Leonie Swann - Three Bags Full: A Sheep Detective Story

A Note of Warning

The sheep of Glennkill are exceptional sheep. Ordinary sheep dont tolerate either alcohol or drugs. I must ask my readers not to tempt sheep to take any narcotic substances. If you really want to give a sheep something nice, try bread or genuine grass.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to M. E. Frensch, S. ODonovan, my family, Florian O., Chlo H., Laura von O., Renate G., Ortwin D., Stefanie W., Sonja T., Stefanie S., K. La Storia, and A. Bohnenkamp. Special thanks to Louise C., Tanja K., and Martin S.

Very special thanks to Orla OToole, for our conversations at Leenane Sheep & Wool Centre (Connemara, Ireland) and for inspiring insights into the eventful lives of sheep.

For their help and enthusiasm, I would like to thank my agent, Astrid Poppenhausen; my German editor, Claudia Negele; and my English editor, Jane Lawson.

Many thanks to M., for great contributions and all kinds of everything.

About the Author

Leonie Swann was born in 1975. She took degrees in philosophy, psychology, and communications from Munich University, spent some time in Paris and Ireland, worked in journalism and public relations, and is currently preparing a doctorate in English literature. Three Bags Full, her first novel, is being translated into six languages.

1

Othello Boldly Grazes Past

He was healthy yesterday, said Maude. Her ears twitched nervously.

That doesnt mean anything, pointed out Sir Ritchfield, the oldest ram in the flock. He didnt die of an illness. Spades are not an illness.

The shepherd was lying in the green Irish grass beside the hay barn, not far from the path through the fields. He didnt move. A single crow had settled on his woolly Norwegian sweater and was studying his internal arrangements with professional interest. Beside the crow sat a very happy rabbit. Rather farther off, close to the edge of the cliff, the sheep were holding a meeting.

They had kept calm that morning when they found their shepherd lying there so unusually cold and lifeless, and were extremely proud of it. In the first flush of alarm, naturally there had been a few frantic cries of Whos going to bring us hay now? and A wolf! Theres a wolf about!, but Miss Maple had been quick to quell any panic. She explained that here on the greenest, richest pasture in all Ireland only idiots would eat hay in midsummer anyway, and even the most sophisticated wolves didnt drive spades through the bodies of their victims. For such a tool was undoubtedly sticking out of the shepherds insides, which were now wet with dew.

Miss Maple was the cleverest sheep in all Glennkill. Some even claimed that she was the cleverest sheep in the world, but no one could prove it. There was in fact an annual Smartest Sheep in Glennkill contest, but Maples extraordinary intelligence showed in the very fact that she did not take part in such competitions. The winner, after being crowned with a wreath of shamrock (which it was then allowed to eat), spent several days touring the pubs of the neighboring villages, and was constantly expected to perform the trick that had erroneously won it the title, eyes streaming as it blinked through clouds of tobacco smoke, with the customers pouring Guinness down its throat until it couldnt stand up properly. Furthermore, from then on the winning sheeps shepherd held it responsible for each and every prank played out at pasture, since the cleverest animal was always going to be the prime suspect.

George Glenn would never again hold any sheep responsible for anything. He lay impaled on the ground beside the path while his sheep wondered what to do next. They were standing on the cliffs between the watery-blue sky and the sky-blue sea, where they couldnt smell the blood, and they did feel responsible.

He wasnt a specially good shepherd, said Heather, who was still not much more than a lamb and still bore George a grudge for docking her beautiful tail at the end of last winter.

Exactly! said Cloud, the woolliest and most magnificent sheep ever seen. He didnt appreciate our work. Norwegian sheep do it better, he said! Norwegian sheep give more wool! He had sweaters made of foreign wool sent from Norwayits a disgrace! What other shepherd would insult his own flock like that?

There ensued a discussion of some length between Heather, Cloud, and Mopple the Whale. Mopple the Whale insisted that you judged a shepherds merits by the quantity and quality of the fodder he provided, and in this respect there was nothing, nothing whatsoever, to be said against George Glenn. Finally they agreed that a good shepherd was one who never docked the lambs tails; didnt keep a sheepdog; provided good fodder and plenty of it, particularly bread and sugar but healthy things too like green stuff, concentrated feed, and mangel-wurzels (for they were all very sensible sheep); and who clothed himself entirely in the products of his own flock, for instance an all-in-one suit made of spun sheeps wool, which would look really good, almost as if he were a sheep himself. Of course it was obvious to them all that no such perfect being was to be found anywhere in the world, but it was a nice idea all the same. They sighed a little, and were about to scatter, pleased to think that they had cleared up all outstanding questions.

So far, however, Miss Maple had taken no part in the discussion. Now she said, Dont you want to know what he died of?

Sir Ritchfield looked at her in surprise. He died of that spade. You wouldnt have survived it either, a heavy iron thing like that driven right through you. No wonder hes dead. Ritchfield shuddered slightly.

And where did the spade come from?

Someone stuck it in him. As far as Sir Ritchfield was concerned, that was the end of the matter, but Othello, the only black sheep in the flock, suddenly began taking an interest in the problem.

It can only have been a human who did itor a very large monkey. Othello had spent his youth in Dublin Zoo and never missed an opportunity to mention it.

A human. Maple nodded, satisfied. I think we ought to find out what kind of human. We owe old George that. If a fierce dog took one of our lambs, he always tried to find the culprit. Anyway, he was our shepherd. No one had a right to stick a spade in him. Thats wolfish behavior. Thats murder.

Now the sheep were feeling alarmed. The wind had changed, and the smell of fresh blood was drifting toward the sea.

And when weve found the person who stuck the spade in, asked Heather nervously, then what?

Justice! bleated Othello.

Justice! bleated the other sheep. And so it was decided that George Glenns sheep themselves would solve the wicked murder of their shepherd.

First Miss Maple went over to examine the body. She did it reluctantly: in the summer sun of Ireland, George had already begun to smell bad enough to send a shudder down any sheeps spine.

She started by circling the shepherd at a respectful distance. The crow cawed and fluttered away on black wings. Maple ventured closer, inspected the spade, sniffed Georges clothes and face. Finallyas the rest of the flock, huddling together at a safe distance, held their breathsshe even stuck her nose in the wound and rooted around. At least, that was what it looked like from where the others stood. She came back to them with blood on her muzzle.

Well? asked Mopple, unable to stand the suspense any longer. Mopple never could stand strain of any kind for long.

Hes dead, replied Miss Maple. She didnt seem to want to say any more just now. Then she looked back at the path. We have to be prepared. Sooner or later humans are going to turn up here. We must watch what they do. And wed better not all stand around in a crowd; it looks suspicious. We ought to act naturally.

But we are acting naturally, objected Maude. George is dead. Murdered. Should we be grazing right beside him where the grass is spattered with his blood?