Four hundred years later, a teenage boy was living happily in the land that the maker had given to his ancestor, Aba Gvoha.
The name of the boy was Zorek Avnim. He was slender and tough and narrow, like a rope made of smokeweed.
His brothers laughed at his narrow body and said that he could hide behind a sycamore fig tree that was too young to bear any fruit.
Zorek Avnim had seven older brothers, but one of those brothers had no name.
The family of Zorek Avnim had been the protectors of the sheep of the Migdal Eder for 400 years. Each of Zorek Avnim’s older brothers had served as the watchman of the tower until the next of the brothers turned fourteen.
Nobody wanted the job. Nobody really wanted it.
So it was perfect for Zorek Avnim because Zorek Avnim was Nobody.
Zorek Avnim knew that sheep were not strong, not smart, and often made bad decisions.
Sheep needed a protector who loved them in spite of their weakness and their foolishness.
Watching Zorek Avnim place a smooth river-rock into the center crease of a long, leather strap was like watching a soldier put a bullet into a rifle.
The boundaries of his pasture were marked with the carcasses of dead lions.