The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Afternoon sun laid a pale gold light over a grassy hillside. Every day a young shepherd boy sat there with his back against an old tree. His flute rested loosely on his knee, and a small dog lay curled up asleep at his feet. His master's sheep spread out across the slope to graze. Right behind the boy stood a thick forest that grew darker each evening, its line of trees black against the sky.

The work of minding sheep was the same every single day. He sat there from morning until night, with only the wind brushing through the grass, the steady sound of sheep cropping it, and now and then a whispered chat with the dog to pass the time. Every so often he raised the flute to his lips and played a few tunes. The notes drifted out over the open pasture and slowly faded into silence. On some days, with nothing else to do, he counted the flock over and over, just to keep himself busy.

This is an old fable from ancient Greece, about long afternoons just like these, when nothing happened but the wind and the drifting shadows of clouds.

Before handing the flock to the boy, his master had told him one thing again and again. If a wolf ever attacked the sheep, he should shout as loud as he could for help, and the villagers would run out at once to drive it away. Those words stayed in the boy's head. He sat looking at the dark forest and wondered what would happen if a real wolf came out of it. He imagined a low growl in the bushes. He imagined yellow eyes peering out from behind a tree trunk. Then he laughed out loud by himself, because his own imagination had made him shiver, even though he had never once seen any sign of a wolf around there.

He thought it over for a long while, and at last he came up with a game to chase away the boredom.

He sprang to his feet and raced toward the village, arms swinging hard, shouting at the top of his voice. "Wolf! The wolf is here! Wolf! The wolf is here!"

The villagers were busy plowing and hoeing, washing clothes and carrying water. When they heard that frantic cry, they dropped whatever they were doing. One flung a hoe down in the field. Another ran a few steps with a basin of laundry, then left it behind. They all poured out of the village and straight up to the pasture, hearts pounding with worry for the flock.

But when they reached the spot, out of breath and dripping with sweat, they found the sheep grazing as peacefully as on any other day. There was no sign of a wolf at all. The boy was holding his sides beside the tree, laughing so hard that tears ran down his face, delighted that his trick had worked.

A few days later, on another afternoon, the boy got up again, ran toward the village again, and shouted exactly as before. "Wolf! The wolf is here! Wolf! The wolf is here!"

Once more the villagers dropped their work, and once more they hurried up to the pasture. But this time their feet were a little slower, and there were more sighs than calls to one another. And once more they found only the boy, laughing with glee, and no wolf anywhere. Some shook their heads and went home without a word. One or two turned back to give the boy a look, and there was no longer any amusement in their eyes.

Then came an evening when everything felt different. The sun was sinking behind the line of trees, drawing long streaks of shadow across the pasture. The wind dropped away completely. The sheep stopped grazing and stood still, listening, as if the whole pasture were holding its breath and waiting for something. From the bushes at the edge of the forest, a real wolf burst out, as swift as a dark gust of wind.

The flock startled and panicked. The sheep scattered in every direction, their bleating mixed with the drumming of hooves on the grass, bumping into one another in the gathering dusk. For one second the boy stood frozen. Then he ran for the village as fast as his legs would carry him, his heart racing. He shouted, and this time his voice shook with real fear. "Wolf! The wolf is here! Wolf! The wolf is here!"

The villagers heard the cry echoing from far away. But this time nobody stood up, and nobody put down a hoe or a sickle.

"It's just his old trick again," one villager said, without even getting up.

"He won't fool us this time," another answered with a nod.

Not a single person ran out to the pasture that night.

The boy stood still in the pitch-dark night. His shouts rang out and melted into the empty air, and no one answered. The wolf had slipped quietly back into the deep forest as night fell completely. The flock had scattered far and wide, and some of the sheep had wandered off into the darkness, never to be found again.

From that day on, the boy still sat against the same old tree every afternoon. The flute still rested on his knee as always, and the small dog still lay curled at his feet. Only now the flock around him was much thinner, and the sound of his flute was heard less often than before. Far off, the little path down to the village stayed empty all afternoon, and no one came walking up it anymore.