The Southland sheep lounge along the emerald hills. It is the woolly Sabbath, a day of rest for sheep; and being earnest in their toil, they work hard at rest. Now and then – when they can be bothered - they haughtily glide over the grass and, careful to avoid the muck, take a lazy bite at its contents. “Bhaaaha!”, “ahgaaha!”, A collective peace and thanksgiving resonates throughout the blessed multitude, and the eternal promise of the dozy day is fulfilled.
The echoing praise abruptly falters and one, then two, then six, then fifty, and then hundreds more turn their attention upon the heights: where a ragged man with unfettered hair, a wrinkled and pockmarked face and a beard of about a fists length settles into focus. He holds his tattered coat to his chest with a metallic object under his right arm and a jack-o-lantern grin spreads like butter across his grizzly features. He looks a carnivorous beast, lurking about for prey.
Compelled against presentiment, the sheep draw towards the figure by a feeling – no doubt - of purpose, destiny and finality. Nothing like this has ever happened on the woolly Sabbath, and to forgo the stranger in their midst would be impious. And so slowly, they surround the foreigner.