The Next Three Paragraphs

Some of the pigs were gathering to his right. They had found a puddle of brown water and were noisily jostling each other to drink. The herder sat, leaning on his rifle to lower himself to the ground. The sun was setting, and he knew they would get no farther today. The pigs would not be dislodged from the puddle. He took a drink from his leather canteen and tried to relax his jaw. His hand started toward the bag that carried his food, but he clenched his fist and stopped short. He should wait until morning. A week ago, the last time he had made a fire, he had boiled the last of his meal into a porridge. Now his bag held only the pasty clumps of cooked meal scraped from the pot.

He knew that sleep would be an escape from his hunger, but he dreaded the end of each day. The sunsets made him sick--orange sky blending into a brown horizon. It was strange; of all the things that made him feel ill--the sound and smell of the pigs, the hot sun, the warm stale water from his canteen--it was the vomit sunsets and the coming darkness that made him feel worst.

He stood again and began to sing the counting song. The words were nonsense to him, but he had learned as a child to count the herd with this ancient chant. When he started out across the wilderness with his pigs, he had to sing it five times through to number them all. The heat and the lack of food and water were taking their toll; last night the herder only sang it through twice.