fleece of a gigantic sheep after all, or if it was, then that sheep was infested by vermin, butchers with hands made of raw meat that turned everything they touched into raw meat too.
Slowly, he began to wonder about the dreadful yells rising from the depths. They were yells that Mopple could feel right to the tips of his spiral horns. They hurt him in his teeth and his hooves, but he didn’t try to run away from them. He knew now that you couldn’t simply run away like that, not even to the other sheep, who were only a kind of mist themselves and could just as quickly dissolve into nothing. He’d seen sheep disappear before, all his foster brothers, his suckling companions, his friends when they were milk-fed lambs, and only the shepherd had ever come back, fat and cold.
Mopple looked at the ground and saw the grass, which was still as green as before. Perhaps he should hang on to the grass. Without taking his eyes off the ground, Mopple began to move. Carefully he put one hoof in front of another, following the grass wherever it might take him.
Othello was annoyed with himself. The hole had not been a problem, easy once you entrusted yourself to it. That was just like him. Your problems aren’t in your feet or your eyes or your mouth. Your problems are always in your head , whispered the voice. Now Othello was sifting through his head as carefully as only a sheep chewing the cud can. He had already trotted some way along the beach without picking up any tracks at all. The sand moved beneath his feet, pleasantly soft, but sly and sluggish too. And now there was that yelling into the bargain.
It wasn’t close enough to threaten Othello, but it was loud and nerve-racking. Who or what in the world could be yelling like that? The question interested him. In any other circumstances he would probably have turned round to take a look at the source of the yells, but what might lie ahead of him interested him more. He must be quite close to the village now. Othello knew it was time to get off the beach.
The ram looked up at the cliffs. They were less steep here, and soft and sandy in many places. Coarse sea grass grew where the wind had heaped the sand up into small dunes. It wasn’t worth much as grazing, but it offered a good foothold. Othello climbed the slope. Once at the top, he saw more of the bristly sea grass and a narrow human footpath winding its pointless way through the dust. The sea grass stretched monotonously in all directions and told him nothing. If you don’t know what to do, you must either give up or let it alone , mocked the voice. It comes to the same thing . Othello stood where he was. There were a number of paths a sheep could have taken here, but there was only one path that you could be sure no sheep would ever have chosen. Well, almost no sheep. Othello went on along the human footpath toward the village.
The path wound undecidedly this way and that a few times, and then he found a drystone wall and walked straight as a sheep’s leg along beside it. The wall was so high that even if Othello got up on his hind legs he couldn’t see over it.
That was a pity, because peculiar things were happening on the other side of the wall. Many voices were murmuring in a low, quiet tone, and it wasn’t just the mist muting them. Othello felt that they were excited but had been made to hush. It was seldom that humans took the trouble to be quiet. It always meant something. Othello came to a small, wrought-iron gate; he pushed the latch down with one of his front hooves and the gate gave way with a squeal. The black ram slipped through it as silently as his own shadow and pushed the gate shut again with his head. Not for the first time, he was glad of those terrible times with the circus.
Othello thought he had arrived in a huge vegetable garden. It was so tidy that it looked like a garden: straight paths and square beds, and the smell of freshly turned earth and unnatural vegetation.
Slowly, he began to wonder about the dreadful yells rising from the depths. They were yells that Mopple could feel right to the tips of his spiral horns. They hurt him in his teeth and his hooves, but he didn’t try to run away from them. He knew now that you couldn’t simply run away like that, not even to the other sheep, who were only a kind of mist themselves and could just as quickly dissolve into nothing. He’d seen sheep disappear before, all his foster brothers, his suckling companions, his friends when they were milk-fed lambs, and only the shepherd had ever come back, fat and cold.
Mopple looked at the ground and saw the grass, which was still as green as before. Perhaps he should hang on to the grass. Without taking his eyes off the ground, Mopple began to move. Carefully he put one hoof in front of another, following the grass wherever it might take him.
Othello was annoyed with himself. The hole had not been a problem, easy once you entrusted yourself to it. That was just like him. Your problems aren’t in your feet or your eyes or your mouth. Your problems are always in your head , whispered the voice. Now Othello was sifting through his head as carefully as only a sheep chewing the cud can. He had already trotted some way along the beach without picking up any tracks at all. The sand moved beneath his feet, pleasantly soft, but sly and sluggish too. And now there was that yelling into the bargain.
It wasn’t close enough to threaten Othello, but it was loud and nerve-racking. Who or what in the world could be yelling like that? The question interested him. In any other circumstances he would probably have turned round to take a look at the source of the yells, but what might lie ahead of him interested him more. He must be quite close to the village now. Othello knew it was time to get off the beach.
The ram looked up at the cliffs. They were less steep here, and soft and sandy in many places. Coarse sea grass grew where the wind had heaped the sand up into small dunes. It wasn’t worth much as grazing, but it offered a good foothold. Othello climbed the slope. Once at the top, he saw more of the bristly sea grass and a narrow human footpath winding its pointless way through the dust. The sea grass stretched monotonously in all directions and told him nothing. If you don’t know what to do, you must either give up or let it alone , mocked the voice. It comes to the same thing . Othello stood where he was. There were a number of paths a sheep could have taken here, but there was only one path that you could be sure no sheep would ever have chosen. Well, almost no sheep. Othello went on along the human footpath toward the village.
The path wound undecidedly this way and that a few times, and then he found a drystone wall and walked straight as a sheep’s leg along beside it. The wall was so high that even if Othello got up on his hind legs he couldn’t see over it.
That was a pity, because peculiar things were happening on the other side of the wall. Many voices were murmuring in a low, quiet tone, and it wasn’t just the mist muting them. Othello felt that they were excited but had been made to hush. It was seldom that humans took the trouble to be quiet. It always meant something. Othello came to a small, wrought-iron gate; he pushed the latch down with one of his front hooves and the gate gave way with a squeal. The black ram slipped through it as silently as his own shadow and pushed the gate shut again with his head. Not for the first time, he was glad of those terrible times with the circus.
Othello thought he had arrived in a huge vegetable garden. It was so tidy that it looked like a garden: straight paths and square beds, and the smell of freshly turned earth and unnatural vegetation.
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