When their weed-dealing shepherd
died on what seemed like a contrived death, the smartest sheep of Glenkill,
Miss Maple along with her flockmates are up to their toes in finding the
perpetrator to make sure justice is exercised. But how hard can it be
especially if one is of their kind, a mere sheep? Along with her admirable flock Mopple The Whale: the memory sheep, Sir Ritchfield: an old ram who’s hard of
hearing and has a poor memory but regarded as a leader, Othello: a black Herbridean four-horned ram who used to work for a
cruel clown in a circus, Zora: a
Blackfaced sheep with penchant for looking into the “abyss”, Melmoth: Sir Ritchfield’s twin brother, Maude: a sheep with a great sense of
smell, Miss Maple sniffs into trails that leads to various clues about their murdered
shepherd, George along with clever observations about the people of Glenkill.
Though I am never the sort who
would bother to pore over a mystery novel (unless of course if it was literally
shoved in my face with a gun aimed at point-blank), I enjoyed it. It was a
mystery novel that did not fall short on being funny, fluffy and thought
provoking. I like how each sheep is gifted with a certain streak yet is still
quite vulnerable if it is to venture out all on its own. I was lucky to find
this book by German writer Leonie Swann during my excursions to bookshops in
the Philippines (October 10-22) and ridiculously priced at 50 pesos (that’s a
dollar plus in Brunei currency). The 2nd
book hasn’t got an English translation yet but I am already on my toes for it. I
would highly recommend this book to those who admired E.B. White’s “Charlotte’s
Web” or to those who just have the thing for mystery, talking animals and
philosophical observations. Read it and you’ll never look at a flock of these
quadrupeds the same way again. Ever!
***
‘ The story does not go on’, said
Melmoth. “A story always ends just when it comes to the end. Like a breath.
Now. But life went on, over hills and dales, away from the roads, along salty
beaches and shimmering rivers, in the misty mountains where the goats of
Wicklow graze, passing through many flocks, like passing through snowflakes,
all the way to the North Sea where the world ends, and on and on – and I just
followed life winding endlessly away, like a mouse running through grass.’
