where it was warm and comfortable. Now that Tess and George weren’t driving them out into the early-morning light anymore, they were choosier.
“It’s damp,” said Maude.
“It’s cold,” said Sara.
“It’s too much to expect of us,” said Sir Ritchfield. That settled the matter. The old ram hated mist. Ritchfield couldn’t use his good eyes at all in mist. He realized that he wasn’t hearing very well these days, and he very soon forgot which way he had come.
But there was another reason for the general hesitation too. The mist seemed to them sinister today, as if strange shadows were moving beyond its white breath.
So they stayed in the barn all morning. They got bored, they felt guilty, and finally they were hungry. But they remembered how George and Tess had annoyed them on days like this, and stayed put. A front line of white, thoughtful sheep’s faces stared shortsightedly into the swathes of mist, while Mopple started forcing his way out into the open air through a gap in the back wall of the barn.
The wooden splinters of the rotten planks caught in his fleece and scratched his tender skin. When he had squeezed himself about halfway through he began to wonder whether his idea about that gap had really been a good one.
“If the head will fit through so will the rest of the body,” George always used to say. Only now did it strike Mopple that he had been talking about the rats in the shepherd’s caravan feasting on the contents of rusty cans.
Mopple had never seen a rat at close quarters. He wasn’t so sure whether they really did look like small sheep. Mopple’s mother had told him so when he was still a plump suckling lamb; she said that they were very small and very woolly sheep who ran through the stables and barns in flocks, taking dreams to the big sheep. As a grown ram he had wondered why other sheep kicked out at those little rat sheep. He concluded that they were probably sheep having bad dreams. Mopple couldn’t complain of his own dreams. There wasn’t much variety in them, but they were peaceful.
Mopple stopped to think about what most sheep looked like. Zora, for instance: elegant nose and velvety black face, gracefully curved horns (Zora was the only ewe with horns in George’s flock, and they suited her extremely well), large fleecy body and four long, straight legs with delicate feet. The head might be a sheep’s most attractive feature, but it wasn’t the widest part of its body.
Mopple twisted and turned uncomfortably, determined not to panic—at least, not straightaway. Was it right to go out through a gap in secret, behind the backs of the other sheep? He had his reasons, but were they good reasons? For one thing, he felt hungry sooner and more often than the others. Not a bad reason. Mopple stretched his neck, got a tuft of grass between his teeth, and calmed down a bit.
The other reason was more complicated. The other reason was Sir Ritchfield or Mopple’s own memory or Miss Maple, or rather all three of them together. A clue. There had been a great many clues in George’s detective story, but George had thrown the book away. However, Miss Maple would know what to do with a clue. And Ritchfield would probably try to prevent Mopple from telling Maple. So Mopple had to get through this gap. To tell Miss Maple in secret. She wasn’t in the hay barn, so she must be outside somewhere. Or maybe not?
Before Mopple started it had all seemed very simple, but now a sharp splinter of wood was sticking into his side, and he was terrified of puncturing himself and leaking out like Sir Ritchfield. The sheep all agreed that somewhere in Sir Ritchfield there must be a hole through which his memories leaked out and trickled away, but they ventured to say so only when he wasn’t within hearing distance. These days it wasn’t difficult to be out of hearing distance of Sir Ritchfield.
Mopple tried to make himself thinner. The sharp stabbing feeling went away. He took a deep
“It’s damp,” said Maude.
“It’s cold,” said Sara.
“It’s too much to expect of us,” said Sir Ritchfield. That settled the matter. The old ram hated mist. Ritchfield couldn’t use his good eyes at all in mist. He realized that he wasn’t hearing very well these days, and he very soon forgot which way he had come.
But there was another reason for the general hesitation too. The mist seemed to them sinister today, as if strange shadows were moving beyond its white breath.
So they stayed in the barn all morning. They got bored, they felt guilty, and finally they were hungry. But they remembered how George and Tess had annoyed them on days like this, and stayed put. A front line of white, thoughtful sheep’s faces stared shortsightedly into the swathes of mist, while Mopple started forcing his way out into the open air through a gap in the back wall of the barn.
The wooden splinters of the rotten planks caught in his fleece and scratched his tender skin. When he had squeezed himself about halfway through he began to wonder whether his idea about that gap had really been a good one.
“If the head will fit through so will the rest of the body,” George always used to say. Only now did it strike Mopple that he had been talking about the rats in the shepherd’s caravan feasting on the contents of rusty cans.
Mopple had never seen a rat at close quarters. He wasn’t so sure whether they really did look like small sheep. Mopple’s mother had told him so when he was still a plump suckling lamb; she said that they were very small and very woolly sheep who ran through the stables and barns in flocks, taking dreams to the big sheep. As a grown ram he had wondered why other sheep kicked out at those little rat sheep. He concluded that they were probably sheep having bad dreams. Mopple couldn’t complain of his own dreams. There wasn’t much variety in them, but they were peaceful.
Mopple stopped to think about what most sheep looked like. Zora, for instance: elegant nose and velvety black face, gracefully curved horns (Zora was the only ewe with horns in George’s flock, and they suited her extremely well), large fleecy body and four long, straight legs with delicate feet. The head might be a sheep’s most attractive feature, but it wasn’t the widest part of its body.
Mopple twisted and turned uncomfortably, determined not to panic—at least, not straightaway. Was it right to go out through a gap in secret, behind the backs of the other sheep? He had his reasons, but were they good reasons? For one thing, he felt hungry sooner and more often than the others. Not a bad reason. Mopple stretched his neck, got a tuft of grass between his teeth, and calmed down a bit.
The other reason was more complicated. The other reason was Sir Ritchfield or Mopple’s own memory or Miss Maple, or rather all three of them together. A clue. There had been a great many clues in George’s detective story, but George had thrown the book away. However, Miss Maple would know what to do with a clue. And Ritchfield would probably try to prevent Mopple from telling Maple. So Mopple had to get through this gap. To tell Miss Maple in secret. She wasn’t in the hay barn, so she must be outside somewhere. Or maybe not?
Before Mopple started it had all seemed very simple, but now a sharp splinter of wood was sticking into his side, and he was terrified of puncturing himself and leaking out like Sir Ritchfield. The sheep all agreed that somewhere in Sir Ritchfield there must be a hole through which his memories leaked out and trickled away, but they ventured to say so only when he wasn’t within hearing distance. These days it wasn’t difficult to be out of hearing distance of Sir Ritchfield.
Mopple tried to make himself thinner. The sharp stabbing feeling went away. He took a deep
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