I climb the stile and drop into the field, feet sending a dust cloud into the air. It films my eyes and I blink it away as best I can. The sheep are bloated yellow dots under the crumbling boundary wall, awake but still, conserving energy before their move to the next patch of shade. I set my bag down by the stile and empty what I need into my boilersuit pockets. Chalk, rot spray, hoof trimmers. The field banks up towards the south ridge, away from the main road and the vallum. When we used to get rain, heavy rain, real rain, the kind that seeped into the soil and pushed its way out through channels to flood the ditches, I lost sheep to the water. Sometimes a few every year. Now, there’s nothing but dirt and needle dry grass and I lose them to heat exhaustion and messy miscarriages.

I move off and lean into the slope, ignore the grumbling from my aching calves. I check each ewe, note which ones have stained rears, which don’t. The tup should have finished his work by now but he sprawls with the rest of them. I bend over him, remove the blue chalk from his holster and replace it with yellow. He’ll have to be out another two weeks. Three times what it used to take. He pants heavily, chest rising to double its size then deflating. The sun starts to shift, tickling the feet of the ewes. They rise slowly, knees first, and stand a while, watching, waiting. The tup is still panting. I lean in to check him over. He should be able to manage, should still have the will. His feet are good, he’s not lame, and his balls are clean and intact. I would never put him out if I doubted him.

I run my palm over his muzzle, then over his ears and he flinches. I tip my forehead to his and smell it before I feel it. Infection. The right ear is swollen, something lodged and sinking deeper into the flesh. I encourage him onto his feet and brace him between my legs. He’s broader than the ewes, forcing my legs so wide I can barely feel the ground through my boots. Hear dad’s warning ringing in my ears. ‘This is no life for a woman’. I push hard on the swelling with the edge of my thumb. Nothing. The tup is still. I squeeze my thighs together, root myself and use both hands, pressing hard until I feel a satisfying pop. Yellow puss run through with blood oozes and for a moment, the tup is frozen.

Then the pain registers and he bucks backwards between my legs then forwards, the full force of his broad skull meeting my left thigh. Pain radiates through me. I move to steady myself but catch my right ankle on a fallen coping stone. A piercing snap and I am on the ground, wet with sweat and a galaxy across my vision and then night, all of a sudden, comes too soon.

When I wake, I’m face down in the field, dry grass a stubble needling my cheek. The sun is high now, my paisley scarf undone, exposing my neck. My skin will blister if I don’t move. I push myself up onto my elbows, take three long breaths. The pain has passed. Just a tumble, nothing I’ve not been through before. I edge backwards, try to tip my pelvis skyward and bend my knees but there is a sharp rush and my left thigh is fire. I try to anchor myself and flip onto my right side. Something is very wrong. I lie still for a moment, head balanced on my palm, eyes screwed shut. I replay the moment, the strike, the fall. The sun is an oppressive hot breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut for three counts then open them and look down. My right foot is pointing the wrong way, a compass navigating east. My thigh is swollen tight against the fabric of my boilersuit. My legs have abandoned me, won’t carry me back to the farmhouse, to my stove, my table and a whistling pot of tea. I listen for the familiar slip and crunch of the flock but they are long gone, over the ridge and under the shade of the south wall. I can’t stay here. I need to move. The air is noiseless, in a way it never was before. No steady thrum of tourist traffic, clack of walkers poles or curlews on the breeze. I’d welcome a trespasser now, stumbling across me and carrying me home. I close my eyes, let lights dance across the lids. Count those left on the wall and calculate distances.

There is only Jim. His quad buzzes along the military road like clockwork, out at 9.30am to check on his mam, back again at 3pm once the worst of the heat passes. He’s taken to wearing a wet t-shirt on his head, wrapped like a turban to stop the sun catching his bald spot. I don’t know how long I was passed out, but it looks to be about noon. If I can get to the old field gate, I can flag him. It’s just over a mile, a short stroll to the boundary of my land where it meets the road. I can do it. Or I could if I could walk.

I turn over onto my back, let my arms and legs loose by my sides. Try to breath, to relax, to force blood to flow and engines to fire up. I manage to sit up slowly, head rushing with a thousand bees until I’m at ninety degrees and the world swims back into stillness. Backwards. I can do it backwards. Arms behind me, dragging myself. If I can lift a ewe, I can lift my own wiry frame. I turn out my pockets, roll my sleeves and trouser legs down to cover as much skin as possible. Then I retie my scarf over my neck and forehead and start out. Slowly at first, I manage a few drags before I need to rest, to let the waves of pain run their course. Sweat pools under my arms and between my legs until I am so wet through I stop and check for blood, for bones bursting through skin. They are shattered, I’m sure of that but they stay hidden. A quiet taunt. Judgement, same as every day of my life. Though there’s no-one here now to tell me I can’t do it.

I begin again. This end of the field slopes up a little then away again and over the vallum. A deep wide ditch carved into the earth to keep people in their place. Moving over it will take energy. I hear a noise and lift my head. The tup stands on the brow of the hill. He’s left his ewes in their shady spot on the south side of the farm to watch me. Whether it’s to say sorry or to gloat, I forgive him anyway. If his pain is eased perhaps this isn’t in vain and I’ll have a full flock in lamb come March. I can’t do anything but look at him as I drag myself away. He stares back, unmoving until our gaze breaks and he is a shadow.

I reach the vallum and rest, listen out for the whirr of Jim’s quad. Nothing yet. The ground here is pitted, caked in dry shit and parched grass and littered with stones. The tip of my nose is blistering. Taking it between my finger and thumb, I squeeze, let the cool sting of water run down my face. Breathe. One final push. I drag myself up and over the summit but as I start to descend the other side, I can’t support myself and I fall backwards, tumbling the few feet to the bottom. My twisted foot screams out. I look down and it is dangling now, barely real.

There is one rise left, one small mound then a flat strip. I fill my chest with air and move. When I reach the summit I turn onto my front and start to pull myself, digging my fingernails into the dry earth. A buzz fills the air, he is coming, the quad is moving along the road, towards me and the gate is within reach. I have to get there and I scuttle now, a worm on its tummy, ignoring the screams from my body until I reach it and raise my hand to the sound and pray that the white of my palm is enough.

Sarah Davy writes short stories and scripts. ‘Shepherd’ won the Finchale Prize at the 2023 Northern Writers’ Awards. She is based in rural Northumberland and is working on a linked short story collection set on Hadrian’s Wall.