It was said at Ned’s school that it appeared to them suddenly, violently. They were wading through the snow, their legs plunging to knee depth with each step. Bill was ahead of his friend, so he first heard the crashing noise coming from the ledge above them. He thought it was a boulder, loosened by the wind, but when he looked up he saw the ram, rushing down from a rocky peak, its dirty cream wool blending into the white snow and grey sky.

It was coming straight at them, its curled horns lowered to the height of their guts. Bill’s friend dived into the snow, but Bill stayed still. Took in a gulp of mountain air. Met the ram’s charge in a braced hunch, let its skull smash into his sternum as he caught a horn in each hand. A wet, sickening crack reverberated around the mountain. The impact rocked him, but he stayed upright, either through strength and skill or because he was sunk so deep into the snow he couldn’t be moved.

Bill held the ram by the horns as it fought him. His friend climbed up from the snow and watched as Bill wrestled the furious creature, countering each of its assaults with a grim refusal to yield ground. It snorted, strained, butted at him, tried to impale him, tried to bite him. Bill was grunting. His face was crimson, his breaths ragged. His grip started to weaken. But when the ram’s legs wobbled he bent his knees, found a point of leverage and, with a tremendous heave, twisted the ram’s horns and wrenched it to the ground. It lay flipped on its side, its shuddering breaths melting the snow around its nose.

Bill gathered himself. Waited for his arms to stop shaking. Touched the bloody stamp on his chest where the ram’s charge had struck him. Then he and his friend trussed the beast’s legs and dragged it back to the farm, where they warmed it back to life in front of an orange fire.

That was the story getting around Ned’s school. Most people believed it. But it was disputed by some younger students, one of whom claimed to have been part of the search party. His version of events held that Bill’s friend had been the one to find the animal, and that it was not in a state of fury or madness but in distress. Thin bleats had reached Bill’s friend’s ears, and he had followed the noise until he found the ram lying still, swaddled by snow. He saw that two of its legs were wedged in a fissure in the rock. The hooves were stuck tight. Rime slicked each shank.