A third farmer, rail-thin and wearing a knit cap, pointed at me as we approached. "Here he is!" he called out. "Where you been off to, son?"
Dad patted me on the back. "Tell them," he said confidently.
I tried to sound like I had nothing to hide. "I was exploring the other side of the island. The big house."
Knit Cap looked confused. "Which big house?"
"That wonky old heap in the forest," said Pitchfork. "Only a certified idiot would set foot in there. Place is witched, and a deathtrap to boot."
Knit Cap squinted at me. "In the big house with who?"
"Nobody," I said, and saw Dad give me a funny look.
"Bollocks! I think you was with this one," said the man holding Worm.
"I never killed any sheep!" cried Worm.
"Shaddap!" the man roared.
"Jake?" said my dad. "What about your friends?"
"Ahh, crap, Dad."
Knit Cap turned and spat. "Why you little liar. I oughta belt you right here in fronta God and everybody."
"You stay away from him," my father said, doing his best Stern Dad voice. Knit Cap swore and took a step toward him, and he and my dad squared off. Before either could throw a punch, a familiar voice said, "Hang on, Dennis, we'll get this sorted," and Martin stepped out of the crowd to wedge himself between them. "Just start by telling us whatever your boy told you," he said to my father.
Dad glared at me. "He said he was going to see friends on the other side."
"What friends?" Pitchfork demanded.
I could see this was only going to get uglier unless I did something drastic. Obviously, I couldn't tell them about the children—not that they'd believe me anyway—so instead I took a calculated risk.
"It wasn't anybody," I said, dropping my eyes in feigned shame. "They're imaginary."
"What'd he say?"
"He said his friends were imaginary," my dad repeated, sounding worried.
The farmers exchanged baffled glances.
"See?" Worm said, a flicker of hope on his face. "Kid's a bloody psycho! It had to be him!"
"I never touched them," I said, though no one was really listening.
"It weren't the American," said the farmer who had Worm. He gave Worm's shirt a wrench. "This one here, he's got a history. Few years back I watched him kick a lamb down a cliffside. Wouldn't of believed it if I hadn't seen it wi' me own eyes. After he done it I asked him why. To see if it could fly, he says. He's a sickie, all right."
People muttered in disgust. Worm looked uncomfortable but didn't dispute the story.
"Where's his fishmongerin' mate?" said Pitchfork. "If this one was in on it, you can bet the other one was, too." Someone said they'd seen Dylan by the harbor, and a posse was dispatched to collect him.
"What about a wolf—or a wild dog?" my dad said. "My father was killed by dogs."
"Only dogs on Cairnholm are sheepdogs," replied Knit Cap. "And it ain't exactly in a sheepdog's nature to go about killin' sheep."
I wished my father would give it up and leave while the leaving was good, but he was on the case like Perry Mason. "Just how many sheep are we talking about?" he asked.
