Once upon a time, in a village surrounded by hills in a faraway land, there lived a young shepherd named Sullivan. Although he was a nice and energetic boy, full of life, he had one problematic trait: he was prone to mischief and impatience. Although barely 13, he could expertly handle the village’s flock of sheep and would tend to them every day, for those sheep were the source of wool, meat, and livelihood for the village folk. A great responsibility for such a young boy.
Sullivan, however, didn’t quite see it that way. While others spoke of shepherding with pride, he found it boring and tiresome, probably because it was too easy a task for him. The sheep grazed slowly; the hills were silent except for the occasional chirp of a bird; and the hours stretched long beneath the hot sun. To a boy of his nature, it felt like being sentenced to solitary confinement.
“Why couldn’t I have a job in the village, where there’s something to do?” he often muttered under his breath. But his parents, humble people who worked tirelessly to support their family, were firm. “Every task matters, Sullivan,” his father would remind him. “The flock must be protected. Wolves are not just tales in old stories—they’re real, and they’re hungry.”
Sullivan would nod solemnly each time, but in his heart, he dismissed the warnings. He had never seen a wolf, nor had anyone in the village in years. It seemed to him like a fear rooted in the past, an old worry that had no place in the real world.
So, one fine morning, as Sullivan sat beneath the shade of an olive tree and looked at his flock grazing peacefully on the hillside as usual, he thought how boring life was for him. The chatter of the merchants and the occasional laughter of children playing in the fields made him restless. Everything was way too calm. He watched a butterfly flit lazily past and sighed.
“Why should I sit here, alone, day after day, while everyone else enjoys themselves?” he muttered. The sheep bleated softly in response as if to remind him of his duty, but Sullivan ignored them.
And then, a mischievous idea began to form in his mind: he thought of the village, of how everyone would rush up the hill if they thought the flock was in danger. A grin spread across his face.
“I’ll give them some excitement.”
Standing up, Sullivan cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted with all his might, “Wolf! Wolf! A wolf is attacking the sheep!”
The sound of his cry echoed through the valley, and within mere minutes, villagers dropped whatever they were doing and ran up the hills armed with everything they could get their hands on. Even the village baker came with a rolling pin in his hands, wearing an apron dusted white with flour.
“Sullivan! Where is it?” they demanded, their faces flushed with urgency.
But Sullivan could barely contain his laughter. He calmly looked towards the grazing flock, and the villagers’ sight followed.
“There’s no wolf,” he admitted. “I just wanted to see what would happen and if you would come running again or not. You guys really do care about your sheep,” he laughed.
The villagers, however, were obviously not amused. The blacksmith scolded him, “This is no laughing matter, young boy. We left our work to protect the flock, and you’ve wasted our time. And on top of that, you have the audacity to make fun of the situation!”
Sullivan shrugged, unbothered by their frustration. “It was just a harmless joke,” he said.
So, murmuring among themselves and with grim faces, the villagers returned to their work.
Days passed, and Sullivan returned to his post, but the boredom crept in once more. The hills seemed even quieter now, and the hours slower. His little prank had been the most excitement he’d had in weeks, and he began to long for the thrill of it again.
“I’ll do it one more time,” he thought. “Just for a laugh.”
And so, late one afternoon, when the sun hung low, Sullivan shouted again, “Wolf! Wolf! A wolf is attacking the sheep!”
The villagers, though wary after the first incident, rushed to the hill once more. This time, they arrived slower, their faces suspicious.
“Where is it, Sullivan?” asked an old farmer, leaning on his cane.
Once again, Sullivan broke into laughter. “You should’ve seen your faces!” he said, clutching his sides. “There’s no wolf. I just wanted to have some fun.”
The villagers groaned in frustration. “Fun?” cried the baker. “You call this fun? We left our work and ran all this way for nothing again!”
“You won’t find us so quick to come next time,” warned the innkeeper. Her tone was sharp, and anger was visible in her eyes.
“Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes as if he didn’t care enough. “I’ll stop.”
But harm was done already. As the villagers walked back down the hill that day, they shook their heads, speaking of how the boy had lost his trust, and little did he know that it was not something he could easily earn again.
The next morning, a storm brewed on the horizon: it was overcast, and the wind sounded of trouble. Sullivan sat under the olive tree as usual, watching the dark skies, when all of a sudden, a low growl caught his ear.
He froze.
From the edge of the woods, a pair of yellow eyes gleamed. A large, grey wolf slunk forward, its muscles rippling beneath its matted fur. Behind it, another wolf appeared, and then another.
Sullivan’s heart stopped and then pounded so hard he leapt to his feet and shouted, “Wolf! No, wolves! Wolves are attacking the sheep! Help, somebody, help me!”
The sheep bleated in panic and scattered across the hillside as the wolves made their way into the flock. Sullivan kept shouting with a desperate cracking voice, but people down in the village, after hearing his screams, just exchanged doubtful looks. They shook their heads and continued with their work.
“Not this again,” muttered the blacksmith. “I won’t waste my time on the same prank for the third time.”
“But what if it’s true this time?” asked a young woman.
“It’s never true,” replied the baker. “Let him face the consequences of his lies.”
And so, no one came.
Sullivan tried to chase the wolves away, waving his staff and shouting, but they were not afraid of the boy. They tore through the flock, their sharp teeth gleaming, and by the time they disappeared into the forest, many sheep lay lifeless on the ground. The survivors huddled together, trembling.
Tears streamed down Sullivan’s face as he surveyed the destruction. He had failed—not just to protect the sheep but to honour the trust the villagers had placed in him.
Later that evening, he returned to the village, leading the remnants of the flock. The people gathered in the square, their faces hard and expectant.
“What happened, Sullivan?” his father asked, his voice heavy with disappointment.
“The wolves came,” Sullivan whispered. “I cried for help, but… no one came.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some looked ashamed, others angry, but the blacksmith spoke first. “And why should we have come? Twice, you deceived us. Give us one good reason to believe you now.”
Sullivan was embarrassed; he lowered his head and, with a breaking voice and eyes full of tears, confessed, “I’m really sorry. I just thought of it as a harmless joke because I was bored. But I have realized I should never have done that.”
The villagers sighed, their anger softened by the boy’s genuine remorse. “Let this be a lesson to you,” said the innkeeper. “A lie might bring a moment’s amusement, but the cost is trust—and trust, once lost, is not easily won back.”
Sullivan nodded, making a firm vow never to lie again whatever the reason.
And so Sullivan worked harder than ever to regain the villagers’ trust. It took time, but they eventually forgave him. But as he had learned his lesson, he started carrying his responsibility with great care and pride. He had understood that even small lies can have huge consequences.
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