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.
18
