One day, the old farmer was out on the hillside with his flock when one of the younger, more inquisitive sheep asked him a curious question that he had not been asked before.

“Old Man, we know that the sun, which crosses our sky each day, is the gigantic firefly king, racing his chariot from east to west in search of his Mother Moon.”

“This is true,” cried an elder sheep. “For should he ever catch-up with Mother Moon, night and day will become one again.”

“Like a beautiful, infinite dawn,” they sang “and the evil foxes would have no darkness to hide their terrible deeds.”

The old farmer sat down nodding his head, pleased of how astutely the sheep were able to remember his fine words and relay his time-honoured insights.

“Old Man, we know that the trees that stand in the monstrous forest are there to imprison the bears; their cages and bars were thrown like spears from the benevolent clouds in order to shield us sheep - sisters to the clouds - from the bears evil clutches and gapping jaws.”

“Yes,” sang some of the elder sheep who had heard the tale countless times, “this is why we must stay away from the forest and graze under the watchful eyes of our sisters, the clouds.”

There was a chorus of agreement amongst the flock.

“B-b-b-ut,” stammered the lamb, feeling pressured by the interest of the flock, “where does this grass we so enjoy come from. And why does it always grow back after we have eaten it?”

“Ah,” said the old man puffing on his pipe, “what a fine question indeed. You should feel proud of your deep thoughts and courage in owning-up to your lack of awareness. Indeed, the laws and nature of things are at times, difficult to comprehend.” The old man bellowed a mouthful of smoke as the flock gasped in anticipation. “Look around you sheep. What do you see?” he began. They turned their heads, this way and that. There were the three mountains encircling the valley, and the valley itself, from which, only the tops of the houses and the old church spire could be seen. Nobody said a word. “I’ll tell you what, on each of the three mountains there is grass. To the north, cows roam the hillside and to the west, goats nurture themselves on the lush fields. This is because each mountain is in fact the head of a sleeping giant. King of the Cows, King of the Goats and King of Sheep respectively. As you eat his grass, or should I say hair, it gradually grows back, the same way you grow a new coat each winter.”

“But what if the giant should awake?” asked an elder sheep. “We might fall from the hillside and perish in the valley below.”

“Giants sleep for many thousands of years. Time - to them - is on a scale relative to their size. Like a flea that lives and dies on your back within a day and knows no world beyond you. This giant will out-sleep us all, provided we do not wake him.”

The flock gasped with terror and fascination.

“But,” warned the old farmer, “do not try to wake him. When you feel scared at night and cry-out, and my poor wife’s sleep is interrupted, imagine what the giant hears. You must be brave at night, even when the storms blow, and rains fall, try not to beckon me, for you might startle the giant and perish in the valley below.”

The flock nodded in unison, absorbing the great significance of what the old man said.

That night, the old Farmer was back at the farmhouse having dinner with his wife. She had long ago forgotten how to speak but that did not deter the old man from talking incessantly about the day to day economics of the farm. In fact the old man had grown quite used to the Ole’ Bitch and her foolish ways. He’d make a statement, imagine a response and then carry on talking as if her indignant glares and dispassionate body-language meant nothing at all.

“I’ll be going down to that wretched town tomorrow. Gosh, this dinner is over-cooked, you trying to burn me! You’d love to do away with me would you, Ole’ Bitch. Just remember who paid for this life of leisure you lead. I’ll be staying overnight, much to get done in that awful place. You’ll be fine up here won’t you? You will and no I won’t see our girl, she’s runaway, I told you, a no-good daughter, she takes after you I’m sure. If only you’d have given me a son, who knows what will happen to that flock when I’m six feet under…”

The night was a sleepless, restless night for the sheep, which wanted to cry out against the howl of the winds so as to reassure one another. But they were worried what the giant might do if he awoke, so they trembled in silence. Naturally, they were in a sombre mood as they watched the old man depart the farmhouse for the valley below.

“How wonderful it must be to go to the town,” said the black sheep, eventually.

“What!” cried, an elder. “The old man tells us of the sinister goings on - of the witches and the demons and the monkey-bats. Why on earth should we want to go to town?”

“It’s just,” replied the black sheep, who was young and naive. “How do we know? I mean, when the old man gets back he is always filled with cheer.”

“It is because he has sold our wool and survived the sinister elements of the town. This is his source of his joy. I assure you, we have a fine master and we live safely here on the giant’s head. Now eat some hair, eat up.”

Returning from the town some days later the old man was rose cheeked and jubilant when suddenly, he noticed his sheep were not where they usually grazed. He whistled but heard nothing. Concerned, he asked his wife where they had gone but of course, she said nothing, Ole’ Bitch. The giant firefly had only a few hours left to run its course across the sky and then darkness would enshroud the land. Hurriedly the farmer dashed out onto the hillside. He climbed far and wide, searching for his sheep. Eventually he came upon the flock, gathered round the ancient stone circle, in quiet unison.

“My sheep, where have you been? Why did you not follow me when I called?”

On closer examination the farmer saw they were sat talking to a young stranger. “Hey, who are you? What are you telling my sheep?”

The young man was thin, smart and sober. As the farmer approached the sheep backed away, scornful and unwelcoming.

“You, where are you from? The town? You’re trespassing!”

“I am not, this mountain belongs to God. You cannot claim a mountain, it is a sin.”

“Who are ya?”

“I am your son.”

“I don’t have a son.”

“Those weekends you spend down in the whore-house. That is where I was conceived, you old scoundrel. Don’t worry; I have not come here to cause your trouble. That is why I waited here rather than at the farmhouse with your wife.”

“You have proof?”

“Of course.” The young man handed over various documents. Eventually the farmer returned them nodding his head acceptingly.

“So what’s your business with me?”

“I want you to know Sir, I desire nothing from you, but to meet with you and inform you of my existence. You are something of a legend in the town, Mad Hank they call you. I just wanted to talk to you, face to face.”

“Yes well, now you have young Sir.”

“You cheated us! You lied!” cried some of the sheep.

“What? What’s this? What nonsense have you been spreading?” asked the old man indignantly.

“It is you, old man that has been cheating your flock. I have merely informed them of the truth. Of science and reason, of the arts and humanities, not your fairytales of giant’s hair and caged bears. Civilization and scholarship provide the answers and they are quite the contrary to your crazy superstitions. Do not worry sir; I understand you are an ignorant old man who hasn’t been formally schooled.”

The old farmer turned to the sheep in disbelief. “You cannot believe this, this intruder, this stranger, this…”

“He’s you son,” said the young black sheep. “And we do. He has brought evidence.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Sir I have illustrated science books here in my satchel with pictures of the stars. I have maps and geography texts to explain how the mountains and forests formed. I have biology books explaining the inner-workings of our …”

“So you did come here to cause trouble,” growled the old man.

“No Sir, I am training to become a school teacher. I was sat here awaiting you when the sheep confronted me and we began to talk of what you had taught them. It is only because there is no-one up here to contradict you that you have succeeded in propagating such fantasies.”

“Be off with you. Leave my mountain, before the giant awakes and gobbles you up.” The old man was aged but portly and aggressive. His son felt it wise and dignified to retire back to the valley below.

For weeks afterwards the old man’s fortunes went from bad to worse. The sheep no longer acknowledged his authority. Some grew interested in the methods of science and wished to explore the forest, analyse the tree growth and study the flora and fauna within. Amongst the trees many died at the hands of predators but the sheep remained unperturbed. Truth and the pursuit of knowledge mattered more than life itself, it seemed.

Others began to indulge their creative urges, writing poetry and painting. They lived dreamy, unregimented lives, free from the confines of orthodoxy and tradition but neglected their health, preferring the old man’s homebrew to the water in the stream.

Then one day the young man returned. His voice was slurred and his face reddened as he yelled towards the farmhouse. “Because I’m the son of a whore, damn you old maniac! My life is cursed, has always been cursed! Who wants the son of a renowned deviant and professional whore to teach their children, who, nobody, that’s who! I am jobless, useless…”

The old man was no fool, and seeing an opportunity, he invited his son inside to speak with him.

The next day the sheep were busy writing protest songs and analysing the tectonic collisions that had created the landscape that surrounded them, when the old man came outside accompanied by his young son. The sheep were all malnourished, their fleeces thin and mottled.

“Look at you,” said the old man. “Since you stopped listening to me you have grown sick.”

“We have more important things to do than graze our lives away just to grow wool for you!” replied an impertinent elder.

“Listen,” said the young man. “I have something to say.” He rubbed his face free of sweat beads. “The sun is a burning chariot chasing the moon. The forest is a cage for bears. This is the truth. I came up here before to tell you lies because I was angry at my father for abandoning me. That is all.”

The sheep looked around, confused, unnerved. Eventually one spoke. “Then what is a rock?”

“Giant dandruff.” replied the Young Man.

“Where does rain come from?”

“Your sisters the clouds are crying.”

The sheep resolved that if both men agreed, then what they said must be true. They looked around at their mottled coats and dishevelled bodies. They lamented those friends lost in the pursuit of science. They threw away the poems they’d composed to express their deepest emotions and went back to grazing, safe in the knowledge that the farmer and his son could explain everything to them.

And they all lived happily ever after, except for the farmer’s wife who disappeared down the well. Some lambs said they heard her scream “liar,” and “cheat,” until the elders noted she had long ago forgotten how to speak.

By Tom Bird

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