I called softly to Swinburne. To my surprise, Swoop flew down with him. I hope she is beginning to come round to me a bit now that I have proved myself to be an egg-layer like her. But she didn’t look too impressed.
‘Hmm, thirteen – unlucky number,’ she muttered.
‘Aren’t they a wonderful green?’ I said. ‘And don’t you just love the black spots?’
‘Er, yes – very nice,’ said Swinburne, sounding a bit doubtful.
‘They’re certainly extremely bright,’ said Swoop. ‘Mine were white with pale brown speckles,’ she added proudly.
Privately I thought, How dull, but I didn’t say so.
Swoop flew back to her own nest, but Swinburne stayed and helped me cover the eggs up with bits of hay.
‘Are you going to sit on them now?’ he asked. I explained that I couldn’t do that for fear of crushing them, but that I would stay close by.
‘You’ll need a bed, then,’ said Swinburne, and he helped me fetch some more hay and spread it out on the floor beside the Tractosaurus.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and lay down gratefully.
I feel exhausted, but proud and happy. I have some new friends, a nice safe nest and some beautiful eggs. How, oh how I hope that this time they will hatch out and I will become a mother at last!
Monday
Swinburne told me that this day is named after the moon. I asked him why none of the days are named after dinosaurs. He just laughed at me again and said that dinosaurs don’t exist here – apart from me, of course. Can this be true or is it just one of Swinburne’s jokes?
Tuesday
Tuesday is named after some ancient god called Tiu – don’t ask me why.
Two more of Swinburne’s and Swoop’s babies learned how to fly today. Swinburne is very proud of them, but Swoop seems a bit nervous. I think it’s still partly me she’s nervous of – in her head she knows I am harmless, but in her heart she is still half afraid that I plan to attack her babies, like the cat did last year.
What sort of creature is this dreaded Catosaurus? (I assume that is what ‘cat’ is short for.) I imagine a cross between Τ Rex and Megalosaurus.
The last baby swallow still sits in the nest going ‘Tweetatweetit!’ all day long and being fed beakfuls of flies.
I hope my babies will be a bit quieter and not so greedy. Oh, I can’t wait for them to be born!
Wednesday
Today is named after someone called Woden, who I gather is the god of farming. Apparently this place is called a farm, so I suppose that’s not so silly as some of their names for days.
I’ve seen a cat at last! What a surprise – she is no bigger than me! But the swallows are all terrified of her, and I must say there is something scary about her glinting green eyes and sharp-looking claws.
I crouched on my straw watching her as she crouched on the floor watching the swallows. They were zipping in and out on their fly-catching expeditions.
Every time a swallow flew a bit low the cat would raise her back end and wiggle it, ready to pounce. Once or twice she did pounce, but the swallows – even the baby ones – were too quick for her. She’d better not try pouncing on my babies when they’re born.
Thursday
This day is named after the god of thunder, and today there was a thunderstorm, a really dramatic one. Something else dramatic happened too.
I was watching Swinburne and Swoop trying to teach the last baby how to fly, when the sky grew dark. The swallows took no notice: they went on saying, ‘One, two, three, jump!’ and the baby perched on the edge of the nest kept on saying, ‘Not quite yet!’
Maybe the first flash of lightning dazzled the baby swallow or maybe the first thunderclap startled him into losing his balance.
The next three things happened as quickly as another flash of lightning: the baby bird fell out of the nest, the cat streaked into the barn and seized him in her mouth, and I rushed out of the junk corner and charged at the cat!
It was instinct. I didn’t have time to plan it or to feel afraid. But the cat got the fright of her life. When she spun round and saw me her fur stood on end and her green eyes widened as if she’d seen a ghost. She dropped the baby swallow and tore out of the barn in another blinding flash of lightning.
I raced after her, suddenly enjoying myself tremendously. Over the short green plants I chased her, and round the pond, startling the Quackosaurs. I was so close behind her that I could have caught her tail in my mouth, but I didn’t want to do that; I just wanted to make sure she stayed really frightened, so that she wouldn’t think about sneaking back into the barn.
What a change this was! Me, gentle little Hypsilophodon, chasing after someone instead of being chased!
The sky flashed and crashed and the rain came pelting down, drenching us both, but I didn’t mind. On and on we ran. We only stopped when we reached a tree. The cat shinned up it and I stood at the bottom glaring at her as fiercely as I knew how. As far as I know she’s still there, too scared to come down.
When I got back to the barn I was given the welcome of my life. The swallows flew round me in circles, congratulating me and offering me flies (which I politely refused – I can’t think of anything more disgusting).
Swinburne promised he would never laugh at me again and I pretended to believe him. The rescued baby, who had got over his shock, fluttered over and perched on my head. ‘I think I can fly now,’ he said. ‘But please, please, will you teach me how to run like you?’
But the most delighted swallow of all was Swoop. ‘Thank you! Thank you! You saved my baby!’ she kept twittering.
Suddenly I remembered the time that Euphocephalus back home had saved my life.
‘Don’t mention it, old girl,’ I said to Swoop. ‘You’d do the same for me.’
Friday, Several Weeks Later
This day is named after Frigga, the goddess of love. And that makes sense to me, because today I’m bursting with love myself. Can you guess who for? Here’s a clue: there are thirteen of them. Yes! My new babies! They hatched out this morning!
I can’t get over how tiny they are, right down to their sweet little toenails and the miniature spikes on their front paws. They are a lovely browny-green colour – well, the same colour as me, actually – and they all seem to love eating hay. Oh, I’m so happy!
I have chosen names for all the babies: the girls are Henrietta (she is the biggest one), Hermia, Hilda, Hannah, Hetty, Holly and Hope. The boys are Hardy, Humphrey, Hector, Howard, Hugh and Horace. Horace is quite a bit smaller than all the others but just as adorable.
Swinburne and Swoop came to admire the new arrivals, though I’m not sure if admire is quite the right word. They made all the right noises, but Swoop said, ‘They’re very nice, H, but what a shame they don’t have feathers.’ What a horrible thought! My babies are just perfect the way they are.
Saturday
This day is named after yet another god, one called Saturn, who went around eating his own children! It makes me shiver to think of it.
My own children are only a day old but already they are romping around like nobody’s business. I’m so scared that the farmer will discover them.
Today I had another visitor – the baby swallow I rescued, who has had a crush on me ever since. He is called Songo, after a place in Africa where the swallows spend every winter. Songo said it would soon be time for them to go there.
‘Will you come with us, H? Please! Please! You can bring the babies if you like.’
But that’s impossible. Apparently Africa is thousands of miles away, across a sea.
Sunday – A Week Later
Sorry about another gap, but looking after the babies has been a full-time job.
They have now learned to climb the stairs – all except one of them, little Horace. To tell the truth, I am a bit worried about Horace – as well as being so small, he’s much slower than the others.
The most advanced baby is Henrietta. In fact, I am convinced she is a genius.
Henrietta is fascinated by the controls of the Tractosaurus. Today, when she was up in the hay loft, she discovered a little rusty object which Swinburne told her was the starting key. She immediately took it downstairs in her mouth, poked it into a hole in the Tractosaurus and started wiggling it about. Of course the Tractosaurus didn’t start (thank goodness!) because it is old and broken.
When I told Henrietta about the other Tractosaurus, the big red one that the farmer drives, her eyes grew round with longing. But I told her she must never, never go anywhere near it. I don’t think she took a blind bit of notice: all she said was, ‘Stop calling it a Tractosaurus, Mum – it’s a tractor. You’re so old-fashioned.’
Oh, it is so hard being a mother! I want so desperately to protect all thirteen of them, but they are getting more adventurous every day.
Monday
We are just about to set out on a big adventure! We are going out to eat grass! (That is the name of the short green plant that is so common here.)
The babies have been guzzling the hay in the barn at an alarming rate. They can’t carry on like that or the farmer will notice and get suspicious.
So we are going to go out and graze at night, when the farmer isn’t around. We will have to be back in the barn before daylight.
The babies are all very excited. I can’t help feeling scared, but I mustn’t let them see that. The swallows have told me that there are some night-time hunters – creatures called owls and foxes – but apparently they are quite small, nothing like Τ Rex or Meg. If we all stick together in a herd we should be safe.
Tuesday
The grazing expedition was a success. It was a beautiful night with a full moon, just like the one that shines over the swamp back home. The only other animals we met were some white woolly ones, which ran away from us making a silly bleating noise.
The babies were quite good about sticking together, all except Henrietta, who kept trying to wander off in search of the red Tractosaurus. I told her off and she answered, ‘Stop nagging, Mum!’ but when I told her that the farmer locks it up at night she believed me and gave up.
As for the grass, the babies are potty about it and can’t wait to go out again tonight.
‘If you like grass, you should try horsetails!’ I told them, once we were back in the barn. Of course that led to the usual cries of, ‘Tell us about horsetails!’, ‘Tell us about Τ Rex!’, ‘Tell us about Triceratops!’ They love to hear stories about the swamp, and so do the swallows. By far the favourite story is the one about Euph whacking Τ Rex with the club at the end of her tail.
‘I want to meet Euph!’ said Henrietta. ‘Can’t we go back there, Mum? Oh, please!’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Oh, go on! Go on! Say yes! Don’t be so mean!’ Henrietta went on and on. I’m sure I never pestered my mother like that.
When I told her there weren’t any Tractosauruses in the swamp she eventually shut up.
‘If you ever do go, I want to go with you,’ said Songo, the baby swallow, from his usual place on top of my head. He had been sitting there listening to the stories.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Swoop told him. ‘You’re coming to Africa with us next week.’
I hadn’t realized the swallows were going so soon. We will all miss them. I wonder if we’ll still be here when they get back next spring. We can’t stay here for ever. The farmer would be bound to discover us, and then what? Swinburne has told me about a horrible place called the zoo where animals are kept in cages and people come and stare at them. I dread that happening to us.
But how would we get back to the swamp? And would it be such a good idea anyway? I can’t bear the thought of any of my babies being caught by Τ Rex or Meg. Poor little Horace is still very small and slow. It would be different if only we had some good weapons or armour, like Tri or Euph do. But all we’ve got are our useless thumb spikes.
Oh, the worry of it all!
Wednesday
Disaster! I am one baby short. Yes, one of my precious little ones has been caught by the farmer!
I blame myself, though it all happened because Henrietta was so determined to see the red Tractosaurus.
She’d been in a strange mood all night. While the rest of us were grazing she spent a lot of time collecting sheep’s wool from the hedges. (The sheep are the silly white creatures.)
‘Don’t be silly – you can’t eat that!’ I told her, but she just ignored me.
When it was time to round up the babies and go back to the barn I noticed we were one short. Henrietta wasn’t there. I called her but there was no answer.
The sun was rising and it was going to be a lovely day. Swinburne had told us that around this time of year the farmer would be starting work extra early, to begin on something called the ‘harvest’, which meant cutting down loads of plants. Any minute now he could be out in the fields.
It wasn’t difficult to guess what Henrietta was up to – she must have sneaked off to hide and catch a glimpse of the famous red Tractosaurus that she couldn’t get out of her mind.
I felt torn. I didn’t want to keep the others out a minute longer. We’d wandered quite a way from the barn and it would take longer than usual to get back – especially for little Horace. Perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to go back to the barn with them, but I couldn’t bear to leave Henrietta alone and in danger.
‘You run back,’ I told the others. ‘You know the way to the barn. I’ll look for Henrietta.’
It didn’t take very long to find her. It was the sheep that gave away her hiding place. A lot of them were clustered in the corner of the field bleating extra loudly. I went over to investigate. They didn’t run away – they’ve got used to us now. They seemed much more interested in one of the lambs, a rather strange, patchy-looking one.
Wait a second! That wasn’t a lamb at all. In between the patches of wool I could see browny-green skin – skin that I recognized. Dinosaur skin!
‘Henrietta!’ I said.
‘Oh, Mum, why do you have to spoil everything?’ said Henrietta.
She had rolled in some mud and then plastered herself with the sheep’s wool that she had been collecting.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ I asked.
‘So the farmer won’t spot me, of course,’ said Henrietta. ‘I’m not stupid, Mum, though you seem to think so. I must see the red tractor, I must, I must!’
‘It’s coming now!’ said one of the sheep.
And sure enough, I could hear in the distance the dreadful roar that had scared me so much the day I arrived here. The red Tractosaurus was out, and it was coming our way!
‘Quick, Henrietta, run!’ I said.
But Henrietta wouldn’t. And I realized there was more chance that we would be spotted if we did run. The farmer probably wouldn’t notice Henrietta surrounded by sheep and covered in wool. I was in more danger of being seen than she was. But Henrietta ordered the sheep to cluster round me – she seems to have quite a way with them.
The noise grew louder. I crouched down and prayed I was blending in with the grass as the big red beast (yes, I know it’s not a beast really but I can’t stop thinking of it as one) came roaring past us. The farmer was sitting inside it, dressed in his strange floppy skin – sorry, clothes – holding the steering wheel and singing a song.
Henrietta was transfixed. ‘It’s wonderful!’ she said. ‘Oh, how I’d love to drive it!’
She sighed with longing. As for me, I sighed too – with relief. But relief was not what I should have been feeling, as I was soon to find out.
When we returned to the barn we were greeted by eleven anxious babies – yes, eleven, not twelve. They were all talking at once.
‘Horace!’
‘He was so slow!’
‘He couldn’t keep up!’
‘He still hasn’t got back!’
‘He must be lost!’
‘Or hurt!’
But Horace wasn’t lost or hurt. I know th
at now, because the swallows organized a search party. It was little Songo who brought back the terrible news.
‘Horace is in the farmhouse,’ he told us. ‘I looked through the window. He’s in a sort of basket with bars.’
‘That sounds like the cat basket!’ said Swinburne knowledgeably.
At that moment everything started spinning round and my knees gave way. The next thing I knew I was lying on the barn floor covered in swallows who were fanning me with their wings. Little Songo, perched on my head, was fanning up a hurricane. My own babies were gathered round anxiously.
‘You fainted, Mum,’ Henrietta told me. ‘But you’ll be fine, and so will Horace. We’re going to rescue him!’
‘But why is he in the cat basket?’ I asked. ‘Is the farmer going to feed him to the cat?’
‘No,’ said Swinburne. Usually he laughs at my mistakes, but things were too serious. ‘But maybe he’s planning to take him to the vet. Songo, I want you to fly straight back to the farmhouse and find out all you can. Watch what the farmer does and listen to anything he says.’
‘What’s a vet?’ I asked faintly when Songo had flown off. ‘Is it a kind of zoo?’
‘No, the vet is a person who knows a lot about animals and looks after them when they’re ill,’ Swinburne told me. ‘Sometimes he comes to the farm. I saw him sticking a needle into one of the sheep once.’
That sounded dreadful! But I knew that even worse things could happen to animals – they could be eaten, or locked up. I wanted to charge to the farmhouse then and there and defend my baby. But Swoop talked me out of it.
The Dinosaur's Diary Page 2
