The Stories, The Poems, and The Prose of Nadine Sellers

   Looking up from the anonymous mass of walking feet on asphalt, I stare at a graphic design of slate grey and sky blue above New York, I am transported by clicking heels and cold air, to another significant first day on a memorable path of adaptations, from .lime roads to cement tracks, wearing nameless sneakers to pompous Guccis, with a preference for the former.

   During vacation time, I was sent to the country for a salubrious rest away from parents and city air; the word rest was, of course, an illusion nursed by my mother in order to assuage her guilt for abandoning me once more to my paternal family. In this rural setting, fresh air, sunshine and pelting rains restored color to my soul; gauntness subsided to plumpness. Intense loneliness became cherished solitude, and besides all that good stuff, that's where I met biquette, my goat.

   Animals seemed to adore me, of course, I knew all along that it was the other way around; I loved them for the very reason that they did not care who I was. My glorious career as shepherdess was officially sealed at the dinner table one balmy summer evening. The reticent extended family having discovered that this little city princess, foisted upon them by a delinquent in- law could indeed be of some use. Hence was born a workaholic of mixed heritage, the budding intellectual and the inveterate agrarian coexisting in an insecure bouncing body.

   Grandmama walks briskly ahead of me , partly due to the coolness of the hour, or perhaps because she still feel nervous about the decision to entrust the sheep to me for an entire day. She reaches the portal to the old farm we now use as a stockyard, the iron gate squeaks roughly as the dew is expelled from heavy hinges. We run across the cobblestoned courtyard, "get that rudder, will you?" she commands dryly, she points to a stout wooden cross piece stuck into two braces to keep the colossal barn doors from opening during the night. With her four foot nine frame thrust against the riveted planks, she heaves a guttural groan and sets the sheep to bleat fearfully inside, hundreds of wide eyes are staring at us as we swing both battens wide on the outside. An amalgam of dirty white mounds surges past us in impatient confusion; that's when I notice a black form at the head of the herd.

"Watch out for that goat!" my grand mother is yelling to no avail. Suddenly, a painful flash hits my hips, I feel myself being flung straight into the wooden door, my head slaps the oak and the imprint of the rivets sharply spells danger; a set of thick curved horns rears ahead of me and, stunned, I sidestep a second attack. "Oh! I forgot to tell you, don't get between the ewes and the ram"

   I hear through the excruciating abdominal distress, above the cacophony of hooves and lost lambs calling wildly to hungry mothers who want to graze before being suckled. "I was worried about the black goat!" I try to speak between intermittent twinges in my chest. Step by step I regain breath and composure, taking great care to put distance between the stout male and myself.

"That idiot dog can't find her own tail, much less go where she's supposed to!" grandma's mad. I call out Missie, the somewhat shelty sort of dog; her duty is to control each flank of the hundred bodied mass as it swirls onto the pastoral path. This newest sheepdog isn't yet trained, but I notice that none of the old ewes will pass the goat; so, conscious of my tremendous responsibility I scurry on tiptoes to survey the changing scene,. While grandmama hikes up her black widow's garb above the muddy grass between ruts on the path, I skip ahead and intend to grab the alpine by the horns to lead her where we are going to pasture the flock today.

   Better thought than done! the seven main ewes, which have had dominance over the whole ruminant family, (Rambouillet by breed) , are not willing to let me assume patronage here. They stir, run and generally balk at my intrusion, meanwhile that goat stares at me with intense yellow eyes, I can't read goat but I 'm sure she'll charge any second now; I retreat behind the oldest ewe and peek over her sway back as I grab her short wool to keep her solid body between me and that big black animal; that causes the old sheep aunts to panic and suddenly, the whole flock gallops in circles around the mad goat and myself.

   Missie has already figured out that if the old lady in the long black dress is screaming, there must be serious trouble, so she runs alongside the confused animals and aligns the rest of the troupe in a straight line, five sheep abreast, then comes over to me and allows the belligerent nanny to try to gore her, my helper, my heroine!.

   What two frantic humans could not accomplish, a stupid furry beast did in a matter of minutes; grandmother has no time to be impressed, much less to admit that this black and white useless mut has any useful instincts. My father's mother, now stamps the ground impatiently up ahead and yodels the high pitched sheep call "teeee".We all fold in a thick line onto the road as I practice my sheep call and only manage to bewilder the whole back row, even the yearling lambs turn around as if to mock me. I tuck my slightly bruised feelings into a tight fist in my apron pockets and follow in silence for the next mile. At such a fast pace we soon arrive on the high plain in a cloud of lime dust above the valley fog line.

"You just stay here until they quit grazing"commands my elder " the goat will let you know when it's time to go, the bellwethers are used to lead for generations, they will start calling too, they know!"she nods in certain intimate knowledge, and without a smile she turns away. "you got enough to eat in your sack"she attempts to reassure me, or perhaps herself.

   The tall alpine goat and myself in charge of the fold now, I survey my earthly principality, a vast arid slope, too rocky to cultivate, it has been donated to the lowest use possible, I ve oftentimes heard my uncle comment that sheep do not bring in as much revenue as vineyards or grain fields, that the time spent on the flock could be allocated to other agrarian tasks, I 've also heard grandmother mutter to the hearth, head bent and shoulders curled into her chest.

"what else can you do with rocky plots and stubby grass spreads, let them go to waste ? "she often mutters to the warm stone wall as if repetition insured correction. "You don't throw the wool money away or give me back the earnings from the sale of the lambs, do you? My aunt then ventures to add, with bitter lip.

   Neither lady expecting to be heard and much less waiting to be given either approval or consideration. And myself casting my gaze downward, pretending to be too young to understand the perennial tension. At present, the dog and I don't care, we simply have to watch out for that tall black animal with two very sharp horns, and the ram who rules the sheep, they will do as they have for centuries on these grounds, they will eat and multiply. Thinking about food, I search my satchel for the surprise lunch grandmama has prepared for me.

   My cousin gave me his old musette rucksack this very morning, he is four years older than I, and as only male child, he is master of the estate, in direct line of succession. I am flattered and take great care of this olive colored wartime relic, world war one or two? Normandy or Ardennes, no matter now; inside I find a linen package of two tartines of thick sour bread,.

"look Missie ,goat cheese and fig jam!" I exclaim loudly enough to scatter a few ruminating sheep. The dog is impressed, she stares at the moving object, mouth, lap, mouth, lap, she slaps her paws on the rocky grit under us, so I fold the impromptu breakfast and reinvent the morning.

"I am princesse des chaumes and you are my subject, non! non!, my faithful companion, the sheep will be our subjects, yes?" I declare aloud to dog, goat and whatever can hear me. Missie remains very attentive, this loyal creature sits by my feet, drooling in whichever direction the rucksack swings. I unpack the cloth wrap, take a hungry bite and drop one small bread crust, then another, that's it, that's how man tamed his best friend, instant love!

   I am princess of the thatch plains, and the goat, "biquette" by name, is appointed tactical minister, missie, court jester and fleasome companion. If I wait long enough and remain still and faithful enough, I may perceive some holy vision like the blessed Bernadette, shepherdess of Lourdes had once seen?. Oh! but I must now attend to more pressing matters, even princesses and saints can and do feel the cold; so, dog on heels I search for a flat place to pitch a tent; between two boulders I scratch the earth, pull out small rocks, plant a sturdy stick; behold the palace!

   My long navy blue wool cape , a shelter built for two. Missie quickly understands that wind does not penetrate the magic space within, we finish the first sandwich, she licks her dog lips, I lick my stiff fingers, not to miss a drop of sweet and seedy preserves.

   At last peek between two buttons, I noticed the entire flock peacefully gazing on the desolate slope below us, replete with fruit and fresh cheese I must have fallen asleep on my warm canine companion. Suddenly the dog dart outside and barks insistently, I jump up and see the hill, the barren hill!

"Missie, no sheep, missie get sheep" , "teee,teee" I call in frantic alto staccato.

   From boulder to tree, instinctively I draw the sign of the cross as if touching forehead, shoulders and chest brought divine concentration to this situation which is, at present, so far beyond petty human power. I run along the spine of the natural topography, bounce across ancient cro-magnon hillocks, peering over occasional bramble hedges. I leap over stone walls and apologize to anonymous ancestors for knocking some of their labor off the tops. Heart racing along with my every step, I point to the direction where I want to send the dog as she runs faster than I. She darts anxiously, but finds no sign of sheep under cover of a copse of shrub oaks, the dog sniffs the ground and turns to look at me very intensely; her mopsy ears semi erect in the excitement, soon I hear a stampede of little feet hurtling the rocky surface as they gallop behind the black rebel goat, dog in tow, snapping at panicky heels.

   I manage to grab the reticent nanny and attempt to ride her bony spine as if she were a Shetland pony for my pleasure, that is not as easy as planned; the stiff seat runs out from my one handed grasp, my coccyx is sore, and furthermore, I m tired of chasing her. "I ll catch you yet" I pout at her, showing her a proud handful of coarse black hairs snatched in haste.She kicks her front hooves high up and twists her bony body midair to land in a four footed stand, straight in front of me, when I notice the head bobbing downward, I don't stay around to see what she is going to do to me with those bent horns of hers. Dog and I retreat to the tent.

   Noon sun emerges through pale cerulean sky, flock now at peace, I take inventory of my fiefdom, one hundred ewes of different generations, sixty shearlings, seven bellwethers, and one stubborn horned beast. Lambs lay down on the sparse lichens, missie pants loudly by my side, I share my cantine water with her and give her a large chunk of my second sandwich. Exhausted by the fear of losing the animals I sit and stare at the constantly moving patterns they create on the dry landscape.

   At most recent count, I have stalked, picked and squeezed the life out of seventy two fleas from missie's deep black fur, my thumb nails now covered in dessicated flea blood, and the grateful dog submits to my grooming practice without any sign of impatience; relief is now our common bond; if I must share my cape with a dog, I don't want any hitch-hiking parasites to distract us, besides, I rather enjoy the popping click of a busting insect under my nails, it's the order of rights being allocated in natural order . The flock begins stirring in the direction of the road where the alpine goat swings her heavy udder and calls a long "beh-eh-eh", dog's ears are at the alert and the sheep are stomping, I realize this is the signal all creatures obey, time to go home and keep out of the wolf's way.

   There have not been any wolves in this part of the country for many years, say the adults, but, I am aware that people don't observe realities when they focus on profit. I have read the De Vigny poem about the death of the wolf, he wrote it in the tower on the other side of this hill, long before the paved road was carved out of my ancestral countryside. I can feel that wolf.

" you'd better watch out for the wolves, we've seen one, really! "my cousin told me in strict secrecy, under oath and threat of dire consequence, I cannot reveal this ominous knowledge. Shadows move in the periphery on either side of us, animal or man? Bushes or wolves? The sheep appear to sense things behind us, unseen things at dusk, they speed up as we clod along the dirt roads, and biquette begins to run when her udder flops heavily, oozing pearly beads of milk on the lime dust.

   Suddenly the goat veers to the right and the sheepdog lunges at her, a great raucous scene unfolds before my total panic; sheep crushing farmer Tordu's field, I plunge ahead and scatter the poor beasts away back toward the road. A stream of tears blinds me to the strings of brown pellets and hoof prints my flock has left as evidence of their ruinous presence, I am too busy picking up broken cabbage heads and hiding them under my cape. Then I catch up with the guilty goat rebel and her followers, leaves still hanging from their busy, bleating jaws.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," I spout to the renegade animals in utter frustration.

   At the top of the village, I survey the mixed success of my first day; grand mother seems to be tending her vegetable garden, aunt Régine seems to be absorbed in the pruning of brambles at the crossroads, no one seems to notice the passage of one hundred and seventy creatures on the rocky road. By the time we reach the courtyard, my grandmother appears on her bicycle, I quickly dispose of the cabbage under some hay as she closes the heavy gates behind the eager fold, the sheep flow in a uniform wave into the warm stables, in the relative captivity of the confined quarters, lambs immediately begin suckling as if propelled by a safety instinct.

   Biquette is stamping her hooves on the milking stand in the shearing shed. I kick a wad of dirty wool onto a gunny sack and smooth the animal's long nervous neck, she butts my arm, I recoil, so as not to antagonize her. She nibbles my sleeve and flaps her long ears, now we must be friends! So I tentatively ease my hand over her bulging belly.

   Bucket in hand I respond to my grandmother as she points her chin to motion for me to start milking, the goat punts my tin pail in one swift ding; shoulders dropped in despair, I experience the end of my career. I watch grandmama pull the beast's swollen bulbs with gloved fingers, the digits of the black wool are cut off at first knuckles to facilitate maneuverability, milk squirts so easily for her, "bzzzt" it rings in metallic rhythm onto the angled sides of the galvanized zinc. I rub the goat's rough cheek to no avail, I know she's not content with me, the yellow slit in her eye glares at me, sharply.

"don't be afraid to tug , she ain't fragile"My elder chants in patois, her native dialect. The local tongue of the old women is not heard outside the village, no one else will admit to it, no one wants to speak it, no one of my generation, but I think it's hilarious to stress the vowels and roll the r's , it's my second language aside from the latin I practice at the convent school in town; one rural, one urban; yet another family division.

   However my milking duties are not as easily accomplished, I must try again although I can barely see the pail, it is too far from electric poles to the extended fortified villages, I finally steer the averse creature back to the fold, she is welcomed there with great bleating and bowing in full welcoming circle, I am being totally ignored; and that's fine. "Bonne nuit!" I chant to the herd.

   Now I may lock the monstrous ancient battens against thieves and wolves. Grandmother has gone on to cook supper for the work crew, I whistle softly for the dog and maybe for a certain nagging fear of whatever darkness may hide. The road vanishes into deep loneliness ahead.

   Milk bucket in arm, I follow the path, the sound of restless sheep fades behind me and birds are peeping little alarm noises deep into their nests. Suddenly, a sound in the bushes ahead, missie growls and barks wildly, throat locked in a tight knot I am eyes and ears; a form leaps onto the path ahead, my cousin jumps onto the twin rutted road and nearly tips the milk . . . heart hurtling under my cape, I don't let him see how startled I am, and continue on my way, head high, hair strands flapping in evening breeze;

"I have cheese to make, come here missie!" I call softly, not breaking pace.

   The hearth feels warm to the touch, I put two drops of rennet culture from the brown glass bottle into the tepid ivory milk, then hold the earthen jar very carefully to set it just close enough to the ambers and cover the creamy liquid with a clean linen cloth, my cousins wrinkle their noses in tacit teasing. "Ba-aa-aa!" they whisper behind me. A tear darkens a small crater on the ash as I take just a little longer to smooth the ancient toile over the clay . In the morning I will have fresh white curd to squeeze into the cloth and there will be whey to fatten the yearling pig, I will spread the unctuous protein on my sour loaf; no one will compete for this taste here in the country, but I know that in the city the aged goat cheese called "chévre" brings a high delicacy sort of price.

   Oh, sheep may not be so valuable, cheese may taste funny, and I may not be a boy, but? "Good night princess!" the day foreman calls out to me upon retiring to his quarters.

   I think I just saw my grandmother smile.