CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
ACTIVITIES
Shaun the Sheep shoved a box aside, kicking up a cloud of dust in the loft of the barn. He was looking for little Timmy’s favorite kite, and he knew it was here somewhere.
Aha! There it was, tucked into the corner. But, as Shaun reached for the kite, his hoof knocked against something hard. The kite was wedged against a picture frame, and inside was one of Shaun’s favorite old photos.
Shaun smiled as he stared at the image. He wished he could go back to those carefree days, when the Farmer was happier and full of energy. Lately the Farmer was always too tired and grumpy for tickle fights. Shaun sighed and set the picture aside.
An hour later, as Timmy’s kite looped and soared in the air, Shaun peered around the garden gate. A few feet away, the Farmer was bent over, grumbling to himself as he pulled weeds from a row of cabbages.
Snickering quietly, Shaun gazed at the Farmer’s wide bottom. It was too good an opportunity to miss; it would be just like old times! He took a running start and playfully butted the Farmer’s backside.
With a surprised “Waah!” the Farmer fell, face-first, into the cabbages. He came up spitting dirt. Shaun threw himself forward, leaping at the Farmer’s chest. Play fight!
“Rofferme,” the Farmer grunted, pushing Shaun away. With a deep groan, the Farmer creaked to his feet, clutching his back. He whistled for Bitzer, but no sheepdog appeared. The Farmer shook his head, grumbling, and staggered away toward the kitchen.
Shaun watched him go with a disappointed bleat. Then he shook his head sadly and headed back to the meadow, where Timmy held on tight to his kite string, giggling. If the Farmer wouldn’t play with Shaun, the least Shaun could do was play with Timmy. Together, they could come up with something really fun for the whole Flock to do.
As he wandered past Bitzer, who was nodding along to some groovy beats on his headphones, the wind dropped. Timmy’s kite fell from the sky.
The little sheep bleated with shock as the kite plummeted into the junk heap. Tears welled up in his eyes.
Across the meadow, Shaun vaulted over the wall. It was OK: he would fetch it. A few moments later he was scrabbling up the mountain of garbage, climbing over old mattresses, crates, and an abandoned garden gnome. He could see the kite above him, its tail fluttering. He stretched out a hoof to grab it. Below, something moved beneath his hoof. The trash pile shifted. An old shoe bounced off his head.
That was just the start of the avalanche.
Bleating, Shaun was swept away on a wave of empty bottles and bald tires and a basket of wax fruit. A mouse jumped on his head, then scrambled away as Shaun tumbled.
At the bottom of the heap, he blinked. Something bonked him on the head. Rubbing the bump, Shaun watched a rusty and wonky wheel from an old stroller bounce to the ground and roll away. His bumped head forgotten, Shaun gazed at the wheel. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.
In his imagination, he added another wheel, then another two, then a driver’s seat. The go-kart would be sleek and fast and shiny. It would have mirrors and fluffy dice and flames painted along the side. It would be the Best. Go-kart. Ever!
A breeze caught Timmy’s kite. Rising from the rubbish heap, the kite dropped into Shaun’s hooves. His grin widened. He had an even better idea! Racing after the wheel, he bleated in excitement.
A few days later, on the far side of the meadow, at the top of Roly-Poly Hill, Shaun shielded his eyes against the sun. Far away in the distance, the tiny figure of the Farmer shuffled out of sight behind the farmhouse. He was still bent over and clutching his back, Shaun noticed.
The coast was clear. Shaun turned and gave a thumbs-up.
Shaded by an old oak tree, the Flock clustered around the go-kart, bleating oohs and aahs. At the center of the crowd, Hazel twiddled a rusty wrench. With an excited bleat, she patted the kart and stood up. It was ready. Shaun grinned, looking down in awe at the Flock’s creation.
Old stroller wheels, a wooden box, handlebars from an ancient bike, an old car seat, and various bits and pieces of old garbage had been transformed. Nailed to a broomstick in the middle was Timmy’s kite. Working around the clock, the sheep had engineered a dream of speed: the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER.
The go-kart is perfect, Shaun told himself. The seat was ripped, three of the wheels were bent, and there were no brakes except for a parachute that had been made from a stained sheet and some hairy string, but the most important thing was that it looked snazzy. Shirley had painted flames down the side — in green paint because no one could find any red. The Twins had tied on a pair of rusty car side-view mirrors and an old, cracked shaving mirror. Timmy’s Mum had knitted a pair of fluffy dice.
Shaun nodded to himself happily. There was no mistaking that the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER was a speed machine.
Snapping on a pair of swim goggles and tying on a colander crash helmet, Shaun lowered himself into the driver’s seat and tied a rope seat belt across his lap. Checking the mirrors, he pulled a lever. At the back of the kart, a light blinked on and off.
Hazel bleated. The blinker was working. All systems go. Shaun hunched over the handlebars, excitement growing in his tummy. He peered through his goggles down Roly-Poly Hill. The MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER’s route was lined with sheep waving flags made from sticks and the Farmer’s underwear.
Tongue sticking out in concentration, Nuts gripped the back of the seat, ready to give the go-kart a shove off. Hazel bleated: Three . . . two . . . one . . . GO! She waved a pair of checkered underpants.
A wheel fell off.
With an embarrassed bleat, Hazel fixed it back in place with a couple of thwacks of her wrench.
GO!
Nuts grunted with effort. Wind filled Timmy’s kite, like a sail. The MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER began to move, picking up speed as it reached the brow of the hill. The kite’s tail streamed out behind Shaun as he looked down on the farm spread out below him. Gritting his teeth, he tugged the handlebars, steering toward the distant figure of Bitzer. The sheepdog was plodding back from his favorite tree, staring at his newspaper and sucking a pencil.
Shaun snickered. Bitzer would get a surprise when Shaun sailed past in the awesome machine.
In the meadow below, Bitzer stared at the crossword puzzle. Three down was a very difficult clue: “Four-legged, grass-eating, woolly animal: five letters.” He read the fiendishly hard clue again and cleaned out an ear with his pencil. What could it be?
Distant bleats interrupted his concentration. Annoyed, Bitzer looked up. A swaying tower of screaming sheep hurtled toward him at high speed.
Bitzer blinked. Sheep! Of course! That was the answer!
Turning back to the crossword, he started scribbling, then stopped. A swaying tower of sheep, he thought. That was unusual, wasn’t it?
Bitzer looked up again. The bleats were louder now, and the sheep were much, much closer. The out-of-control MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER bounced over a molehill. Sheep clung desperately to one another as they flew into the air.
The newspaper and pencil dropped from Bitzer’s paws. Clutching his hat with one paw and looking over his shoulder in fear, he ran.
Too late.
Far too late.
The MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER caught up with him, knocking him into the air. Bitzer’s paws scrabbled at nothing for a moment and then clutched hold of Timmy’s Mum. With a long wooooooooofffff, he watched a stone wall come closer, and closer and . . .
KEEER-AAASSSH!
A wheel rolled across the grass, making a sad, squeaky noise. Groans drifted across the meado
w. Shaun sat up. Birds tweeted around his head. Annoyed, he waved a hoof until they flew off to a nearby tree, where they stared at him with beady eyes. From the back of the wrecked MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER came a small pffft sound. At last, the parachute popped out, covering Shaun in a smelly sheet.
By the time he untangled himself, the other sheep were getting to their feet, clutching their heads. Shirley pulled Timmy out of her fleece and gently put him on the grass with a pat on the head. Bitzer pulled his head from a rabbit hole with a faint pop. Timmy’s Mum adjusted her curlers. Nuts hopped from one foot to another, bleating: Again, again!
From the corner of his eye, Shaun saw a figure walking around the corner of the farmhouse. Leaping to his feet, he gave an urgent bleat: the Farmer!
An instant later, the wreckage of the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER had been stuffed into Shirley’s fleece. Sheep stood on four legs, munching grass as if nothing had happened.
The Farmer leaned over the wall, one hand scratching his head and the other holding a book.
Then grass fell from Shaun’s mouth. He blinked. Had he hit his head too hard on the wall? Shaun tapped a hoof against his forehead in an attempt to get his brain working. He looked up at the Farmer once again.
The Farmer who was not the Farmer.
Shaun looked around. Bitzer and the rest of the Flock were all staring at the Farmer, too, jaws hanging open almost to their feet.
Earlier, at breakfast time, the Farmer had looked like his normal self: balding and slightly grumpy. Now, the thick glasses were the same, but he had a full head of red hair and a bushy beard. He was wearing a plaid shirt with suspenders and — Shaun blinked again, not believing what he was seeing — he had an earring!
Giving the Flock a cheerful grin, the Farmer closed his book with a snap and strolled away whistling.
Shaun looked at Bitzer. Bitzer looked at Shaun. Shaun looked at Shirley. Shirley looked at Nuts. Nuts crossed his eyes and looked at both Twins. Slowly, they all shook their heads. Something had gone very, very wrong.
With a shocked bleat, Shaun pointed. On the gatepost where the rooster usually stood was a small, yellow chick. It puffed out its chest, took a deep breath, and tried to crow. The tiny cheep was drowned out by a clopping sound from the lane outside the farm. The animals’ heads swung around to see an old-fashioned horse and cart trundle past. Along the side of the cart a sign read, DAVEY MOSSIDGE: THE MOSSY BOTTOM GROCER. Underneath, in smaller letters, were the words: GET MOSSIDGE’S SAUSAGES FRESHLY DELIVERED TO YOUR DOOR: THE MODERN WAY! Shaun glimpsed two people sitting in the front. Both were wearing striped blazers and straw hats. Then the horse trotted around the corner and the cart disappeared from view.
Sheep and sheepdog shared a look. A young farmer and baby rooster? Horse-drawn carts? What did it all mean?
Shaun gulped. With a bleat, he pointed. In the distance, the young Farmer was driving the tractor around in circles. Earlier that day it had been filthy and covered with mud, as usual. Now, its paintwork gleamed. It looked brand-new. As the animals watched, the Farmer yanked the steering wheel, screaming. The tractor smashed through the front gate and off down the lane.
Shaun bleated again. An urgent meeting was called.
Not long after, the Flock sat nervously in the grass while Shaun finished scribbling some very complicated math on the chalkboard. None of the sheep noticed the curious eyes peeping over the wall that separated the meadow from the pigsty.
Shaun tapped the board. The sheep stared. Bitzer scratched his head as he tried to follow Shaun’s equation.
The sheepdog hesitantly raised a paw.
Shaun peered at him and bleated: did Bitzer have a question?
Squirming, Bitzer woofed and shrugged. Of course, he understood what the math meant. But for the sake of the others, perhaps Shaun could explain it?
Rolling his eyes, Shaun erased his calculations and scribbled a diagram of the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER racing down Roly-Poly Hill. Next he drew a space-time vortex. Everyone could tell it was a space-time vortex because it was all wibbly-wobbly. Just to make sure, Shaun scrawled SPACE-TIME VORTEX at the top of the board and drew an arrow pointing to it.
Bitzer nodded. He had known there would be a space-time vortex involved all along.
Next, Shaun drew the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER entering the space-time vortex. Then he sketched a young Farmer with all his hair and a pair of tight trousers. As he drew, he bleated quietly. It was really very simple: the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER had been traveling at exactly the right speed to enter a space-time vortex, which had carried it — and all its passengers — back into the past.
The Flock had created a time machine! They had traveled back to the old days when people still used horses and carts and the Farmer was so young that he had only just started farming. The tractor was so new that he didn’t even know how to drive it yet!
If any of the Flock had been listening carefully, they might have heard squealing whispers and giggles from the pigsty.
Nuts raised a hoof and bleated. If they had gone back in time, shouldn’t there have been swirling tunnels of light and strange EYWOO-EYWOO noises?
No one had an answer to that.
“Eywoo, eywoo.”
Startled by the sound, the Flock pushed the chalkboard into a bush to hide Shaun’s scribblings.
The gate creaked open and the hairy young Farmer clomped into the meadow wearing brand-new Wellington boots. “Eywoo,” he repeated with an eager grin.
Shaun found himself grinning, too, remembering head-butting the old Farmer into his cabbages. The young Farmer looked different. He wasn’t grumpy or moaning about his aching back. Shaun realized that there might be some benefits to whizzing back through time. Playfully, he butted the young Farmer’s leg. Laughing, the Farmer bent down and wrestled Shaun onto his back, tickling him. Hazel pounced, and then Nuts and the Twins. Soon, the giggling Farmer was in the middle of a happy scrum of sheep. Shaun’s head popped out with a bleat. It really was just like old times!
At an impatient bleat from Shirley, Bitzer stepped forward and dragged the Farmer from the hill of sheep by his hand. Holding out his clipboard, the sheepdog held it up in front of the red-faced, chuckling Farmer and tapped the front page. Whatever year it was, feeding time was feeding time.
Jumping to his feet, Shaun looked around the farm, wondering what other opportunities for fun the good old days might offer. His eyes lit up as he realized that he could make all the mischief he’d ever made all over again. And this time he’d know what to expect, especially from the cheating pigs. He glanced toward their sty, and blinked.
An enormous pig was leaning on the wall, wearing a lace bonnet and sucking a pacifier. The pig winked at him. Shaun’s mouth fell open. More proof that the Flock had time traveled! Even the pigs were tiny babies — no, huge babies, Shaun corrected himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by a frustrated woof from Bitzer, who was waving his clipboard in the Farmer’s face.
Ignoring the sheepdog, the Farmer pulled a book from his pocket. On the cover was a picture of a man who looked as though his beard had crawled up his face. He was proudly holding up a bunch of leaves. Underneath, in gold letters, were the words: COUNTRY LIFE: A GROOVY YOUNG PERSON’S GUIDE TO LIVING OFF THE LAND.
Licking a finger, the Farmer riffled through the pages. “Aha,” he said, jabbing with a finger. “Eeep.” Looking down at Bitzer, he added, “Eepdob.” After running a finger down the page, he cleared his throat, pursed his lips, and let out an ear-splitting whistle.
Dropping his clipboard, Bitzer stared at him. Back on the Mossy Bottom Farm of the future, the Farmer whistled perfect sheepdog. Here, he had just whistled a command that meant “Fetch me a hat made by earwigs, this instant.”
Seeing Bitzer’s blank stare, the Farmer checked his book and whistled again. This time, he gave Bitzer the command to round the sheep up and serve them afternoon tea and sprouts in the greenhouse. He pointed to the door.
Bitzer blinked as understanding dawned. The Farme
r was trying to tell him — very badly — to take the sheep to the feeding troughs. Nodding, he peeped his own whistle and began herding the sheep out.
A few minutes later, the Farmer emptied a sack of feed into a trough. Tossing the empty sack over his shoulder, he rubbed his hands together and said “Num-num-num-eh?” with a chuckle before clomping off.
The sheep stared at the mound of food. The Farmer had done everything right, but somewhere along the line he had picked up a sack of chicken feed rather than sheep feed. Shirley poked it with a hoof and took an experimental munch. A second later, she spat out seeds. With an eeeww gross face, she scraped her tongue.
In the yard, the Farmer had his nose wedged between the pages of COUNTRY LIFE again. After a few moments, he muttered “Ilkytie.” The Flock’s eyes followed him, getting wider and wider as he fetched a bucket and marched into the bull’s field.
The bull, too, was shocked. Very, very few people dared to wander across his field. Anyone who did usually ran away screaming and waving their arms as soon as they spotted him. As a rule, they did not stroll toward him whistling and jauntily swinging a bucket. He stood stock-still, watching the Farmer as if he had learned a new trick. It was the same look a cat might have given a juggling mouse on a bicycle.
The Farmer placed the bucket on the grass and reached underneath for the bull’s udders. Grumbling to himself, he groped around.
The bull’s tail twitched dangerously.
Pulling his book from his pocket, the Farmer checked again. COUNTRY LIFE said cows needed milking, and the great beast in front of him seemed cow-like enough. But where were its udders? Tucking the book away, the Farmer rummaged around under the bull again.
Blast to the Past Page 1
