Free Three Bags Full by Leonie Swann Page B

impossible story, and it scared them all.
    “Melmoth is dead!” snorted Sir Ritchfield. The sheep jumped. They had been speaking very quietly, and no one had expected Ritchfield of all sheep to catch what they were saying.
    “Melmoth is dead,” he repeated. “George went looking for him, with the butcher’s dogs. George came back smelling of death. I was the only one waiting by the shepherd’s caravan when the fifth night came. I waited for him and I smelled death. No sheep may leave the flock.”
    No one dared say anything in reply. Their heads sank one by one, and they automatically began grazing.
    They would have liked to ask Miss Maple about Mopple, but Miss Maple wasn’t there. They would have liked to ask Othello if there was anywhere to go beyond the meadow, because Othello knew the world and the zoo. But Othello wasn’t there. Now they were confused. They wondered whether a robber was prowling around the flock and stealing the fattest, the strongest, and the cleverest of them. A robber without any scent. The wolf’s ghost, for instance, or the Goblin King, or the lord, whoever he might be.
    Sir Ritchfield decided to count the sheep. It was a tedious process. Sir Ritchfield could count only up to ten, and not always that, so the sheep had to stand in small groups. There were arguments, because some sheep would claim they hadn’t been counted yet, while Ritchfield said yes, he had counted them already. All the sheep were afraid of being missed out of the count, because then they might disappear. Some of them tried to steal into other groups on the sly so as to be counted twice. Ritchfield bleated and snorted and finally came to the conclusion that there were thirty-four sheep in the meadow in all.
    They looked at one another, at a loss. Only now did they realize that they had no idea how many sheep there really ought to be in the meadow. The figure so laboriously worked out was completely useless to them.
    It was a great disappointment. They’d hoped they would feel safer after the count. George had always been so pleased when he had finished counting them. “Excellent,” he used to say, although sometimes he just said, “Aha.” In that case he would march off, either to the cliff tops to throw dried droppings at Zora, or to the vegetable garden to find a bold lamb pushing its neck through the coarse-meshed wire netting and putting its tongue out.
    After he had counted the sheep George always knew what to do. The sheep did not.
    Feeling frustrated now, Rameses head-butted Maude, who bleated indignantly. So did Heather. Zora nipped her hindquarters. Strangely enough, Heather didn’t react, but instead Lane, Cordelia, and the two young mother ewes all began bleating at once. Ritchfield’s hooves were scraping up grass and earth. Lane nudged Maisie, the most naïve sheep in the flock. Maisie almost fell over with surprise, and then nipped Cloud lightly in the ear. Cloud kicked out and hit Maude’s foreleg. All the sheep were offended, and all were bleating. Then they fell silent as if at a secret signal, all except for Sir Ritchfield, who was butting everyone and calling for order.
    At that moment Othello came along the footpath. He looked at them with mild surprise, and trotted past them to the cliffs. The sheep exchanged glances. Cloud licked Maude’s ears apologetically. Rameses nibbled Cordelia’s rump. The black ram looked down at the beach and the butcher-shaped imprint on the sand that the sea hadn’t yet washed away. He tilted his head to one side. A moment ago the sheep had been full of questions, but suddenly none of them wanted to trouble Othello. It was enough to know that sheep who have disappeared can come back. They began grazing again with some enjoyment, for the first time that day.
             
    Three men met under the lime tree. One was sweating, the second smelled of soap, the third was breathing stertorously. Their fear prowled around them with gleaming eyes.
    “If Ham