Paradise Of Sheep

From out of the horizon marched a great army of crags and cliffs, a sight which had always made Littlewood reflect on his decaying teeth.  During visits to the dentist, when being scolded for how putrid he’d allowed his choppers to get, Littlewood would construct an intrepid defence in which he stated how much they resembled the magnificent cliffs and rock columns of the Faroe Islands.  His dentist just got angrier whenever he made the comparison.  Viewed one way, his were a horrible set of teeth indeed; viewed another way, he was carrying one of the most spectacular panoramas in the world right there inside his own gob.

As the islands came closer, Father Stinson stationed himself at the tip of Dolores’ nose, and watched stunned as green hills drenched in frothy seraphic cloud appeared to rise up from the sea like a new world coming.

‘Oh my, who would have thought,’ he said to Geissel, who had already clocked the landscape from starboard bow and had his arms stretched out in dramatic fashion as though he was welcoming the saviour.  There were more seabirds than one could ever hope to see in one place covering the ridges and tiny islets like a white feather quilt: you could see guillemots, kittiwakes, petrels, snow geese, gannets, grebes, albatrosses, and gulls.  But no puffins.  Not yet anyway.  Geissel was relieved not to see any as the thought of the poor wee things steaming on a hot plate hadn’t left him since Littlewood brought it up.  He expected a tear to form in his eye when eventually the puffins came into his line of view.   Also, concern was emerging in the darker corners of his psyche that one day he would find himself in the midst of such a grave hunger that he wouldn’t be able to handle it and he’d just go ahead and say Yes to a plate of the small bird.  Littlewood’s words had stayed with him.  He might have to make all kinds of changes in order to get a bite to eat now that he was in foreign lands.  And that steak back in Killybegs was still skipping about on his tongue.

As they sank deeper into the archipelago, the birds began to change shape.  They got fluffier, fatter, grew an extra pair of legs, and became sheep. 

‘Ah, I didn’t expect it to live up to its name,’ Stinson said, cheerfully.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Geissel.

‘Oh, you never heard?  Faroe means Island of Sheep.  That’s how it translates apparently.  I never thought the name would bear out in literal truth though.  Just like our Emerald Isle doesn’t shine green like a gem every day.’

‘Ah,’ said Geissel, glad of the new insight.  ‘I imagined it had something to do with the Egyptians.’  Father Geissel resolved in that moment to devote a whole chapter in his forthcoming memoirs to the wonderment of arriving at the Faroe Islands; and he would be sure to include the newly acquired sheep scoop. 

While all of this was going on, Masterson was down below in the cabin rifling through the electuary drawer Littlewood had built into the sofa.  He’d been attacking it regularly now for days without anyone noticing – his alchemical compound of choice: a little bit of brandy and vanilla extract mixed with a highly potent cough suppressant.  A drop here and there wouldn’t be remarked upon.  Although partaking on the sly, he knew right well there was no need to sneak around at all; he knew that if he simply asked the Captain for a wee taste, he would be instantly authorised.  But this was not a winning course of action for the wolf priest who could not stand servility of any kind. 

It would be undignified of him to ask.  So instead he crept around nightly and retained his poise as a consequence.