There were terrible troubles in Ireland. There were also bonfires and shootings and bombings and prejudice and hatred and fear and a general lack of playing nice. But none of these compared to the specter that haunted the fields of the North.

The Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine.

This nightmarish ewe had fangs like daggers of the Red Branch Warriors, hooves like the stones of the Giant’s Causeway, and wool like the jumpers Mrs. Flaherty knits for her husband, God rest his soul. Every day at dawn she would prowl, seeking to gobble up fair maidens and the odd fish supper. It was even said that once she got the scent of your blood, she would hunt you down and rip you to pieces, even if it took a hundred years.

Once upon a time, about eight in the morning, David Mallory was out to buy an egg and cress sandwich when he was approached by one of the town patriarchs, Tom O’Neill. Tom O’Neill was a fat man, always out of breath. He was honest in everyday word and deed, but he was famous for fantastic stories about his life as an IRA man, not one of which was true. Most believed his O’Neill name was an affectation, but they respected him nonetheless. On an ordinary morning, he would have already helped himself to his flask of whiskey. But today was not an ordinary day.

“David Mallory!” he shouted, puffing along with arms raised. “Hi, David Mallory!”

“What are you on about, Tom O’Neill?” said David Mallory.

“Me daughter’s being eaten, y’know, David Mallory!” said Tom O’Neill. “Me daughter’s being eaten by the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine!”

“Go home, Tom,” said David Mallory. “You’re drunk.”

“No, David Mallory, it’s not drunk I am at all. Me daughter’s being eaten by the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine!”

“What, this minute?”

“No, not this minute, David Mallory! At least, I don’t think so. When I left them, y’know, the beast was still chasing her.”

“And you just left her?” asked David Mallory.

“Sure they’re both faster than I, David Mallory,” said Tom O’Neill. “I couldn’t have very well caught them, y’know. I was going for the police when I saw you, David Mallory, and I thought, y’know, he’ll do.”

“What d’you mean?” asked David Mallory. “You want me to kill the beast? You’re mad, Tom.”

“But did you not kill the terrible Hound-Fiend of Coleraine, David Mallory?”

“Sure the lass who owned the wee pup cried for three weeks after I ran him over.”

“Ah, but it was a terror nonetheless, y’know, David Mallory. Did you see what he did to Mrs. Flaherty’s geraniums? Not to mention Mr. Flaherty’s bean poles, God rest his soul, y’know. So I was thinking, y’know, maybe you could get in your car and, y’know, run over this one as well.”

“It’ll take more than that t’kill the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine,” said David Mallory. “I don’t think I know your daughter. This Wolf-Sheep only eats fair maidens and fish suppers. Is your daughter fair, or did she just happen to be carrying a fried cod at the moment?”

“Oh, she’s fair enough, David Mallory,” said Tom O’Neill. “Not great, mind you, just fair. And come to think of it, she did smell a bit of cod this morning, y’know.”

“Not very pretty, then?” said David Mallory, his face falling. “Well, she must at least be intelligent.”

“Well, y’know, she did just graduate secondary school after fourteen years, David Mallory.”

“I suppose she has a wonderful personality?”

“Boring as a stump, y’know, really.”

“Right. Why am I rescuing her again?”

“Because if you don’t, y’know, people will call you sexist.”

“Where can I find her?” asked David Mallory.

And so David Mallory drove out to the fields, and there he found the decent-enough daughter of Tom O’Neill fleeing as fast as her legs could take her, which, since she took after her father, wasn’t very fast at all. And behind her was the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine. The Wolf-Sheep’s eyes glowed red, her jaws dripped foam, and her shrieks were the screams of a goat on YouTube. The sight made David Mallory pale, mainly because of Tom O’Neill’s puffing daughter. But not wanting to be judged my millions of angry women, he leaped out of his Volkswagen and waved his arms and shouted at the top of his voice, “Hi! You over there! Stop doing that!”

The daughter of Tom O’Neill heard David Mallory’s words and plopped obediently down where she was. In one pounce, the Wolf-Sheep was on top of her. Seeing that his plan had backfired, David Mallory did the next most logical thing. In order to distract the beast, he picked up a rock from the field and bashed it against the side of his head until the blood ran down. In retrospect, he found this to be a horrible idea, as it made him quite dizzy. However, the distraction worked perfectly; the Wolf-Sheep smelled David Mallory’s blood and turned to her new prey. Tom O’Neill’s daughter saw this and made her escape. The trouble was that her path of escape led her over a cliff and into the sea below. Weeks later, a fisherman off the coast of Cork was shocked to see a decent-enough woman splashing and spluttering and puffing past him on her way to the open ocean.

“Now I’ve got the scent of your blood, David Mallory,” shrieked the Wolf-Sheep. “Now I will hunt you down and rip you to pieces, even if it takes a hundred years! Baa!”

“Now you expect me to run screaming like a wee lass, is that it?” asked David Mallory.

Then the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine flashed her teeth and clacked her hooves and raised her wool so that it stood on end.

That wool would make some lovely jumpers, David Mallory thought as he ran screaming like a wee lass. He raced toward his car, but the Wolf-Sheep was there first. She took it in her jaws and with one flick of her head she tossed it over the cliff and into the sea below. Weeks later, a fisherman off the coast of Cork was equally shocked to see a Volkswagen bobbing along after Tom O’Neill’s daughter on its way to the open ocean.

“Baa! Now I have you, David Mallory!” the Wolf-Sheep screamed, and she lunged at her victim’s throat. But David Mallory was having none of it, and since he was feeling especially cranky from lack of an egg and cress sandwich, he grabbed the wool on the top of the Wolf-Sheep’s head and pulled it low over her face. And thus the phrase “pulling the wool over her eyes” would have been born, had it not previously existed. Indeed, the wool came so low over the Wolf-Sheep’s eyes that it came off completely, and David Mallory tossed it away over the cliff and into the sea below. Weeks later, a fisherman off the coast of Cork pulled a white fuzzy jumper out of the water, dried it out, and wore it to Mass that Sunday.

David Mallory looked around, but he did not see the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine. Instead, all he saw was a beautiful maiden, far fairer than any the beast had ever gobbled up.

“Excuse me,” he asked, “but wasn’t there a horrifying monster here not a moment ago?”

“I am that horrifying monster,” said the fair maiden. “I was put under a curse by my solicitor, but you have freed me from it. Now I am eternally yours, David Mallory!”

“So you’re the Wolf-Sheep of Coleraine?” asked David Mallory.

“Yes.”

“And I freed you from your spell?”

“Yes.”

“And now I’m supposed to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would I want to?” asked David Mallory. “You tried to kill me!”

“I was under a spell,” said the Wolf-Sheep-Woman. “I had no control over my actions.”

“The attempted murder of my person by yourself,” said David Mallory.

“You could not wish for a more beautiful wife, nor one more true,” said the Wolf-Sheep-Woman.

“You would have sunk your teeth into my body and drunk my blood.”

“Only a complete eejit would pass up this opportunity.”

“’I’ll hunt you down and rip you limb from limb’ were your exact words, I believe.”

“Are you going to marry me or not?” asked the Wolf-Sheep-Woman.

“No,” said David Mallory, and he started walking back to town.

“Fine!” the Wolf-Sheep-Woman called after him. “I’ll just stay here then, will I?” To herself she said, “I wonder how long it’ll take for someone to come by with a fish supper.”

Since it was far too late in the day for egg and cress, David Mallory walked home. As he strode along, blood still red on his face, he passed three American students and said, “How are you folks doing?” and went on, little dreaming that one of them, the handsome gentleman of the group, would immortalize him in an Internet blog.