People live frugally. There is so little food that nothing goes to waste. Yet every once in awhile something disturbs this necessary thrift. A cow dies suddenly and is immediately buried. Not so much as a steak is cut from its flank before its fearful owners hastily push it into a deep ditch and cover it over, crossing themselves as they walk away from the rough grave. "Calamity meat," they called it. The result of accident or mishap, calamity meat was never to be eaten. Say the cow stumbled into a ditch, or over a rocky cliff, or into a marshy stream. When the body was found, everyone understood what was to be done. For what lay on the ground was not-so the belief went-the real animal, which was at that very moment kicking up its hooves in fairyland. The real cow had been stolen away by ancient powers never mentioned by name but always by euphemisms like the Good Neighbors, the Gentry, or simply Them. In place of the stolen beast, They put a fairy cadaver, upon which They cast a glamor-a spell-so that passersby saw only a dead cow, fallen helplessly to its death.
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