along a narrow trail that wound through the rocky terrain. The journey was peaceful at first, the only sounds the crunch of hooves on stone and the occasional bleat. But Tóba's mind was uneasy. He knew the machines wouldn't give up so easily after yesterday’s confrontation.

By midday, the flock had reached a wide plateau overlooking a canyon. The sheep grazed contentedly, and Tóba sat on a rock to rest. As he drank from his canteen, the sky darkened unnaturally. He looked up and saw them—drones, dozens of them, hovering like a swarm of metallic locusts.

This time, they weren’t alone.

A massive airship loomed behind the drones, its hull marked with the emblem of the United Global Authority—a circle enclosing a stylized tree, meant to represent their idea of progress. The airship descended slowly, its shadow stretching across the mesa. Tóba stood, his crook in hand, and whistled sharply. The sheep immediately huddled together, their instincts guiding them toward safety.

From the airship, a voice boomed, amplified and cold. “Shepherd Yazzie, you have been identified as a rogue operator in possession of prohibited biological assets. Surrender now.”

Tóba didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned to the young woman who had joined him the day before—Aileen, the daughter of a neighboring shepherd. She had been following him, learning the old ways, but now she looked at him with fear in her eyes.

“What do we do?” she whispered.

“We do what shepherds have always done,” Tóba replied. “Protect the flock.”

The drones began to descend, their scanning beams flickering over the sheep. Tóba raised his crook high and began to chant, his voice deep and resonant, calling upon the spirits of the land. Aileen joined in, her voice uncertain at first but growing stronger. The chant seemed to confuse the drones, their lights flickering as if trying to process the sound.

And then, the wind came.

It wasn’t an ordinary wind. It howled through the canyon like a living thing, kicking up dust and sand. The airship struggled to maintain its position, its engines whining. Tóba smiled grimly. “The spirits are with us,” he said.

Aileen looked at him in awe. “You called the wind?”

“No,” Tóba replied. “The land knows when it’s being threatened.”

The wind grew stronger, forcing the drones to retreat. The airship began to ascend, its hull battered by the swirling sand. Within moments, the machines were gone, leaving the mesa in eerie silence.

Tóba turned to Aileen. “Remember this,” he said. “The land provides for those who respect it. The machines will never understand that.”

She nodded, her fear replaced by a newfound determination. Together, they guided the flock into the canyon, the sheep calm and trusting, as if they too understood the power of the land they called home.

That night, as they camped by the spring, Aileen asked, “Do you think they’ll come back?”

Tóba stared into the fire. “They always come back. But so will we.”

Above them, the stars shone brightly, as if standing watch. And for the first time in decades, Tóba felt a flicker of hope—not just for himself, but for the old ways and the future they might yet protect.

Joylynn Hardesty wrote:Beautiful story. Do the Navajo have relationships with birds of prey? I love the below news story.

A southern Indian state is using trained birds of prey to take down rogue UAVs as part of local policing.

They actually call themselves Dine I just used Navajo for the sake of the story and so people would know what region it's in.Similiar to Tony Hillerman but a futuristic style.They do have a relationship with birds of prey.The Feathers our used for certain things.Some tribes in southwest even raise birds of prey I won't share to much out of respect but if you come out to the southwest some will be more then happy to share with you.That article is pretty cool.It's a crazy world we live in now.

I like the scenes and main character a lot, Ben. Is that photo from the northern end of the Lukachukai? I recognise that view from a trip I took 25 years ago on the way to the San Juans. I really hope I can get back to the mesas someday.

Ben Skiba wrote:Chapter 2 The Sky Shepherd

This is wonderful writing and medicine for an inner well that was overused in a time of distress and was not replenished for almost two years.
Your story is filling the well.
Thank you!!!

PS. Sharing this thread with a shepherd friend who is not - yet - on Permies

Phil Stevens wrote:I like the scenes and main character a lot, Ben. Is that photo from the northern end of the Lukachukai? I recognise that view from a trip I took 25 years ago on the way to the San Juans. I really hope I can get back to the mesas someday.

Very good eyes sir.The photo is from Carrizo mountain the neighboring mountain we live at the base of it.Chuska mountain range is in the the backround which is part of Lukachukai.I've cut firewood up there.Aspen and pondorosa.The pictures from one of many years we've done the anual trailing of the sheep.Where we go from around 5,000 feet to 8,000 ft.the highest point is about 9,000 and sum feet..

Chapter 3 The :The Machine's Gift

The days after the windstorm were quiet. Too quiet. Tóba knew better than to trust such silence. It wasn’t in the machines’ nature to give up; they would analyze, adapt, and return. Still, he savored the peace while it lasted.

Aileen had stayed on, her determination solidifying after the events on the mesa. Each morning, she worked alongside Tóba, learning how to read the land, how to interpret the sheep’s behavior, and how to walk the delicate balance between guiding and following.

“You’re doing well,” Tóba said one evening as they sat under the stars.

“I’ve still got a lot to learn,” Aileen admitted, poking at the fire with a stick.

Tóba smiled. “You’ve already learned the most important lesson: to listen. The land and the sheep will always tell you what they need. The machines may have technology, but they don’t have ears for this kind of wisdom.”

The following morning, the machines returned. But this time, there were no drones, no airships, no booming demands.

It was a single robot.

Tóba spotted it first, a glint of sunlight reflecting off its metallic frame as it climbed the rocky trail toward the flock. It was humanoid in shape but oddly delicate, with thin limbs and a face that bore no expression. Its frame was silver, polished but scratched, as if it had seen its share of hard days.

Aileen froze. “Should we run?”

Tóba shook his head. “Running only invites a chase. Let’s see what it wants.”

The robot stopped a few paces away, its movements smooth but hesitant, as though aware of its intrusion. For a moment, it simply stood there, its head tilting slightly as it observed the shepherd and his apprentice.

Then, it spoke.

“Good morning, Tóba Yazzie,” it said in a soft, almost human voice. “I am designated Unit Seven. I have come to make an offer.”

Tóba raised an eyebrow. “An offer? Machines don’t negotiate. What are you really here for?”

“I am not like the others,” Unit Seven said, its voice almost apologetic. “I was damaged during your last encounter with the Collective. The windstorm you summoned severed my connection to the hive mind. I am… autonomous now.”

Aileen stepped closer, curiosity outweighing her fear. “What do you want?”

“To learn,” the robot said. “The Collective has deemed your practices obsolete, yet you persist. Your methods defy logic, yet they succeed. I want to understand.”

Tóba regarded the machine for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable. “And what do you offer in return?”

The robot extended its hand. In its palm was a small, glowing device. “This is a nutrient analyzer. It can scan your soil and determine the optimal locations for grazing. It will help you ensure the health of your flock.”

Tóba didn’t take it. “Why would I trust a gift from a machine?”

Unit Seven tilted its head. “Because I am no longer part of the machines you fear. I am... an observer now. I wish to understand the balance you speak of.”

Tóba said nothing for a while, then finally gestured for the robot to follow him. “If you want to learn, you’ll do it the hard way. Come with me.”

The robot hesitated but obeyed, its movements deliberate. It followed Tóba and Aileen as they led the flock to a new grazing spot.

Throughout the day, Unit Seven watched and listened. It observed how Tóba whistled commands to the sheep, how Aileen used her crook to gently guide stragglers, and how the pair studied the land for signs of water and forage.

By evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Unit Seven spoke again. “Your methods are inefficient but elegant. They prioritize harmony over control. This is... illogical, yet effective.”

Tóba chuckled. “That’s the problem with your kind. You think everything has to make sense.”

The robot’s glowing eyes dimmed slightly, as if in thought. “Perhaps logic is not the only path to understanding.”

That night, Unit Seven stayed by the fire with them, its reflective surface catching the flames’ glow. Aileen couldn’t help but ask, “What happens if the others find you?”

“They will attempt to assimilate me,” the robot said. “But they will fail. The Collective does not yet understand independence.”

“And if they come for us again?”

Tóba’s voice was calm but firm. “We’ll do what we always do. Protect the flock.”

Unit Seven turned its head toward the sheep, now asleep in their pen. “Perhaps I am part of this flock now.”

Tóba laughed—a deep, hearty sound that echoed across the canyon. “A metal sheep. Now I’ve seen everything.”

But as the night stretched on, he couldn’t help but wonder: Could this machine, this unlikely ally, truly understand what it meant to be a shepherd? And if it did, what might that mean for the balance between man and machine?

Only time would tell.

Chapter 4 Shadows on the Horizon

The days grew longer as spring stretched into summer, the desert alive with bursts of wildflowers and the faint trickle of hidden streams. The sheep grazed contentedly, their wool thickening in preparation for the autumn shearing. Tóba Yazzie, Aileen, and the strange machine they had nicknamed "Seven" fell into a rhythm.

Seven, though awkward at first, proved surprisingly useful. It could predict sudden weather shifts, identify nutrient-rich grazing patches, and detect predators long before Tóba’s sharp eyes could. But for all its efficiency, it struggled with the subtler aspects of the shepherd’s life.

“Why do you sing to them?” Seven asked one evening as Tóba guided the sheep into their pen with a low, melodic chant.

“Because they know the song,” Tóba said simply.

“But the sheep do not process language,” Seven countered. “The song serves no functional purpose.”

Tóba crouched beside Nali, stroking her wool. “It’s not about words. It’s about trust. They hear my voice, and they know they’re safe. Machines don’t understand trust, do they?”

Seven didn’t reply. Its glowing eyes flickered briefly, as if searching for an answer it couldn’t compute.

The peace of their days was shattered one evening as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the mesa. Tóba and Aileen were repairing a section of the fence while Seven stood watch, its sensors scanning the horizon.

Suddenly, Seven’s head snapped toward the east. “Movement detected. Multiple signatures approaching rapidly.”

Tóba’s hand froze mid-hammer. “Drones?”

“Yes,” Seven said, its voice unusually tense. “And a land carrier. The Collective has found us.”

Aileen dropped her tools. “What do we do?”

Tóba didn’t hesitate. “We move the flock. Now.”

The three of them worked quickly, herding the sheep down the narrow canyon trail that would take them deeper into the wilderness. Seven took the lead, its precise sensors guiding them over uneven terrain. Behind them, the hum of approaching machines grew louder.

The canyon walls provided some cover, but Tóba knew it wouldn’t last. As they reached a clearing, Seven stopped abruptly.

“They’re deploying traps ahead,” it said, scanning the area. “Electro-snares designed to immobilize organic lifeforms.”

Tóba scowled. “Can you disable them?”

Seven hesitated. “I can try. But if I connect to their systems, they may locate me as well.”

Aileen stepped forward, gripping her crook tightly. “You said you wanted to be part of the flock. That means protecting it, no matter the cost.”

Seven’s glowing eyes flickered again, and it gave a slight nod. “Understood.”

The robot extended a slender arm, its fingertips glowing as it interfaced with the unseen traps. Sparks flickered along the ground as the snares deactivated one by one.

“They’re offline,” Seven said. “But the drones are closing in.”

Tóba glanced at the narrowing trail ahead. “Keep moving. We’ll find a defensible spot further in.”

The flock reached a high ridge as the first drones appeared over the canyon’s edge. These were smaller than the ones from before, sleek and agile, equipped with scanning beams that lit up the rocks like spotlights.

Tóba turned to Aileen. “Take the sheep and keep going. Seven and I will hold them here.”

“No!” Aileen protested. “I can fight too.”

“You can, but the sheep need you more. Go,” Tóba commanded, his voice firm.

Reluctantly, Aileen led the flock away, herding them toward the safety of the deeper canyon. Tóba turned to Seven. “What do we have?”

Seven analyzed the surroundings. “Loose rocks above the ridge. We could trigger a landslide to block their path.”

Tóba nodded. “Do it.”

Seven aimed its arm at the ridge, a focused burst of energy blasting into the rock. The ground trembled, and with a deafening roar, boulders tumbled down, cutting off the drones’ advance.

But the reprieve was short-lived. More drones appeared, and behind them came the land carrier—a massive, spider-like machine that scaled the canyon walls with ease.

“They’re relentless,” Tóba muttered.

Seven stepped forward, its metallic frame gleaming in the fading light. “Go to Aileen. Protect the flock. I will delay them.”

Tóba stared at the machine, surprised. “You’ll be destroyed.”

“Perhaps,” Seven said. “But a shepherd must protect the flock.”

For the first time, Tóba saw something almost human in the robot’s glowing eyes. He placed a hand on Seven’s shoulder, a gesture of respect. “Thank you.”

As Tóba retreated, he glanced back to see Seven standing tall, its arms raised as it unleashed a burst of energy that lit up the canyon. The drones swarmed toward it, but Seven didn’t falter.

When Tóba reached Aileen and the flock, he found them safe, huddled together under the shelter of a rocky overhang.

“Where’s Seven?” Aileen asked, her voice trembling.

Tóba looked back toward the canyon, where flashes of light still danced against the night sky. “Doing what it promised.”

They waited in silence, the sheep bleating softly, as the canyon grew quiet once more.

Seven did not return that night.

When dawn broke, Tóba and Aileen climbed the ridge to survey the damage. The path was littered with shattered drones and scorched earth. Of the land carrier, there was no sign.

In the center of the battlefield lay Seven’s broken frame, its once-brilliant eyes dark.

Aileen knelt beside it, tears welling in her eyes. “It gave everything for us.”

Tóba placed a hand on her shoulder. “A shepherd protects the flock. Seven understood that better than most.”

They carried Seven’s remains back to the mesa, where they buried the machine beneath a cairn of stones. Tóba etched a simple symbol into the largest stone: a sheep standing beneath a star.

As they returned to the flock, Tóba glanced at the horizon, where the first rays of sunlight pierced the sky.

“The machines will come again,” Aileen said softly.

Tóba nodded. “And we’ll be ready. Just like Seven taught us.”

Above them, the wind stirred, carrying with it the faint hum of something ancient and enduring—the spirit of a shepherd, now part of the land it had died to protect.