Counting Sheep

The only sounds in the pitch-black room were the heavy clicks of the grandfather
clock, followed by distant echoes as they resonated throughout the house. Another
sleepless night. I lay motionless in my bed, straining my eyes to make out the pattern in
the ceiling. What time is it? I wondered. Time to sleep, perhaps? Finally? Not quite yet,
apparently.
Bored, I took a deep breath and sent a quick stream of air jetting up towards the
ceiling. A tiny twinkling light appeared above me, just barely visible against the curtain
of blackness. I smiled and created a dozen more in quick succession, amused by the tiny
stars that had somehow made their way into my bedroom and were now suspended in
the air.
I sighed, exhausted, and closed my eyes, but I found myself unable to drift into
sleep. Huffing in annoyance, I angrily snapped my eyes open and swept my hand
through the air, extinguishing all of the lights. I was back to where I started: stifling
darkness.
Should I try that fool Lionel Cordie’s spell for curing insomnia? I wondered. I
tapped my fingers impatiently on the bedspread. The man was an idiot, but it had been
three nights since I’d slept for more than a fleeting half hour, and I was at my wits’ end.
Counting sheep, he’d called it. Though I wasn’t entirely sure what a sheep looked like, I
decided to give it a try. There must have been a reason Lionel Cordie always looked so
cheerful and energetic, though that could just as easily have been attributed to the
copious amounts of beer the Englishman drank.
“Couldn’t I count something else?” I’d asked him the previous day.
“No, lad!” he’d exclaimed. “It must be sheep, and don’t forget it. Why, you ask?
Because they’re fluffy like clouds, of course! Just imagine, a soft little cloud-like creature
with a cute black face, big round eyes! I feel like sleeping already. I tell you, my boy,” he
said, putting a hand on my shoulder and leaning towards me in confidence, “sheep are
magical creatures.”
With that I promptly left his shop.
But could there have been any merit to his suggestion? The spell sounded
ridiculous at best. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. “One sheep,” I began, visualizing a
cloud-like animal with a little black face. Immediately I felt slightly more relaxed. I felt
the first stirrings of hope as I sank into the bed. Could it actually be working? “Two
sheep,” I continued, concentrating on the mental image of yet another sheep, right
beside the first one. I heard rustling from the other side of the room, and a soft bleating
noise.
No cause to panic, I reasoned. There must be some kind of added auditory effects
of the spell that are supposed to put you to sleep. The soft sheep sounds were indeed
very comforting. I smiled and relaxed, tipping my head back. If the incantation worked, I
would have to reward Lionel Cordie with a new keg, or something like that. I wasn’t
really sure what else, if anything, he liked.
I kept counting sheep until I reached six, so drowsy now that my voice was barely
a whisper. But with every sheep I counted, the noises grew louder and more insistent.
This must be a defective spell, I thought. Surely it isn’t supposed to keep getting louder if
it’s meant to help you to sleep. But it did. At seven, the bleating and stomping became
so demanding that I stopped counting, nervous. What was this strange magic? You
knew, Cirnell, I berated myself. You knew it was a mistake to trust that rowdy
Englishman.
I stiffly sat up and reached over to turn on the lamp, fearful of what I might see. It
flickered, casting a yellow pallor onto…seven sheep, all in great distress. “Oh, God!” I
shrieked, fully awake now. What was this? Had I Accidentally Summoned them all
myself?
They cocked their heads and stared at me, solemnly bleating and sighing. I
regarded them thoughtfully. So this was what a sheep looked like. Not as impressive as
Lionel Cordie had made them out to be, but they were undeniably cute. Doleful and sad,
they blinked their large eyes at me.
“Augustus!” I shouted for the caretaker. When there was no reply, I ran to the
door, carefully sliding against the wall to put as much distance as possible between
myself and the flock of sheep. I threw open the door and screamed, “Augustus Monk!”
A few seconds later the irritable old man appeared, looking thoroughly disdainful
as he unhurriedly made his way down the hall to my bedroom. “Master Cirnell,” he
greeted me tiredly. “What is it you need at this hour?”
“Please—“ I said more quietly, regaining my composure. I gestured to the sheep.
“Please remove these animals, Augustus.”
He raised his eyebrows disapprovingly. “And dare I ask why you have—“ he
paused to look over my shoulder. “Eight sheep in your bedroom, Master Cirnell?” he
asked wearily.
I rubbed my temples in frustration. “There are seven, and you may not,” I
snapped. “Just get them out of here, Augustus.”
“Was it an Accidental Summoning?” he inquired, choosing to ignore the fact that
I’d denied him permission to ask.
“Could have been,” I admitted. “Or that damn Englishman Lionel Cordie gave me
a defective spell. Or maybe,” I spat, “this is that drunk bastard’s idea of a joke!”
Augustus chuckled, his eyes shining in amusement. “Spells do not work that way,
Master Cirnell. The only spells that can actively cause a Summoning of any creature
without the spellcaster’s intent are curses, and the enchantments I have placed upon
this house will not allow a cursed individual to enter.”
I sighed. “So it was me, then.”
 “Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “Merely another symptom of adolescence.
When I was your age, I Accidentally Summoned all sorts of things. Ah, to be young
again.” He sighed wistfully.
I gritted my teeth and glared at the simpering old man. “Please remove them,
Augustus. I don’t care where you take them. Just get them all out of here.”
He smiled and bowed to me slightly. “Of course, Master Cirnell. I live to serve the
House of Faye.” With that he made a very elaborate presentation of conjuring up from
his sleeve a shepherd’s crook, and one by one leading the nervously bleating sheep out
of the room.
What a miserable failure that was, I thought. To hell with Lionel Cordie! I’ll kill
him myself. Furious and exhausted, I fell back onto my bed. Perhaps after this ordeal I
would finally be able to get some sleep.