In the Land of the Long White Cloud

It would not have come so far into the highlands without its owner. Besides, this animal seemed to be well looked after.
    “Friday!” A man’s voice. “Friday, where are you? It’s time to do some herding!”
    Fleur looked around but could not locate the person calling for the dog. Friday turned to the west, where the plain seemed to stretch on for infinity. Fleurette should have been able to see the dog’s master if he were in that direction. It was odd. Friday seemed unhappy about leaving Gracie. Then Gracie suddenly caught the scent, looked at Fleurette and her horse with gleaming eyes, and set off running with Friday, as if pulled by invisible strings.
    Fleur followed them, seemingly toward nothing at first, but soon realized that she had been taken in by an optical illusion. The grassland did not reach to the horizon but descended in terraces.Friday and Gracie raced down them. Then Fleur realized what had pulled the dogs so magically along. On the final, now clearly visible terrace, some fifty sheep were grazing, shepherded by a man leading a mule by the reins. When he saw Friday approaching with Gracie in tow, he looked just as confused as Fleur had—then looked suspiciously in the direction the dogs had come from. Fleurette let Niniane trot down the terraces. She was more curious than afraid. After all, the strange shepherd did not look dangerous, and as long as she sat on her horse, there wasn’t much of anything he could do to her. His heavily laden mule would surely not get far in a chase.
    In the meantime, Gracie and Friday had set about herding the sheep together. They worked as skillfully and naturally as a team that it seemed like they had never done otherwise.
    The man stood as though turned to stone when he saw Fleurette bounding down on her horse.
    Fleur looked into an angular, weather-beaten face with a thick brown beard and brown hair flecked with gray. The man was strong but slim, his clothing tattered, the saddle on his mule worn but in good shape and well taken care of. But the shepherd’s brown eyes were looking at Fleur as though seeing a ghost.
    “It can’t be her,” he said quietly as she stopped her horse in front of him. “That’s not possible…and that can’t be the dog either. She…she must be nearly twenty years old. God in heaven…” The man seemed to be struggling to comprehend. He reached for his saddle as though looking for support.
    Fleur shrugged. “I don’t really know who I’m not supposed to be, sir, but that’s a nice dog you have.”
    The man seemed to regain control of himself. He breathed deeply in and out, but still looked at Fleur, disbelieving.
    “I can only return the compliment,” he said, now a little more fluidly. “Has…has she been trained? As a sheepdog, I mean.”
    Fleur did not get the feeling that the man was all that interested in Gracie; it seemed more like he wanted to gain some time while his brain worked feverishly. But Fleur nodded and looked for a suitabletask with which to show off the dog’s training. Then she smiled and gave Gracie a command. The little dog dashed away.
    “The big ram to the right. She’s going to herd him through the rocks over there.” Fleurette approached the rocks. Gracie had already separated the ram and awaited further instructions. Friday lay behind her watching intently, ready at any moment to leap up beside the other dog.
    But she didn’t need any help. The ram trotted calmly through the rocks.
    The man nodded and smiled. He seemed considerably more relaxed. Apparently, he had reached a conclusion.
    “The ewe there in the back,” he said, indicating a rotund animal in the back and whistling for Friday. The little dog shot out like an arrow, rounded up the flock, separated the indicated sheep, and steered it toward the rocks. But this ewe proved less submissive than Gracie’s ram. Friday needed three attempts before she successfully herded it through the rocks.
    Fleurette smiled, pleased.
    “The winner!” she declared.
    The man’s eyes lit up, and Fleur thought she detected something almost like tenderness in them.
    “By the way, you have lovely sheep,” she added. “And I should know. I come from…a sheep farm.”
    The man nodded again. “You’re Fleurette Warden of Kiward Station,” he said. “Dear God, at first I thought I was seeing ghosts! Gwyneira, Cleo, Igraine…you’re the spitting image of your mother! And you ride your horse just as elegantly. But I should have known