, it then added impatiently, as the ram still didn’t move. But Othello wasn’t listening to the voice. He was staring spellbound at something dark and shining at his feet. A shimmering feather, black and still as night. Othello snorted. He turned his head in the direction of the hay barn once more, and then disappeared down the hole.
Mopple was out in the open air, breathing heavily and trembling. His sides felt sore, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in one place. To calm himself down, he repeated the most difficult phrase he had ever learned: “Operation Polyphemus.” George sometimes used to say it, and no sheep ever understood him. Mopple was one of the few sheep who could remember things he didn’t even understand. After saying it he felt braver.
Mopple turned his head to look, not without pride, at the narrow gap through which he, Mopple the Whale, had just squeezed his way. But the wooden wall of the hay barn had already disappeared in a mist so dense and solid that Mopple felt almost tempted to take a bite of it. He controlled himself, and pulled up some grass instead.
The mist wasn’t a problem to Mopple. You didn’t see as well in mist, that was true, but then Mopple saw poorly anyway. He was more bothered by the fact that you couldn’t pick up a scent properly if you had cool, grassy water drops inside your nostrils. But in general he felt safe in the mist, as if he were walking through the fleece of a gigantic sheep, fleece as light as a feather. Unperturbed, he went on grazing. Now he was sure that at least his first reason for getting out had been a good one. Mopple loved misty grass, clear-tasting as water, with all disturbing smells washed off it. He could look for Miss Maple later, and perhaps she’d be attracted over here by his grass-munching sounds anyway. He wandered back and forth at a trotting pace until he didn’t feel quite so hungry.
Suddenly his nose came up against something hard and cold. Mopple jumped back in alarm with all four feet in the air at once. From where he was now, however, he couldn’t see what had frightened him. He hesitated. Curiosity won the day. He stepped forward and looked at the ground. There lay the spade around which Tom O’Malley had assembled the human flock. It hadn’t been driven into the ground deep enough; it had leaned to one side and finally fallen over. Mopple looked crossly at the spade. Human tools belonged in toolsheds and not on the meadow. But this spade didn’t smell at all the way human tools usually smell, of sweating hands, annoyance, and sharp things. There was only a faint memory of human scent left around this spade; apart from that it smelled as smooth and clean as a wet pebble.
But if you tried hard enough to pick up that human scent you found the memory slowly, gaining a more distinct structure. Soapy water, whiskey, and vinegary cleaning fluid were all part of it. Mopple scented a short, rancid beard and unwashed feet. Almost too late, he realized that it wasn’t the spade he was smelling now but a real human being moving through the mist right beside him. He raised his head and saw a figure, the white, misty shadow of a figure, moving sideways in his direction, like a crab. He lost his nerve and galloped away through the mist.
Running through mist is not a very clever thing to do. Mopple the Whale knew that. But he also knew he couldn’t just stand still. His legs, which normally carried him unerringly toward wild herbs and fragrant carpets of grass, suddenly had ideas of their own. All the mist in the world seemed to have gathered inside Mopple’s head, and he would have liked simply to forget it, he would have liked to be all legs, running away from everything: George, the wolf’s ghost, Miss Maple, fierce dogs, Sir Ritchfield, his memory, and above all death. But one of his hooves was hurting from the unusual force with which his legs were hammering down on the ground. He tried thinking of something,
Mopple was out in the open air, breathing heavily and trembling. His sides felt sore, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in one place. To calm himself down, he repeated the most difficult phrase he had ever learned: “Operation Polyphemus.” George sometimes used to say it, and no sheep ever understood him. Mopple was one of the few sheep who could remember things he didn’t even understand. After saying it he felt braver.
Mopple turned his head to look, not without pride, at the narrow gap through which he, Mopple the Whale, had just squeezed his way. But the wooden wall of the hay barn had already disappeared in a mist so dense and solid that Mopple felt almost tempted to take a bite of it. He controlled himself, and pulled up some grass instead.
The mist wasn’t a problem to Mopple. You didn’t see as well in mist, that was true, but then Mopple saw poorly anyway. He was more bothered by the fact that you couldn’t pick up a scent properly if you had cool, grassy water drops inside your nostrils. But in general he felt safe in the mist, as if he were walking through the fleece of a gigantic sheep, fleece as light as a feather. Unperturbed, he went on grazing. Now he was sure that at least his first reason for getting out had been a good one. Mopple loved misty grass, clear-tasting as water, with all disturbing smells washed off it. He could look for Miss Maple later, and perhaps she’d be attracted over here by his grass-munching sounds anyway. He wandered back and forth at a trotting pace until he didn’t feel quite so hungry.
Suddenly his nose came up against something hard and cold. Mopple jumped back in alarm with all four feet in the air at once. From where he was now, however, he couldn’t see what had frightened him. He hesitated. Curiosity won the day. He stepped forward and looked at the ground. There lay the spade around which Tom O’Malley had assembled the human flock. It hadn’t been driven into the ground deep enough; it had leaned to one side and finally fallen over. Mopple looked crossly at the spade. Human tools belonged in toolsheds and not on the meadow. But this spade didn’t smell at all the way human tools usually smell, of sweating hands, annoyance, and sharp things. There was only a faint memory of human scent left around this spade; apart from that it smelled as smooth and clean as a wet pebble.
But if you tried hard enough to pick up that human scent you found the memory slowly, gaining a more distinct structure. Soapy water, whiskey, and vinegary cleaning fluid were all part of it. Mopple scented a short, rancid beard and unwashed feet. Almost too late, he realized that it wasn’t the spade he was smelling now but a real human being moving through the mist right beside him. He raised his head and saw a figure, the white, misty shadow of a figure, moving sideways in his direction, like a crab. He lost his nerve and galloped away through the mist.
Running through mist is not a very clever thing to do. Mopple the Whale knew that. But he also knew he couldn’t just stand still. His legs, which normally carried him unerringly toward wild herbs and fragrant carpets of grass, suddenly had ideas of their own. All the mist in the world seemed to have gathered inside Mopple’s head, and he would have liked simply to forget it, he would have liked to be all legs, running away from everything: George, the wolf’s ghost, Miss Maple, fierce dogs, Sir Ritchfield, his memory, and above all death. But one of his hooves was hurting from the unusual force with which his legs were hammering down on the ground. He tried thinking of something,
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