The Lammas Hireling by Ian Duhig 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-crowns and my days here. Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been an hour since my last confession.

After the fair, I felt cheerful and had plenty of money, he was so inexpensive. The cattle adored him: during his time, my cows only gave birth to plump calves. The yields increased. I liked being with someone who knew when to be silent. Then one night, I was awakened from dreams of my late wife, I traced her broken voice to his pale figure. He stood motionless in the light from the dark lantern, completely naked except for one bloody boot from a fox trap, I realized he was a sorcerer, a cow with leather horns. The saying goes, going into the hare brings a lot of sorrow, a lot of care. I aimed and shot him through the heart during the early hours. The moon appeared. By its yellow light, I saw him grow fur like moss on a stone. His beautiful head shrank. His top lip curled. His eyes rose like bread. I carried him in a sack that became lighter with every step and dropped him from a bridge. There was no splash. Now my herd is cursed. I don't dream but spend my nights making bullets from coins and my days here. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been an hour since my last confession.