eight o’clock, the police had been called, and by nine, they were beginning to organise search parties.
As soon as the news spread over the local grapevine, the members of our church were first in line to help out (or to get front row seats at the unfolding drama, said an uncharitable voice in my head). My parents and I were eager to help, and we packed into our small car as quickly as we could. What little conversation there was on the way to the car park where the volunteers were to assemble was strained and brittle. My mother would intermittently offer up simple prayers for the girls, and my father would join in, although not as enthusiastically; maybe he was paying more attention to what he could see of the road through the blizzard that surrounded us, or maybe his mind was elsewhere. I was cocooned in about a thousand blankets in the back of the car, and although initially I joined in with the prayers, it wasn’t long before I began to doze. It had been a long day.
The car’s heater laboured noisily, straining valiantly against the cold outside, but its steady droning was soporific. My sleep grew deeper, and as it did so, I dreamed; of snow, of darkness, of twisted branches overhead. I found myself in the middle of a forest, just like Joanna and her friends, but unlike the girls, I knew that I was safe because of the tall, hooked staff that I held. Not only did it somehow remove the anxiety I might otherwise have felt, but I also found that wherever I pointed it, the snow would instantly melt. For a while I amused myself by using the staff’s power to write my name—and other, less savoury things—in the snow, but then suddenly I heard someone calling out for help.
I ran towards the sound, using the staff to carve a path through the snow as I looked around for the source of the cry, but it was hopeless. The forest was simply too large. Just as I was about to give up, there came another sound, this time from a nearby fir tree that towered over the other trees surrounding it. I quickly used the staff to strip the snow off the tree, but one of the snowdrifts at its base would not melt away, no matter how enthusiastically I waved the staff at it. Then I saw why: it wasn’t a snowdrift at all, but a sheep, curled into a ball and shivering with the cold. As soon as I recognised what it was, I also knew that I was a shepherd, and that the staff I held was a shepherd’s crook. I knew what I had to do. I carefully laid the crook on the ground, and bent down to scoop the sheep up into my arms—but as soon as I relinquished my grip on the staff, the sheep reached out one of its feet to touch it. I watched in amazement as the sheep quickly transformed into a human, a girl, Jo, but as her features formed, I became aware that my own body was metamorphosing, too. I looked down in panic, watching in horror as my legs grew shorter, changed shape and sprouted a coating of white wool. The rest of my body quickly followed suit, shrinking and shifting and stretching. Before I could do anything to stop it, the change was complete. I opened my mouth to let out a cry of protest, but all I could manage was a helpless bleat.
It was at that point that the dream—which was rapidly turning into a nightmare—was mercifully cut short by my mother gently shaking me. “Time to wake up, Danny. We’re here.”
The car had just begun to get warm, so it was with a certain reluctance that I got out to join the crowd milling around in the cold night air. About fifty people in all were scattered around the car park, and most of them were from church. Some of them were talking to the police and ambulance crews that had set up a makeshift base camp there. Others sat together in small groups for warmth, comfort, or in prayer. A large scale map of the area had been pinned to a board resting against one of the cars, and a couple of tracker dogs sat calmly in the snow next to their handlers, looking like misplaced sphinxes. Out beyond the light
As soon as the news spread over the local grapevine, the members of our church were first in line to help out (or to get front row seats at the unfolding drama, said an uncharitable voice in my head). My parents and I were eager to help, and we packed into our small car as quickly as we could. What little conversation there was on the way to the car park where the volunteers were to assemble was strained and brittle. My mother would intermittently offer up simple prayers for the girls, and my father would join in, although not as enthusiastically; maybe he was paying more attention to what he could see of the road through the blizzard that surrounded us, or maybe his mind was elsewhere. I was cocooned in about a thousand blankets in the back of the car, and although initially I joined in with the prayers, it wasn’t long before I began to doze. It had been a long day.
The car’s heater laboured noisily, straining valiantly against the cold outside, but its steady droning was soporific. My sleep grew deeper, and as it did so, I dreamed; of snow, of darkness, of twisted branches overhead. I found myself in the middle of a forest, just like Joanna and her friends, but unlike the girls, I knew that I was safe because of the tall, hooked staff that I held. Not only did it somehow remove the anxiety I might otherwise have felt, but I also found that wherever I pointed it, the snow would instantly melt. For a while I amused myself by using the staff’s power to write my name—and other, less savoury things—in the snow, but then suddenly I heard someone calling out for help.
I ran towards the sound, using the staff to carve a path through the snow as I looked around for the source of the cry, but it was hopeless. The forest was simply too large. Just as I was about to give up, there came another sound, this time from a nearby fir tree that towered over the other trees surrounding it. I quickly used the staff to strip the snow off the tree, but one of the snowdrifts at its base would not melt away, no matter how enthusiastically I waved the staff at it. Then I saw why: it wasn’t a snowdrift at all, but a sheep, curled into a ball and shivering with the cold. As soon as I recognised what it was, I also knew that I was a shepherd, and that the staff I held was a shepherd’s crook. I knew what I had to do. I carefully laid the crook on the ground, and bent down to scoop the sheep up into my arms—but as soon as I relinquished my grip on the staff, the sheep reached out one of its feet to touch it. I watched in amazement as the sheep quickly transformed into a human, a girl, Jo, but as her features formed, I became aware that my own body was metamorphosing, too. I looked down in panic, watching in horror as my legs grew shorter, changed shape and sprouted a coating of white wool. The rest of my body quickly followed suit, shrinking and shifting and stretching. Before I could do anything to stop it, the change was complete. I opened my mouth to let out a cry of protest, but all I could manage was a helpless bleat.
It was at that point that the dream—which was rapidly turning into a nightmare—was mercifully cut short by my mother gently shaking me. “Time to wake up, Danny. We’re here.”
The car had just begun to get warm, so it was with a certain reluctance that I got out to join the crowd milling around in the cold night air. About fifty people in all were scattered around the car park, and most of them were from church. Some of them were talking to the police and ambulance crews that had set up a makeshift base camp there. Others sat together in small groups for warmth, comfort, or in prayer. A large scale map of the area had been pinned to a board resting against one of the cars, and a couple of tracker dogs sat calmly in the snow next to their handlers, looking like misplaced sphinxes. Out beyond the light
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