anything, and promptly the most unpleasant thought of all occurred to him: the thought of what was bound to happen any minute.
Sooner or later he would come up against an obstacle. That obstacle could be the cliffs or the hay barn or George’s caravan. Please not the caravan, thought Mopple. The idea of meeting a furious, ghostly George waving a nibbled lettuce stalk in the vegetable garden—the scene of Mopple’s crime—scared him most of all.
Mopple the Whale bumped into something large and soft and warm. It gave way and toppled forward with a grunt. The smell was penetrating, and even before Mopple had finished investigating it his legs went weak with fear. He sat on his haunches and peered through the mist with eyes wide open. The grunt turned into a curse, words that Mopple had never heard before in his life, yet which he understood at once. Then the butcher emerged from the mist, first his huge red hands, then his rounded paunch, and finally his terrible, glittering eyes. They were looking at Mopple without haste; indeed they even seemed to be pleased with something. Without warning, the butcher flung himself on Mopple, as if to crush him with the sheer mass of his own flesh.
The next thing Mopple knew was that he must have managed to dodge him not just once, but several times. The butcher had repeatedly fallen in the mud; his elbows, belly, knees, and half his face were black with it. A few green blades of grass were sticking to his left cheek like whiskers, and through Mopple’s shortsighted eyes the butcher looked like a very vicious, fat tiger cat. The parts of his face that weren’t black with mud, especially his forehead and eye sockets, were red as a sheep’s sore tongue. His neck was red too and curiously thick and swollen. Mopple was trembling all over, exhausted.
In the silence that followed, the butcher saw that Mopple was finished. One of his hands clenched into an enormous fist and slammed into the other, half-open hand. Then the outer hand closed around the inner hand. It was as if the butcher’s arms were growing together into a ball of raw meat. The knuckles turned white, and Mopple heard a faint, nasty noise, a distant cracking, as if a bone were being slowly broken. The ram stared helplessly at the butcher, automatically chewing the last tuft of grass that he had pulled up in distant, happier times. It tasted of nothing. Mopple couldn’t remember why he had been grazing, he no longer knew why any sheep in the world would want to graze as long as there were butchers around. The butcher took a small step backward. Then, all of a sudden, it was as if the ground had swallowed him up.
Mopple stood there chewing. He chewed until there wasn’t a single fiber of grass left in his mouth. As long as he chewed nothing would happen. He felt silly, chewing with his mouth empty, but he dared not pull up another tuft of grass.
A few wisps of mist drifted past, and then—suddenly—there was a patch of clear air. A window, and Mopple could look through it. But he saw nothing. Mopple was standing on the edge of the abyss. He didn’t wonder where the butcher had gone anymore. He took a careful step backward. Then another. Then Mopple the Whale turned and let the mist swallow him up again.
Up till now Mopple had always liked mist. When he was still a lamb the shepherd had stopped him suckling from his mother one day. He’s getting fat too quickly, said the shepherd. From then on the shepherd himself suckled from Mopple’s mother, using some kind of implement. The shepherd was fat too, but no sheep could stop him doing anything. Mopple was given mixed milk and water to drink. He enjoyed watching the milk and water mingle. The white milk spun threads in the water until a dense and delicate web had formed. That web was like the mist getting thicker and thicker, and it was a promise that Mopple would have a full stomach and everything was all right. But today Mopple had found out that mist wasn’t the
Sooner or later he would come up against an obstacle. That obstacle could be the cliffs or the hay barn or George’s caravan. Please not the caravan, thought Mopple. The idea of meeting a furious, ghostly George waving a nibbled lettuce stalk in the vegetable garden—the scene of Mopple’s crime—scared him most of all.
Mopple the Whale bumped into something large and soft and warm. It gave way and toppled forward with a grunt. The smell was penetrating, and even before Mopple had finished investigating it his legs went weak with fear. He sat on his haunches and peered through the mist with eyes wide open. The grunt turned into a curse, words that Mopple had never heard before in his life, yet which he understood at once. Then the butcher emerged from the mist, first his huge red hands, then his rounded paunch, and finally his terrible, glittering eyes. They were looking at Mopple without haste; indeed they even seemed to be pleased with something. Without warning, the butcher flung himself on Mopple, as if to crush him with the sheer mass of his own flesh.
The next thing Mopple knew was that he must have managed to dodge him not just once, but several times. The butcher had repeatedly fallen in the mud; his elbows, belly, knees, and half his face were black with it. A few green blades of grass were sticking to his left cheek like whiskers, and through Mopple’s shortsighted eyes the butcher looked like a very vicious, fat tiger cat. The parts of his face that weren’t black with mud, especially his forehead and eye sockets, were red as a sheep’s sore tongue. His neck was red too and curiously thick and swollen. Mopple was trembling all over, exhausted.
In the silence that followed, the butcher saw that Mopple was finished. One of his hands clenched into an enormous fist and slammed into the other, half-open hand. Then the outer hand closed around the inner hand. It was as if the butcher’s arms were growing together into a ball of raw meat. The knuckles turned white, and Mopple heard a faint, nasty noise, a distant cracking, as if a bone were being slowly broken. The ram stared helplessly at the butcher, automatically chewing the last tuft of grass that he had pulled up in distant, happier times. It tasted of nothing. Mopple couldn’t remember why he had been grazing, he no longer knew why any sheep in the world would want to graze as long as there were butchers around. The butcher took a small step backward. Then, all of a sudden, it was as if the ground had swallowed him up.
Mopple stood there chewing. He chewed until there wasn’t a single fiber of grass left in his mouth. As long as he chewed nothing would happen. He felt silly, chewing with his mouth empty, but he dared not pull up another tuft of grass.
A few wisps of mist drifted past, and then—suddenly—there was a patch of clear air. A window, and Mopple could look through it. But he saw nothing. Mopple was standing on the edge of the abyss. He didn’t wonder where the butcher had gone anymore. He took a careful step backward. Then another. Then Mopple the Whale turned and let the mist swallow him up again.
Up till now Mopple had always liked mist. When he was still a lamb the shepherd had stopped him suckling from his mother one day. He’s getting fat too quickly, said the shepherd. From then on the shepherd himself suckled from Mopple’s mother, using some kind of implement. The shepherd was fat too, but no sheep could stop him doing anything. Mopple was given mixed milk and water to drink. He enjoyed watching the milk and water mingle. The white milk spun threads in the water until a dense and delicate web had formed. That web was like the mist getting thicker and thicker, and it was a promise that Mopple would have a full stomach and everything was all right. But today Mopple had found out that mist wasn’t the
Similar Books
