Mother said we should have paid more attention, and we did from then on. But nothing like that happened again. Heavily loaded down, we drove the flock ahead of us as we returned home in the evening. Once home, we immediately started to prepare more feed.

The big flock had suffered more losses, and again the next morning more animals—this time even fully grown ones—were added to the small flock. Again the two of us went off with our baskets, and again it was the same drudgery.

As the days passed, the flock wasted away in spite of our efforts. There were losses in both flocks. Each morning we lugged away several dead animals, and Father and I skinned them together. By then I had mastered the skill much better. The skins were stretched and frozen, then piled on top of each other next to a rock a little farther away. Later we wet the flesh side of each skin repeatedly and then covered them tightly. Eventually, when they began to rot, we pulled off the wool. The pile grew quickly. The skinned bodies were stored behind the hulking flat rocks that stuck out from the ground below the hürde like the remains of a beheaded forest. Arsylang helped carry them over, and then left them to lie there without ever touching them again. Once I cut off the fatty tail of a lamb that had had some strength left and Arsylang, after sniffing it undecidedly for a few moments, wolfed it down in a single gulp. From then on I always gave Arsylang the piece of a carcass that I thought was best: in addition to the fatty tail or meat from the haunches, I also gave him the liver.

Father and Mother were soon showing signs of the strain. Their faces had turned black. Their cheekbones jutted out, and their noses seemed strangely big. I must have been getting emaciated, too, for my whole body felt dead tired, my feet slid around in my boots, and the basket I had to carry seemed to grow heavier by the day.

We rose at dawn and didn’t get to bed until the dark of night. Often Father had to get up a few times to check on the flocks. Since the beginning of time, a shepherd who spends his day outside with his sheep has never eaten more than twice a day—early in the morning and late at night. We had always followed this custom, but we always had good meals and enjoyed the companionship that came with them. Now there was no longer time for that. Hardly back on our feet, we would rush out to help the trembling animals that had been lashed by the night’s cold. Eating became less important. It was good that we had dried curd cheese: In the morning each of us put a handful of pieces into a breast pocket, and most of the time we kept a piece in our mouth and sucked it. Curd cheese helped stave off hunger as well as thirst. Sometimes at night, when I took off my clothes and untied my belt, a forgotten piece fell out of my coat folds. The cheese always felt warm, soft, and oily to the touch.