This is another story of a boy, a village, and a wolf, or wolves. It dates from the same period as its more famous counterpart, to which it responds directly and appears to contradict, as you will see; both tales are equally cautionary.

When word of the gruesome fate of the boy who cried wolf reached the next valley, the locals shook their heads and muttered gravely about the incompetence and moral weakness of their neighbours. It would not happen to them, they said. They would make sure of it.

So they commissioned a bell the size of a bull’s head and installed it on a pole by the shepherd’s hut. The bell was so loud it could be heard across the valley. It would not be ignored. But, they warned, it must not be used without good reason.

“We will not have any false alarms,” they said.

The young shepherd agreed. “You won’t hear a peep out of me,” he promised. “That boy on the other side of the mountain was nothing but a silly child and did not take his duties seriously. I know my business. I won’t sound the alarm without good reason.”

Days and months passed without incident. The young shepherd forgot about the bell and the threat of wolves until, late one afternoon, he discovered the body of a missing sheep at the edge of the forest, its throat ripped out, guts devoured.

The lad guessed it was the work of a wolf, but he couldn’t be sure, at least not sure enough to ring the bell and summon the village. What if the sheep had died of natural causes and been set upon by scavengers? He decided to wait until he had seen the beast for himself.

In the days following, the young shepherd was more vigilant. He kept the flock close and scanned the trees for a sight of the wolf. He hoped it would not come, but at dusk one night, he saw it: a skinny, hollow-eyed thing skulking in the shadows. When it spotted the boy, it fled.

Should he raise the alarm now, the young shepherd wondered. Should he summon the villagers from their dinner tables for a lone wolf that fled the moment it was seen? It didn’t seem much of a threat. He decided he could deal with it himself.

The wolf did not return the following day, or the day after that, and the young shepherd convinced himself he’d scared the beast away. But early the next morning it was back again and this time it did not take flight.

The young shepherd understood he was in grave danger. He stepped back, crook still raised, and quietly urged the flock down the slope. More wolves arrived on his flank, panicking the sheep, scattering them across the pasture. The boy dropped his crook and ran.

The wolves pursued. They tore into the terrified flock, pulling them down, ripping their soft, braying throats. The boy stumbled and fell, but rolling forward and righting himself, he staggered to the alarm before the wolves could reach him.

The bell the size of a bull’s head rang out across the valley.

When they found him the boy was clinging to the pole as if it were a raft in a sea of blood. “How could you let this happen?” the villagers asked. “Why didn’t you sound the alarm sooner?” “There was only one at first,” the boy explained. “It was weak and old. I thought I could deal with it.”

“But that’s why we gave you the alarm,” they replied. “Wolves must be confronted immediately. If you don’t confront them, it gives them permission. And with permission comes confidence, and strength, until it is too late for them to be stopped.”

The boy hung his head. “It might have been a false alarm,” he murmured without conviction.

The villagers looked at the pasture strewn with the bodies of the slaughtered flock, and the young shepherd’s torn and bleeding flesh.

“But it wasn’t, was it?” they said.

© Richard Parkin 2021