Three Bags Full (8 page)

“Justice!” she bleated.

Only Othello answered her. “Justice!” he bleated back.

The other sheep looked at one another, downcast. Defiantly, they began grazing again. They wanted to show Miss Maple how wonderful a simple, nonthinking sheep life could be. Only Othello, still lost in thought, went on bleating to himself. “Justice,” he bleated quietly. “Justice!”

“What’s justice?”

The winter lamb was there looking at Othello, with his small, shaggy body, his head that was rather too large for it, and his sparkling eyes.

“What’s justice?”

It was really better not to get into conversation with the winter lamb, thought Othello. If the lamb opened his mouth it was usually just to make trouble.

“What’s justice?”

All the same, Othello liked the winter lamb. He was exactly the kind of sheep who would have put the cruel clown at the circus off his stride.

“Justice…” said Othello. The lamb’s eyes widened as the black ram spoke. “Justice,” repeated the ram. What
was
justice? At the zoo, some of the sheep were taken out of the enclosure for the beasts of prey, although no one talked about it. They weren’t the weakest or the most stupid. Just any sheep. That hadn’t been justice. And then Lucifer Smithley had bought Othello for his knife-throwing act, because he was exactly what he was, black and dangerous-looking with his four horns. Because you couldn’t see blood in the black fleece if Lucifer happened not to throw his knives with the diabolical accuracy proclaimed on his poster. That hadn’t been justice either. Then Smithley suffered his stroke. That was justice all right, but afterward Othello was passed on to the cruel clown and his animals, and forced to perform silly tricks in the ring. That was
in
justice! Othello had lost his temper and the clown’s ugly dog hadn’t survived.
That
had been justice, but the clown had sold Othello to the knacker. Unjust! And the knacker took him to the dogfights. Unjust! Unjust! Unjust!

Othello snorted, and the winter lamb looked warily up at him.
Think of the snail’s slimy trail in the grass, think of the time ahead of you
, warned the voice. The ram pulled himself together.

“Justice is when you can trot where you like and graze where you want. When you can fight to go your own way. When no one steals your way from you. That’s justice!” Suddenly Othello felt very sure of himself.

The winter lamb cocked his overlarge head. Either derision or respect played around his nostrils.

“And they stole George’s way?” he asked.

Othello nodded. “His way to Europe.”

“But perhaps George wanted to steal someone else’s way, and they fought. That would have been justice!”

Othello was surprised to find how well the winter lamb understood him.

“George would never have stolen someone else’s way,” he said.

“But suppose he did after all,” said the winter lamb. “Perhaps he couldn’t help it. Sometimes you have to steal because no one wants to give you anything. Who’s to blame if no one wants to give you anything?”

“God is!” said Othello without even stopping to think about it.

“The long-nosed man? Why?” asked the winter lamb.

But Othello had trotted back into the past and didn’t hear him. He was looking through fences, through more and more fences. And snowflakes. The first snow Othello had ever seen. But instead he had to trot after the clown to steal a handkerchief from his pocket. The clown stumbled, and the children in their warm caps and jackets laughed.

The kick the clown gave him when he finally got to his feet was not faked.

“Why does the sheep have to work at Christmas?” a child’s voice asked. “It’s unjust!”

A woman laughed. “Of course it’s just. God made animals to serve human beings. That’s the way it is.”

Othello snorted angrily. That’s the way it was! The winter lamb standing beside him snorted too, a comical imitation of his own anger. Then the lamb kicked up his heels cheekily and ran away over the meadow, leaping like a goat.

The horizon was rosy as a March lamb’s muzzle now. Looking toward the village, Othello froze as he saw the black silhouette of a sheep. A few moments later other sheep appeared against the morning sky. And among the sheep, tall and clearly visible, was a figure wearing a slouch hat. Gabriel the shepherd was driving his flock toward their meadow.

8

No One Answers Zora

A white butterfly, a milk dancer, a piece of wind silk flew by. Silk was made from caterpillars, huge flocks of little crawling worms. Humans boiled the worms and stole their skin, sheep were shorn. Humans didn’t mind whether they covered their own bare skin with worm juice or wool, so long as it was white, so long as it kept them warm. They all wanted to be as white as lambs, but they couldn’t bear it, they came out in colors, they stank. They were still naked, though, that was the secret, the naked secret. Human beings stood naked before Things, delivered up to Things, betrayed by and betraying Things.

What had it been this time? A spade, wasn’t that it? The memory made him shake—with laughter. A singeing sadness crept up his left hind hoof.

It was a fine day, and he was drowning in green. The fluttering white scrap above him had no chance against the green. The fragrant air wafted around him, the air singer willingly sank down. Green stretched all the way to the horizon. Green was the song of unreason. It grew without sense or understanding, urging all creatures to do the same. And they did. Green was the most beautiful commandment in the world.

Quietly, another voice had appeared on the horizon: the little red voice sang its way through the madness of the world. Only a fool would have ignored it. He straightened up, puffing for breath, and peered through the tall grass. The crow on his back flew up in the air.

A woman was coming down the road. She was concealed by a straw hat with a very broad brim that threw a sharp shadow right down to her neck, but she must be a young woman. She was carrying a suitcase with ease. Only a very young woman would have dared to wear such a red dress, red as the heart’s blood from her shoulders to her calves. A fresh, strong scent went ahead of her, darkened by earth and healthy sweat. A scent to fall in love with.

She stopped and put her case down in the middle of the road. That wasn’t clever. A car could suddenly come out of the green nowhere and splash her dress over the tarmac. He didn’t run the risk of going on roads himself, but the woman was not bothered. She was tall and stood well above the green. Reason and fire. The grass would bow to her. She mopped her cheeks with a scarf wound around her right wrist. When she looked up at the sky, he saw her face. Only for a moment, before the sharp shadow fell over her eyes and nose in the direction of the red dress. She leaned down and took a road map out of her case. A stranger then, not someone coming home. Or could you come home to a strange place? Could you come home at all? She belonged here, mistress of the green. But what would the pale people say? The pale people sitting in the village, chopping up their memories?

She swore very well, like a drover. Then she laughed, a strange laugh. Penetrating as a bleat.

The woman picked up her case again with a vigorous movement. You could tell she had put it down to think, and not because she needed a rest. Then, unexpectedly, she left the road.

She almost found him in the tall grass. Fancy leaving the tarmac without fluttering her eyelashes or rolling her eyes! Most humans hesitate before stepping off their roads. They’re suspicious, their feet are tender, as if the ground were full of holes to make them stumble, and their first steps are like walking through mud. The woman had left the road decisively, like a sheep following her nose. She was still following her nose now, clever as a sheep as she made her way toward the village. She hadn’t let the road lead her astray. She’d make the pale people dance, swinging their spades in a big circle. Something to look forward to.

The sheep had always been sure that Gabriel must be an excellent shepherd, if only because of his clothes: in winter and summer alike he wore a cape of undyed sheep’s wool. Some even said it was unwashed sheep’s wool. Gabriel smelled as much like a sheep as a human can. Specially in wet weather.

Gabriel knew how to pay a sheep compliments. Not with words, as George sometimes did (though not often enough), but just by looking at the sheep with his blue eyes and never once blinking. That sort of thing tickled a sheep’s soul and made it go weak at the knees.

The sheep had great expectations of Gabriel’s abilities as a shepherd.

Not much had happened yet, however. Gabriel’s dogs had briefly herded them together, and Gabriel had counted them without a single sound. Gabriel’s dogs never barked. Ever. They just stared at the sheep, which was enough to make cold wolf fears chase up from their hoofs to the marrow of their bones.

Gabriel was standing outside the shepherd’s caravan, as silent as the dolmen. His blue eyes looked at every single sheep, one by one, as if he wanted to find out something. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded his head once at every sheep. Most of the sheep were sure that it had been an appreciative nod. Gabriel had inspected them and approved of them. It was exciting. They were a little proud—until Othello ruined their good mood.

“He was counting us,” he puffed in annoyance, “just counting us, that’s all.”

Unlike the rest of his flock, Othello had not been pleased to see the new shepherd. He stood apart from the others, thinking dark thoughts.

An old anger sparkled in Othello’s eyes. He recognized an animal tamer at once: the same few gestures, the same boredom in the eyes. The same malice behind that deceptive friendliness. The cruel clown had been a tamer too, using sugar and hunger and stealthy torment. He had implanted anger in Othello, and Othello was surprised to find that anger still so fresh and intact after all this time.

But he would no longer give way to the anger just like that. He had learned to control his anger with patience.

It was the day when the clown didn’t close the shed door straightaway but instead bent over the box of props, turning his behind to Othello. Hungrily, Othello put his nose in the hay, but his eyes never left the clown’s behind for a moment.

He forgot the hay.

He lowered his horns.

At that moment he heard the voice for the first time. A strangely dark, soft voice which had many things hidden in it.

“Careful, black ram,” said the voice behind him. “Your anger’s already lowered its horns, you’re seeing red, and if you don’t watch out your anger will gallop away from you.”

Othello didn’t even turn round. “So?” he snorted. “So what? Why shouldn’t it? He deserves it.”

A crow fluttered past outside the window.

“But you don’t deserve it,” mocked the voice. “Who do you think you’re turning your anger on? Not him, the man who grazes on fear, who drives terror into people. Your anger’s turned on yourself, and once it charges you, you won’t be able to stand up to it.”

Othello merely snorted.

He kept his horns lowered and his eyes fixed on the clown.

But he didn’t charge.

“So what?” he snorted again.

The voice did not reply.

Othello turned. A gray ram with mighty horns stood behind him. A ram in the prime of life, all muscles and sinews and grace of movement under the thick fleece. His amber eyes sparkled with goblin light in the dark stable. Feeling awkward, Othello looked away.

The clown emerged from the property box, slammed the stable door, and walked off. The world spun under Othello’s feet in his disappointment. The strange ram nuzzled him. He smelled peculiar, of a great many things that Othello couldn’t understand.

“There now,” the gray ram murmured in his ear, “head like a drop of water on a branch, right? If your anger had galloped away he’d have known you, he’d have seen over your horns into your eyes, into your heart. This way he knows nothing. Everything he doesn’t know is to your advantage.
Find their weak points
. The old game.” Suddenly the ram looked amused.

Othello twitched his ears to get rid of all these words buzzing round him in the dark. But the gray ram gave him no time to get his breath back.

“Forget your anger,” said the ram now. “Think of the snail’s slimy trail in the grass, think of the time ahead of you.”

“But I am angry!” said Othello, just for something to say.

“Then fight!” said the ram.

“How can I fight when he keeps me locked up?” snorted Othello. Now that he had Othello’s interest, the ram turned as monosyllabic as a mother ewe in a bad mood. “Nothing helps!”

“
Thinking will help
,” said the ram.

“I do think,” said Othello. “I think day and night.” It wasn’t quite true, because at night he usually fell asleep in a corner of the stable.

“Then you’re thinking of the wrong thing!” said the ram, unimpressed. Othello said nothing.

“What do you think of?” asked the gray ram.

“Hay,” admitted Othello in a small voice.

As he had expected, the ram shook his head disapprovingly. “Think of the way a mole’s coat shines, think of the sound the wind makes in the bushes and the feeling in your stomach when you trot down a slope. Think of the way the path smells ahead of you, think of the freedom the wind is blowing your way. But never think of hay again.”

Othello looked at the gray ram. His stomach felt peculiar, but not with hunger.

“Or if you want to keep it simple,” said the gray ram, “think of me.”

Othello thought of the gray ram, and his anger retreated behind his four horns where it belonged. The sheep in his flock were still looking at him with surprise.

“Gabriel was counting us,” he told them grumpily. “He was only counting us.”

Now that Othello said it, they thought so too, and they were disappointed. But their mood soon improved. If even being counted by Gabriel was such a friendly, mysterious process, they could imagine how exciting the really important things would turn out to be—things like his filling the hayrack, spreading straw, and feeding them mangel-wurzels. Most of all, they couldn’t wait to find out what Gabriel would read aloud to them.

“Poetry,” sighed Cordelia. They didn’t know exactly what poetry was, but it must be beautiful, because Pamela in the novels often had men reading poetry aloud to her in the moonlight, and George, who never had a good word to say about Pamela herself, would stop being so angry and sigh.

“Or something about clover,” said Mopple hopefully.

“About the sea and the sky and fearlessness,” said Zora.

“Not about the diseases of sheep, anyway,” said Heather. “What do you think, Othello?”

Othello said nothing.

“He’ll read in a good loud voice, loud and clear, just the way it should be,” said Sir Ritchfield.

“He’ll explain lots of new words to us,” said Cordelia.

They were getting more and more curious. What in the world
would
Gabriel read to them? They could hardly wait for the afternoon reading time to come.

“Why don’t we ask
them
?” suggested Cloud. She meant the other sheep, Gabriel’s own flock. Gabriel’s dogs had herded them together at one side of the meadow, and Gabriel was busy putting a wire fence round them. George’s sheep weren’t sure what to think, because it made their meadow quite a bit smaller.

“Just where the mouse weed grows,” grumbled Maude. The others didn’t mind about the mouse weed. It was the general principle that bothered them.

On the other hand, they were glad that Gabriel’s sheep wouldn’t be running around with them, because they found them rather weird. Short legs, long backs, long and humorless noses, restless eyes, and peculiarly pale coloring. They didn’t smell good either. Not unhealthy but nervous and lifeless. The oddest thing about them was that they had almost no fleece, just a curly, dense down on their skin. Yet you could see they hadn’t been shorn recently. Why did Gabriel have sheep that didn’t grow wool? What was the use of them?

How happy Gabriel must be now he had such a woolly flock as themselves at last. Soon he would send the other sheep away. Until then, they agreed, the best way of getting along with Gabriel’s sheep was to ignore them. But now they were tormented by curiosity.

“I’d go and ask what he reads them,” said Maude, “only my nostrils itch when I get too close to them.”

They looked at Sir Ritchfield. As lead ram he could be expected to make contact with the strange flock. But Ritchfield shook his head. “Patience!” he snorted.

Mopple didn’t dare, Othello suddenly seemed to have lost all interest in literature, and the other sheep were too proud to speak to the fleeceless flock.

Finally Zora volunteered. She had done a great deal of thinking on her rocky ledge, and believed that pride, however well justified, shouldn’t prevent sheep from finding out as much as possible about the world. When Gabriel was busy with a roll of wire netting behind the caravan, she trotted off.

Gabriel’s sheep were grazing. The first thing Zora noticed about them was how close together they kept, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. It seemed uncomfortable, grazing in such a cramped space. No one took any notice of Zora, although her scent must have reached them long before she did. She stopped just beyond the flock and waited politely for someone to speak to her. One or another of the sheep sometimes raised its head and looked nervously in all directions, but its eyes passed straight through Zora as if she were invisible. Zora watched them for a while in surprise. Then she lost patience and bleated loudly.

Their muzzles stopped grazing, their necks rose. Countless pale eyes stared at her. Zora was used to looking into an abyss. She stood in front of them as if she were standing in a cold wind, and faced them down.

Perhaps it was a test to see how brave she was. Zora waggled her ears briskly and playfully pulled up a few blades of grass. Nothing happened.

At the other side of the flock, a few of the sheep lowered their heads again, and a monotonous munching sound told her that they had gone back to grazing. But most of their eyes were still bent on Zora. She had to admit those eyes made her uneasy. There was a flickering light in them, the kind that sometimes played across the sky on days when the weather was very bad. On such days a sheep could hardly think clearly at all.