Frodo Soup

The Lammas Hireling by Ian Duhig (2000) After the fair, I’d still a light heart and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap. And cattle doted on him: in his time mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream. Yields doubled. I grew fond of company that knew when to shut up. Then one night,   disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife, I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form. Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern, stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap, I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns. To go into the hare gets you muckle sorrow,   the wisdom runs, muckle care. I levelled and blew the small hour through his heart. The moon came out. By its yellow witness I saw him fur over like a stone mossing. His lovely head thinned. His top lip gathered. His eyes rose like bread. I carried him   in a sack that grew lighter at every step and dropped him from a bridge. There was no splash. Now my herd’s elf-shot. I don’t dream but spend my nights casting ball from half-c