Bighorn Sheep — Bartholomew T. Ramstein, Upholder of Hornor

Bighorn Sheep — Bartholomew T. Ramstein, Upholder of Hornor

You hike a steep trail above a dry ravine, where wildflowers grow in brave little clumps and the wind sings across open stone. Near a sun-bleached stump, the medallion glints from a rocky crevice. You brush it clean and lay your hand on it.

Something snorts behind you.

“Finally. I was beginning to suspect you didn’t have the knees for this.”

You turn to find a broad-shouldered ram chewing thoughtfully on a stem of grass. His horns spiral like ancient architecture, and his posture suggests he’s waiting for someone to apologize for existing.

“I am Bartholomew T. Ramstein. Upholder of Hornor. Defender of Slopes. Founder of the Left-Foot-First Society.”

He nods solemnly. You nod back.

“You’ve been to see the goat, haven’t you?” he says, voice tinged with disapproval. “Captain Craghoof. Hmph. Always bounding around like gravity’s just a suggestion. No respect for ledges. Or tradition. Or personal space.”

You try to ask your question, but he raises a hoof.

“No, no. Let me guess. ‘Where did the medallions come from?’ ‘Why mammals only?’ Same questions, every time. You humans are nothing if not consistent.”

He shakes his head and paces.

“The way I see it, the medallions are a test. Of grit. Of patience. Of hoof placement. And when you find them all?”

He lowers his voice and leans in slightly.

“You gain clarity. Like looking down from a ridge and seeing all your crooked trails behind you. Only then do you understand the path was teaching you how to walk it.”

He clears his throat.

“Or it summons a council of mountain spirits who appoint you Guardian of All Hills. I forget which.”

You open your mouth.

“No more questions,” he says. “I’ve said too much already. Besides, I’m due for a headbutting match at noon. It’s a gentleman’s agreement.”

As he turns to leave, he pauses.

“Oh, and one more thing—if that mole tells you he’s a hero, ask him about the time he tried to rescue a rock.”

Then he’s off, marching with slow dignity, head high, horns gleaming like a crown.