It is just the one sheep who will not fall in line. And you know we have tried everything. The carrot and stick, the shears and the dye. But nothing works, I tell you. Nothing will entice him to come in when the other sheep do and it is embarrassing – I am truly ashamed. Nobody else has had such trouble, such malice. And what do the village people think, to see a creature so unruly? The buck stops with the mother. The father is away and the sons are all drunk. Don’t make me laugh, the cousins, the uncles. Who are they, when trouble knocks, when sheep stand on two legs? Fishing, perhaps. Sorting out the shed and the wine. 

I can help you, said Adam in a very quiet voice. He has always been very quiet, our Adam. He has large eyes and scuffed knees, and his hair has always been slightly too long. He should really have it cut, the poor boy, the women always say. Surely his parents can rustle up a pair of scissors, even if they can’t afford a barber? 

And who are his parents, while we’re at it? He has always been around, our Adam, but nobody can say exactly where he came from. But he has always been around, and he has never caused a fuss, and we think he has a mother, somewhere, but we have never seen her in the flesh. He plays with the children, and he goes home for his tea, and he always wins on the see-saw, though when I was younger that was not a game you could ever have a winner on. Times have changed. Children are older. Perhaps the see-saw has become harder. 

Anyway, you are not listening, our Adam says. You are not listening to the sheep, and it is no wonder he is so unhappy. He is speaking to you and you are bellowing over him, you are not listening. Yes, I know I said it already, but you are still NOT LISTENING. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shout. I have a lot of respect for you, really, all alone all the way out here, nobody helping. Nobody visiting you. But he is not unruly or unkind. He wants to make you happy. He wants to do the right thing. But it is harder for him, on account of his eggs not coming out. 

Eggs?

Yes, of course. Eggs. This sheep is not like other sheep, surely you have seen that? He does not stand up easily. He does not let you at his wool. Well, his eggs are hard boiled and tucked away very neatly in his belly. He protects them as though they are his own. They will come out when they are perfectly runny, but such a thing can’t be rushed, and they can’t be over done, or they all come out all rubbery, all ruined. And nobody wants a rubbery egg. You can’t dip toasted bread in a rubbery egg. You can’t serve it to your husband or your mother’s mother. You can’t even really give it to the children. They’re so spoiled nowadays, with their brand new clothes and their hand-me-down bikes. I never had a bike. Not until I was thirty four, and even then I had to share. But everyone has a bike now, or at least a helmet they can wear while they close their eyes and pretend they are sitting on one. 

But how have I never seen these eggs? Does he never lay them?

He does lay them. He must, or he would explode. But it is very embarrassing for him to do so. He is an abomination, you understand, usurping his wife’s role and taking her pride away from her. He is ashamed to do so.

He has a wife?

Of course he has a wife. She is happy to leave him because he is pushing her away. He thinks that is for the best, but I’m not sure. Can it ever be best for two people who love each other so much to lose each other? 

No, I don’t suppose it can be. So I must reunite them? The husband and the wife?

No, you must certainly not. Firstly you must understand the eggs. You can do nothing until you understand the eggs. He will not trust you, or listen to you. 

But I know what an egg is. Christ, it’s an egg. I have eaten them all my life.

And you must stop it immediately. You think he cannot smell the blood on your teeth?

Blood?

I’m sorry. That was not the right word to use. But it is a bloody act. To steal an egg and eat it all up. 

Well, I never thought of it that way.

Well, you must start. And you must start to understand your sheep’s egg, because it is not like the eggs you are used to.

How so?

Well, the yolk is outside of the white. The white is in the middle of the egg, and the yellow goes all the way around it like little rings on a planet. Well, just one ring. A thick one. Maybe more of a hoop, I guess, that crumbles away when you bite in. So not like a hoop at all, really, except in shape. And we are all shapes, there are hoops on you too. Your eyes, they are very hoopey. You could catch hoops on your toes. Those nose holes – they are hoops also. See, hoops everywhere, everywhere you look! Anyway, the eggs. They are round, like regular eggs, but that round is perfect. There is no big end or small end. There is no top or bottom. There is only circle. Only egg.

Enough. I feel sick, all this talk of round eggs. Surely, there is something more useful you can tell me? Perhaps I am to harvest these eggs, so he may be more comfortable.

Adam stomped on the ground, and his neck began to turn red.

Harvest! He said. Harvest! Like he is grass and the eggs are stalks of wheat. He is not a strawberry field. He is not an apple orchard. You must ASK. You must ask for the eggs, and he must give them to you, and only then will you know he loves you enough to listen when you ask him to follow you. 

Hello, Mr Sheep, I said. 

Colin, hissed Adam from behind me. He is called Colin. 

Hello, Mr Colin, I said. I think we could be friends. 

The sheep looked at me, and I felt that, for the first time, he was looking at me properly. I suppose I was doing the same thing. I had never studied him extensively, always believing a sheep was a sheep; a hoof was a hoof.

And now? Asked Colin.

Well, now, of course, I see I was wrong. I will never eat an egg again.

I see. And will you look after them instead?

I will try. I will collect them carefully in a little wicker basket and sit on them myself. They will be so comfortable, so safe. So warm they ask for sun cream in little blue bottles and an ice cream.

And what flavour will they have?

Chocolate. 

He narrowed his eyes.

Lemon! Lemon. They will have lemon, and sometimes vanilla.

Colin smiled. I thought the eggs would come out from his mouth, but he handed them to me from his own palm, one by one. And that is how I became the egg keeper, though I never asked to be. And that is why we only ever eat bread.

And did you have a basket ready?

Of course I did. My basket was woven by hand and held all the eggs he would give me. 

And how has he been since?

He has slept through the night and eaten all his food. We are invited to the wedding, you and I. Adam will officiate and sing.

…

Eva Liukineviciute studied English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Leeds, where she received a creative writing scholarship and won the Alison Morland Poetry Prize. She leads London’s “Difficult Women Book Club,” which champions women who disrupt conventional narratives and boundaries. Her publications include a collection of poetry, several Gothic short stories, and non-fiction work in the music industry.