breath, and the tip of the splinter stuck into his side again. Panic was very close now. He felt it breathing down his neck like a beast of prey. He was going to leak worse than Sir Ritchfield, he’d forget everything, even why he was in this gap, and then he’d be stuck here forever and die of starvation. Starvation—him, Mopple the Whale!
Mopple made himself so thin that he saw stars in front of his eyes, and kicked out frantically with his back legs.
Othello had spent half the night out in the meadow, dripping wet and in a state of feverish excitement. Would he come back? From the moment when Othello saw Sir Ritchfield he had secretly hoped so. He had feared it too. Now it had happened. The memory of a scent still lingered in Othello’s nostrils. Ideas circled around his horns like swirling mist. Joy, anger, fury, a thousand questions and a tingling sense of embarrassment.
But Othello had learned to drive the swirling thoughts in his head away. Through the damp mist, he scented the air in the direction of the hay barn: nervous sweat and a sour smell of bewilderment. The flock was in the grip of disquiet. And rightly so: even Othello felt there was something eerie about the mist today.
Ritchfield still wasn’t letting his sheep out of the dry barn. All the better, but Othello wondered what the lead ram hoped to gain by it. Did Ritchfield know who had come to their meadow last night? Was he trying to conceal the fact from the other sheep? If so, why?
The black ram briefly wondered which way to go. The least likely way, of course. He trotted toward the cliffs. Last night’s rain and the misty air had washed away all the scents. Othello put his head on one side and used his eyes to look for tracks, the way a human would. He felt slightly ashamed of that.
Almost deaf, almost no sense of smell , he heard the familiar and always slightly mocking voice say inside his head. A voice from memory, accompanied by the rushing of black crow’s wings. If you want to know what the Two Legs know, you have to stop and think what they don’t know. All that matters to them is what they can see with their eyes. They don’t know more than we do, they know less, that’s why it’s so difficult to understand them, but …Othello shook his head to drive the voice away. Good advice, no doubt about it, but the voice often said confusing things, and now he had to concentrate.
In one place the ground was not just soggy but positively churned up. By Miss Maple, probably. He would never have left a mess like that behind. Othello was looking for something less conspicuous. A little farther off he saw a stunted pine tree, the only pine growing anywhere far and wide. Friendly evergreens, keepers of secrets, wise roots. The pine tree attracted Othello.
He circled round the small tree until it seemed to lean over in shame before his eyes. Nothing unusual. Except for the hole, of course, but Othello didn’t think much of the stories about the hole. The hole was right beside the roots of the pine and went down through the rock at an angle. Day and night the sound of the sea came through it, gurgling and glugging, mocking laughter from the depths. It was said that at full moon sea creatures came up through the hole to run their slimy fingers round the hay barn. But Othello knew that the shimmering lines you saw on the wooden walls of the barn when morning came were really slimy trails left by slugs. The other sheep knew it too, in their hearts; they just liked stories. On some days you could see three or four particularly bold young sheep assembled under the pine tree, listening to the sounds in the hole and giving themselves an enjoyable fright.
Now Othello looked down there too: steep, certainly, but not too steep for a human who could use his hands, and not too steep for a brave sheep. Othello hesitated. Something that tastes bad the first time you chew it won’t taste any better the tenth time , mocked the voice. Waiting feeds your fear
Mopple made himself so thin that he saw stars in front of his eyes, and kicked out frantically with his back legs.
Othello had spent half the night out in the meadow, dripping wet and in a state of feverish excitement. Would he come back? From the moment when Othello saw Sir Ritchfield he had secretly hoped so. He had feared it too. Now it had happened. The memory of a scent still lingered in Othello’s nostrils. Ideas circled around his horns like swirling mist. Joy, anger, fury, a thousand questions and a tingling sense of embarrassment.
But Othello had learned to drive the swirling thoughts in his head away. Through the damp mist, he scented the air in the direction of the hay barn: nervous sweat and a sour smell of bewilderment. The flock was in the grip of disquiet. And rightly so: even Othello felt there was something eerie about the mist today.
Ritchfield still wasn’t letting his sheep out of the dry barn. All the better, but Othello wondered what the lead ram hoped to gain by it. Did Ritchfield know who had come to their meadow last night? Was he trying to conceal the fact from the other sheep? If so, why?
The black ram briefly wondered which way to go. The least likely way, of course. He trotted toward the cliffs. Last night’s rain and the misty air had washed away all the scents. Othello put his head on one side and used his eyes to look for tracks, the way a human would. He felt slightly ashamed of that.
Almost deaf, almost no sense of smell , he heard the familiar and always slightly mocking voice say inside his head. A voice from memory, accompanied by the rushing of black crow’s wings. If you want to know what the Two Legs know, you have to stop and think what they don’t know. All that matters to them is what they can see with their eyes. They don’t know more than we do, they know less, that’s why it’s so difficult to understand them, but …Othello shook his head to drive the voice away. Good advice, no doubt about it, but the voice often said confusing things, and now he had to concentrate.
In one place the ground was not just soggy but positively churned up. By Miss Maple, probably. He would never have left a mess like that behind. Othello was looking for something less conspicuous. A little farther off he saw a stunted pine tree, the only pine growing anywhere far and wide. Friendly evergreens, keepers of secrets, wise roots. The pine tree attracted Othello.
He circled round the small tree until it seemed to lean over in shame before his eyes. Nothing unusual. Except for the hole, of course, but Othello didn’t think much of the stories about the hole. The hole was right beside the roots of the pine and went down through the rock at an angle. Day and night the sound of the sea came through it, gurgling and glugging, mocking laughter from the depths. It was said that at full moon sea creatures came up through the hole to run their slimy fingers round the hay barn. But Othello knew that the shimmering lines you saw on the wooden walls of the barn when morning came were really slimy trails left by slugs. The other sheep knew it too, in their hearts; they just liked stories. On some days you could see three or four particularly bold young sheep assembled under the pine tree, listening to the sounds in the hole and giving themselves an enjoyable fright.
Now Othello looked down there too: steep, certainly, but not too steep for a human who could use his hands, and not too steep for a brave sheep. Othello hesitated. Something that tastes bad the first time you chew it won’t taste any better the tenth time , mocked the voice. Waiting feeds your fear
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