Copyright
Text copyright © Christopher and Christine Russell 2012
Cover illustration copyright © Colin Stimpson 2012
The authors and cover illustrator have asserted their moral rights.
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.jabberwockykids.com
First published 2012 in the United Kingdom under the title The Warrior Sheep Down Under by Egmont UK Limited, 239 Kensington High Street, London W8 6SA.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Source of Production: Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinois, USA
Date of Production: January 2012
Run Number: 16779
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
1. The Sound of Destiny
2. Sheep Ahoy
3. The Fairy Godtingy
4. Barton’s Billabong
5. Down Under
6. Lamb Overboard
7. Shelly and Trevor
8. Maiden Tower
9. Not Maiden Tower
10. Almost Human
11. Bungee...!
12. Rose’s Ruse
13. The Lock Picker
14. Tickler’s Turnpike
15. Mr. Creeply Arrives
16. Bubble-Bubble
17. Merino Geyser
18. Eyes in the Mud
19. The Chosen Few
20. Maiden Over
21. Trapped and Lost
22. No Reply
23. Boomer and Jaz
24. The Bunyip
25. The Jumpup Trail
26. Wind in the Wires
27. Searching for Frank
28. Snapping Monsters
29. Tuftella
30. Avaricia
31. The Rowboat
32. The Countdown
33. The Final Thunder
34. Crazy Brits
About the Authors
Back Cover
This book is dedicated to Rachel Boden,
first champion of the Warrior Sheep.
1
The Sound of Destiny
There it goes again.”
The sheep all listened. It was a sound that was beginning to worry them. A kind of sobbing and sighing and tapping all in one.
“It’s the sea, man,” said Links, the Lincoln Longwool.
“No, it isn’t,” said Jaycey, the pretty little Jacob. “The sea goes whoosh, splash, whoosh.”
“My stomachs are going gurgle, gurgle, gurgle,” complained Oxo, the large Oxford ram. “When’s that Rose going to bring our lunch?”
“We’ve only just had breakfast, dear,” pointed out Sal, the Southdown ewe. “She gave us cauliflowers, remember? Just like home.”
Home. For a moment they all paused and stared at the grass beneath their hooves. It was two days now since they’d left their home at Eppingham Farm. Not that they were particularly worried about being away. They were, after all, no ordinary ovines. They were Ida White’s rare breeds flock. They were the Eppingham Five. The Warrior Sheep. In fact, they had all been excited when Ida told them they were to have a vacation at the seaside. It would be a little adventure. Nothing like the grand adventures that had taken them to the North and the West, but a bit of a change while Ida and her grandson Tod were in Australia, visiting Ida’s brother, Frank.
Ida had explained that Australia was a long way away and, much as she would like to, she couldn’t afford to take them with her. So that was all right and, at first, the sheep had liked Murkton-on-Sea. It was very nice in its seasidey way. And Ida’s sister, Rose, who was looking after them, was perfectly nice too. And so was the field and the grazing and the hut in the corner where they sheltered from the wind. Everything was perfectly nice. Except for that sound.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Wills, the Balwen Welsh lamb. He was standing a little away from the rest, gazing down at the harbor below. “It’s just the wind. When it blows through the rigging of the yachts down there it makes those weird noises.”
A breeze wafted sea mist up toward them and the sound grew stronger.
Links tossed his curls. “Respect,” he said. “Wills, you is probably right but, man, that noise is gettin’ on my nerves.” He raised and nodded his woolly head, then began to rap.
“We’s real turned off by this seaside ting,
It’s maybe OK if you’s a bird on the wing,
But we is sheep, and we can only rap,
And it ain’t no use against the sob, sigh, and tap.
You hear what I’m sayin: the sob, sigh, and tap?
It’s drivin’ me crazy, so give me a map,
An’ help me escape from the land of the haddock,
Way back inland to my Eppingham paddock…”
Links was pleased with “haddock.” He didn’t actually know what a haddock was, but he’d heard the word recently and it was a great rhyme for “paddock.”
Still nodding, he turned to see if the others were about to join in with his rap but the grass between him and the hut was now empty of sheep. Oxo’s broad head appeared in the hut doorway.
“You’d better come in, mate,” he called. “Sal’s being inspired.”
While Links ambled toward the hut, Sal’s inspiration was turning to irritation.
“Yachts in the harbor, is it?” she scoffed at Wills. “The ropes and wires and the masts and things?”
Wills nodded, suddenly afraid to say more. Not only was he the youngest of the Eppingham Five, he was also an orphan and had had no mother to teach him the ways of sheep. Instead, he’d been brought up in Ida White’s farmhouse kitchen, along with her grandson, Tod. Because of this start in life, he knew something of human ways, which had proved very useful at times, but such knowledge had never impressed Sal. She saw it as her task to impart sheepliness to the skinny lamb in front of her. To educate Wills. The others needed her guidance too, of course. Constantly. But Wills needed it most because of his very unsheeply habit of thinking for himself. That was what he was doing now, and doing it while Sal was being inspired.
Links squeezed into the hut. The breeze and the weird, worrying sound wafted in after him. Sal turned and stood with her head to one side, listening. She could hear the sounds of Despair. Of someone Trapped. Helpless. Sorrowful. In Danger. Tap, tap, tapping in the Forlorn Hope of Rescue…She turned again to Wills, who was shifting uncomfortably from hoof to hoof, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“You may, just possibly, be right,” she said.
Wills looked up, surprised.
“Whereas,” continued Sal, glaring at him, “the Songs of the Fleece are never wrong.”
She swiftly turned her yellow-eyed glare on the others, cutting short their collective groan. “Were they wrong about Lambad the Bad?” she demanded. “No! We listened to the prophetic verses and we travel
ed North to vanquish Lambad. Were they wrong about Red Tongue? No! We listened again and went West to destroy the evil monster Red Tongue. Twice we have listened and twice we have saved sheepdom from slavery and extinction. The Songs of the Fleece were not wrong then. So why should they be wrong about Tuftella?”
“Tuftella?” the other sheep inquired loudly as one. Even Wills.
Sal regarded them as if they were a lost cause. “Yes, Tuftella. The fairest ewe of all.”
Jaycey pouted but said nothing.
Sal closed her eyes and began to recite.
“Tuftella, fairest ewe of all,
One day will into danger fall.
Where once she grazed on mountains high,
Her fleece the finest ’neath the sky,
Her ears, her hooves the daintiest yet,
That caused to swoon each ram she met,
Alas, alack, the time will come
When she is hidden from the sun,
And locked in darkest tower tall
Whilst ’neath her snapping monsters crawl.
A sheeply maiden in distress…”
“What’s a maiden?” interrupted Oxo, his voice low and serious this time.
“A young female,” whispered Wills. “Like Jaycey.”
Oxo glanced at Jaycey. “Is she in distress then?”
“Only when her fleece goes frizzy in the rain,” murmured Wills with a giggle. “Distress means trouble.”
“When you’ve all quite finished!” said Sal without opening her eyes. She waited for silence then resumed.
“A sheeply maiden in distress,
How sharply will her troubles press.
Her plaintive cries will waft and float
Across the sea to shores remote.
But who will heed them, who will ride
To break her free, to take her side?
Who will face the final thunder,
And lift Tuftella from Down Under?”
Nobody spoke. Then, eventually:
“Um. Us?” ventured Wills.
“Of course it’s us!” cried Sal. “It can only be us. We’re the Warrior Sheep!”
“Too right, man,” agreed Links. “Let’s get rescuin’!”
“Yeah! Bring on the snapping monsters!” roared Oxo, pawing the ground and eyeballing the nearest doorpost.
Only Jaycey was unmoved by the tidal wave of enthusiasm. She hadn’t at all liked the “fairest ewe” bit. Or the line about Tuftella’s fleece being the “finest.” Or her ears and hooves the “daintiest.” The Songs of the Fleece were so last year and garbage. If there was any swooning to be done, whatever that was, rams with decent eyesight should be doing it at Jaycey’s feet, not tacky Tuftella’s. What a stupid name anyway.
“And where’s this Down Under?” she asked sniffily. “If it’s farther than North or West, you can forget it.”
The question produced instant silence. Only Wills ever knew the answer to this kind of thing. All eyes turned to him.
“Um. Australia, I think. And maybe New Zealand too.”
“Australia!” Sal’s gasp caused the little hut to wobble. “Isn’t that where Tod and Ida have gone? A very, very long way away?”
Wills nodded. “On the other side of the world.”
“That’s that then,” said Jaycey, flouncing past the others and out into the field. “Tuftella will just have to save her own fly-bitten fleece.”
The others followed her out. The breeze was stronger now and the sound of sighing and sobbing filled their heads. Even Jaycey began to feel a bit ashamed of herself.
Wills still felt sure it was the wind in the boats’ rigging. And yet…It also did sound like someone crying and calling for help. And as Sal had pointed out, the prophetic verses had never been wrong. Wills turned suddenly, wriggled under the fence, and trotted quickly away down the winding lane to the sea. The others followed, not knowing why, but somehow drawn toward the sad sound calling to them. Calling from across the water.
They stopped on the harbor wall, behind a pile of lobster pots, and stared hopelessly at the waves. Somewhere out there was Down Under. But how could they possibly cross this mighty ocean?
Then Wills’s eyes were drawn to the bulk of a large boat moored in the harbor. Tethered to the wall. Tethered like a sleek, powerful animal. Wills had never seen such a vessel, even on television in the farmhouse kitchen. He could tell it was fast: its twin hulls seemed to lean forward eagerly and when the engines suddenly started, their roar and rumble scared and thrilled him in equal measure. He crept nearer still and saw the name painted on the boat’s hull: DESTINY.
Crew members were hurrying to and fro, loading supplies from vans parked on the quayside.
“What’s the panic, Skip?” panted one of the men as he shouldered a box labeled Very Expensive Cosmetics.
“The owner just phoned,” replied the skipper. “She’ll be here in half an hour. And she doesn’t take kindly to being kept waiting.”
“She must be mega rich to own a boat like this!” called one of the van drivers. The skipper didn’t reply. The van driver called again. “So where you headed?”
“New Zealand,” grunted the skipper.
“What, all the way Down Under?”
“Yep. Not bad for a maiden voyage, eh?”
• • •
On the harbor wall, Wills stood frozen. But his head was spinning. He heard himself mumbling.
“Destiny…Down Under…Down Under…Maiden Voyage…Maiden…Maiden in Distress…Sheeply Maiden in Distress. DOWN UNDER…MAIDEN IN DISTRESS…DESTINY…MAIDEN VOYAGE!”
He steadied himself. The others were staring at him, openmouthed.
“Quick,” Wills breathed. “We’ve got a boat to catch!”
2
Sheep Ahoy
What the heck are they?”
“Sheep, Skip,” replied the deckhand.
They were indeed sheep. Five of them. Standing at the top of the gangway, blinking at the two men.
“Where did they come from?”
The deckhand shrugged. “One of the vans, I s’pose. I’ll ask the drivers when they get back from coffee.”
The skipper glanced irritably at his watch. “No. Just get rid of them.”
“What if they’re her pets?” asked the deckhand helpfully.
“She never said anything about bringing sheep!”
“She never said anything about bringing her own chef,” replied the deckhand. “And he’s already in the galley slicing up mangoes.”
“Yes, all right, all right.” The skipper gestured sharply.
The sheep saw and nipped quickly aboard.
“Put them in hold number one,” said the skipper.
“Can’t,” said the deckhand. “Her multigym’s in there. I could make them a pen under the life rafts?”
“OK.” The skipper, Ed, blew a sigh. He had a feeling that the next few weeks wouldn’t be all plain sailing.
“Captain Ted, I presume. Lovely to meet you.”
The owner had breezed on-board. A shortish, plump woman swathed in pink trousers and a silky tunic. Expensive perfume filled the air. Ed gulped in several hundred dollars’ worth as he turned to face the pearly toothed smile, the flawless complexion, the neat plum-colored hair of Alice Barton.
“It’s, um, Ed, ma’am, not Ted—”
“Oh, do forgive me.” She was wrinkling her smoothly powdered nose. “There’s an ambience, Ted,” she purred. “Do something about it, will you?”
The skipper stared at her. If by ambience she meant a smell, then of course there was an ambience. She’d brought a bunch of sheep on-board. He bit his tongue and said nothing. Alice swept on past and Ed noticed behind her a skinny, pale young woman stumbling down the gangway, bent double under the weight of a huge rucksack marked Laptops and Other Important Stuff.
“Where shall I set up the office, Miss Barton?” she gasped.
“In my room, dear,” said Alice over her shoulder.
“Cabin,” corrected Ed,
then wished he hadn’t. Alice turned, her beaming smile frozen.
“My room, Ted,” she said. “On my boat. Do we understand each other?”
Ed shrugged and nodded. “I think we’re beginning to,” he said.
Alice’s smile returned to full brightness. “That’s all right then. Do get a move on, Deidre, poppet. I’ve got phone calls to make.”
Deidre, who was Alice Barton’s new personal assistant, gave Ed a nervous little smile as she struggled past with her load.
• • •
By now, the sheep had been penned in a little space under the life rafts. They could no longer hear the plaintive cries and tap, tap, tapping of the maiden in distress, only the low throb of the idling engines and the hiss of white water around the stern of the boat.
Wills was trying to explain. “One of those men said this boat’s going on her maiden voyage,” he whispered.
Links nodded. “’Nuff said.”
Wills hoped so. “And there’s another thing. The boat’s called Destiny.”
The others stared at him blankly.
“Destiny’s something that’s meant to happen.”
“What, like supper?” asked Oxo.
“More important than supper,” said Wills. Then he added quickly, before Oxo could ask, “More important than breakfast too. Something really important. Something like having to rescue a maiden in distress.”
Sal had caught on and, raising her head, she suddenly bleated loudly, “We are coming, Tuftella. It is our Destiny!”
The sheep huddled together, staring toward the endless sea, suddenly rather scared. Could it really be that the future was not entirely in their own hooves? That Destiny might be guiding them? Perhaps it always was.
They became aware that the other Destiny, the boat guided by Skipper Ed, was now moving. She’d been untied and was gliding gracefully out of the harbor. When she was clear, her engines surged to full speed, and for some time the sheep could only brace themselves against the wind and spray, and watch the little town of Murkton dwindle behind them. Finally, when Destiny was well out to sea, Ed slowed to cruising speed. The engine noise softened again and the wind and spray eased.
“Ohmygrass…” Jaycey shook her pretty head. “What a relief. I can hear myself think again.”
The Warrior Sheep Down Under Page 1
