The Grey King by Susan Cooper

tracking through untouched grass, not a stem bent by the passing even of a small creature, let alone a sheep. There was the sound of water running somewhere ahead of them, and soon they came to a small stream flowing down towards the river, the jutting rocks in its course showing how much lower than usual it was running in the dry spell.
    Pen paused, cast up and down the stream unsuccessfully, and came to John Rowlands whining.
    â€œHe’s lost it,” the shepherd said. “Whatever it was. Could have been no more than a rabbit, of course—though not too many rabbits I have ever heard tell of would have the sense to hide their trail in running water.”
    Will said, “But what happened to the sheep? It was hurt, it couldn’t have walked away.”
    â€œParticularly through a closed door,” Rowlands said drily.
    â€œThat’s right, of course! D’you think whatever animal attacked it would have been clever enough to come back and drag it away?”
    â€œClever enough, perhaps,” Rowlands said, staring back at the cottage. “But not strong enough. A yearling will weigh about a hundred pounds, I near broke my back carrying her a little way. You’d need a mighty big dog to drag that weight.”
    Will heard himself say, “Two dogs?”
    John Rowlands looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You have some unexpected ideas, Will, for one not brought up on a farm . . . yes, two dogs together could drag a sheep. But how would they do it without leaving agreat flat trail? And anyway, how could two or twenty dogs open that door?”
    â€œGoodness knows,” Will said. “Well—perhaps it wasn’t any animal. Perhaps somebody drove by and heard the sheep bleating and got it out of the cottage and took it away. I mean they couldn’t know we were coming back.”
    â€œAye,” John Rowlands said. He did not sound convinced. “Well, if any did that, we shall find the sheep at home when we get there, for it has the Pentref mark on its ear and any local man would know that we winter Williams Pentref’s ewes. Come on, now.” He whistled to Pen.
    They were silent on the drive home, each lost deep in concern and baffled conjecture. John Rowlands, Will knew, was worrying over the need to find the sheep quickly, to doctor its wound. He, Will, had his own worries. Although he had not mentioned it to Rowlands, and hardly dared even to think what it might mean, he knew that in the moment when the wounded sheep had staggered and fallen beside the flock, he had seen something more than that formless twitch of motion in the bracken where the attacker fled. He had seen the flash of a silvery body, and the muzzle of what had looked very much like a white dog.
    M usic was flowing out of the farmhouse in a golden stream, as if the sun were inside the window, shining out. Will paused, astonished, and stood listening. Somebody was playing a harp, long rippling arpeggios soaring out like birdsong; then without a break the music changed to something like a Bach sonata, notes and patterns as precise as snowflakes. John Rowlands looked down at him with a smile for a moment, then pushed open the door and went in. A side door was open into a little parlour that Will had never noticed before; it looked like a creaky-neat Best Room, tucked away from the big kitchen-living room where all the real life of the house went on. The music was coming from this parlour; Rowlands stuck his head round the door, and so did Will. Sitting there, running his hands over the strings of a harp twice his own height, was Bran.
    He stopped, stilling the strings with his palms. “Hullo, then.”
    â€œMuch better,” said John Rowlands. “Very much better, that, today.”
    â€œGood,” Bran said.
    Will said, “I didn’t know you could play the harp.”
    â€œAh,” Bran said solemnly. “Lot of things the English don’t know. Mr. Rowlands