Three Bags Full by Leonie Swann

sheep answered from the darkness. Stumbling forward, she found the flock and pushed her way into the safe, woolly tangle.
    Something made her suspicious. Her flock smelled wrong—just why, Maple couldn’t say. She heard the butcher coming closer and froze. Then a wind rose and blew away the darkness like mist. In the pale light Miss Maple could see that all the sheep in her flock had turned black. She was the only white sheep among them. The butcher was making straight for her, holding an apple pie.
             
    Suddenly it was dark around her again. Miss Maple had woken up. She was about to snuggle up to Cloud, her favorite nighttime neighbor, but something was still wrong. The sheep round her smelled like her own flock, and yet they didn’t. She could pick up the scent: Mopple, who still smelled slightly of lettuce, Zora with her scent of fresh sea air, Othello’s resinous ram smell. But it was as if other sheep had been mingling with them, incompatible sheep that didn’t give anything away about their personalities. Half sheep, as it were. Miss Maple peered around, but it was at least as dark in the hay barn as in her dream. The rain was pouring down outside, and there were no other sounds. Maple suddenly felt sure that she had seen a movement close to the barn door. She pushed Cloud aside. Cloud began bleating quietly in her sleep, and other sheep joined in, making Miss Maple temporarily lose her sense of direction. She stood still. After a few moments the bleating died away, and she heard the rain again.
    Outside, rain like stair rods was falling into the night. Maple sank up to her knees in mud. Her fleece soaked up the water, and she felt twice as heavy as usual. She thought of the lamb who had seen a ghost, and was going to make her way to the dolmen when she heard a sharp, ringing sound, like stone knocking on stone. It came from the cliffs. Maple sighed. The cliffs were certainly not the place she wanted to meet a wolf’s ghost on a pitch-dark, rainy night. All the same, she moved on.
    It was not as dark on top of the cliffs as she had feared. The sea reflected a little light, and you could see the coastline, shadowy but unmistakable. You could also see that there wasn’t anyone there. Whoever had made the noise must have fallen off the cliffs. Maple felt her way cautiously up to the edge of the slippery slope with her wet hooves, and peered down. Of course she couldn’t see anything, not even how far down the abyss went. She decided to retreat, and realized that it wasn’t going to be easy. The grass was wet and slithery. Someone had set a trap for her, and she, Miss Maple, the cleverest sheep in Glennkill and perhaps the world, had walked right into it. Maple waited for a hand or a nose to give a gentle but determined push and send her over the edge.
    She waited a long time. When she realized that there was no one behind her she lost her temper. With a furious backward jump she made it to reasonably firm ground again and trotted back to the hay barn. She stopped at the door and took a deep breath of air. It smelled of her flock and nothing else. Maple puffed and panted with relief, and noticed that her legs were trembling. She searched for Cloud, who was still bleating softly somewhere, lost in a dream where there was no butcher and no apple pie, probably just a large green field of clover.
    Suddenly one of her still-shaking hooves trod in something warm and liquid. The liquid was dripping off Sir Ritchfield. The old ram was standing there motionless with his eyes closed, as if he were fast asleep. He was soaking wet, like a sheep who has been dipped underwater for a very long time. Miss Maple laid her head on Cloud’s woolly back and thought.

4
    Mopple Squeezes Through a Gap
    There was no wind the next day, and the gulls were not calling. Thick gray mist crawled back and forth over the meadow. No one could see more than two sheep’s lengths ahead. For a long time they stayed in the hay barn,