by Steph Matuku
Her mother was still talking. “If everything goes well, the magician might just be able to pay off most of his debts. Of course, he won’t be able to give so many free concerts any more. And he’ll have to think of ways to make the farm profitable. Those animals don’t do anything to pay for their keep.”
“What do you mean?” Whetū asked.
“Well, dairy farms make money from cows’ milk. Poultry farms make money from eggs and chicken drumsticks, that sort of thing. The magician’s animals don’t do anything.”
“He has three thousand chickens,” said Whetū. “He could probably make money off them. And then there’s the golden ram. His wool must be worth lots of money. What about the bull? What do bulls usually do?”
Her mother smiled. “They meet cows and make little calves.”
“He couldn’t do that,” said Whetū. “He’d be far too nervous. We’ll have to think of something else for him to do.”
“Perhaps you could write some ideas down? It would be a big help. There’s a pen and notepad on the table.”
Whetū reached for the pen and accidentally knocked the fruit bowl. An apple rolled onto the table. She was about to put it back when she saw it had two little nibbles taken out of the side. She chose another apple. That one was also marked, with two little gouges that looked like narrow trenches. One by one, she checked every apple in the bowl. Every single one had had a little bite taken out of it, and then the bitten side turned inwards so it wouldn’t be noticeable.
She thought back. The apples had been fine yesterday. So something had been nibbling at the apples today. Something with two sharp pointed teeth. And then she spotted a little tuft of soft white hair caught on an apple stalk, and at once she knew who’d been nibbling at the apples, and who was probably still inside the cottage.
Without a word to her mother, she slipped off her stool and went out of the kitchen. She tiptoed down the hallway and past the mirror, putting a finger to her lips as she passed her reflection. Her reflection winked and nodded.
Whetū peeked into the lounge and bent down to look under the couch. Nothing. She checked the funny little storage room and the bathroom. They were empty. Finally she crept up the stairs and looked into her mother’s room. Everything looked just the way it should. Nothing had been disturbed. There was only one room left – her own bedroom.
Holding her breath, she quietly pushed open the door. And there, lying fast asleep on her bed in a rabbity heap, was Errant.
12
– GETTING THINGS DONE –
“What are you doing here?” said Whetū.
Errant sat up with a start. “Oh! It’s only you,” he said crossly, arranging himself back into a cosy little ball. “You shouldn’t wake sleeping animals like that! I almost died!”
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Whetū. “Nobody ever died from being woken up.”
“I said ‘almost’. Don’t you know anything? When we sleep, our dreamselves drift away and have adventures. That’s what dreams are. Our dreamselves are attached to our bodies by silver cords. When we wake, our bodies pull our dreamselves back. If we wake too quickly the cords can snap, and then what do you think happens?”
“I don’t know,” said Whetū. “But I don’t believe a word of it.”
“If the cords snap,” said Errant, irritably, “our dreamselves drift away, lost forever, and our bodies never wake up. That’s when you’re almost dead.”
“That’s not true,” said Whetū with spirit. “And that’s not the point, anyhow. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on tour with the magician, touring three of the finest cities in Europe!”
“If you’ve seen one fine city, you’ve seen them all. I didn’t feel like going. And I hate travelling. It’s so terribly draughty.”
“But the magician needs you! It’s your responsibility.”
“Too late now. He’ll just have to manage without me.”
“And what if his shows go wrong without you to assist him?”
“I tell you, I don’t care!” Errant cried. “I’m tired of being his sidekick! I want to tour on my own. I want people to clap and cheer me. I want to do magic that has never been seen before!”
Errant drew himself up and clapped his paws together. A green puff of smoke that smelt of fish enveloped him for a second, and then he emerged, coughing and wiping his eyes.
“I’ve seen some of your magic,” said Whetū. “Like your carnivorous lamb.”
“Ramses!” Errant growled. “That tell-tale! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him.”
“Don’t blame Ramses! It’s your fault, and you have to turn the lamb back to normal. He’s dangerous.”
“I have been trying, you know,” said Errant sulkily. “Doing mischief is a lot easier than undoing it.”
“Try harder. And you can’t just quit your job without telling the magician first. He relies on you.”
“You’re an awful nag. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“And you’re a bad bunny!” Whetū snapped. “Go back to the farm, and work out a way to turn that lamb back!”
“You can’t tell me what to do!”
“Oh yes I can.” Whetū stood as tall as she could and looked sternly down on the rabbit. “I am the animal keeper.”
“Oh, all right,” said Errant after a surprised pause. “Have it your way.”
“That’s going to be your job this whole week,” warned Whetū. “If you’re not working on stage, you’re going to work on the farm. We can’t afford to keep any slackers any more. I shall be telling all the animals that tomorrow. Things are going to change around here.”
Errant glared at her and flopped off the bed. He hopped to the doorway and looked back.
“They won’t like it,” he said. “And they won’t like you much, either.”
“That’s too bad. They’ll have to see that keeping the farm running is the most important thing. Otherwise, we’ll all be homeless.”
“You’re beginning to sound a lot like the bull,” Errant sneered, and loped off down the hall.
Whetū sighed. She really hadn’t enjoyed telling Errant off, but what else could she have done? If he didn’t cure the lamb, she’d have to have it killed, and she didn’t want to do that.
She went to the window and watched as Errant loped across the back garden and into the empty field. She waited until he’d disappeared through the wire fence into the farmyard, then went downstairs to the kitchen. There was the most delicious scent of frying pork chops in the air.
She picked up her notepad and pen, wrote Talking Horses across the top, and underscored it. She thought for a bit and then said, “Mum, how would a horse earn its living?”
“Depends,” said Mum, dishing out steaming sliced carrots onto a plate. “Some horses are good for herding sheep or mustering cattle. Thoroughbred horses are hired out for breeding. And safe, reliable horses are used in riding schools and things.”
“What about talking horses?”
“People would definitely pay to see those. Perhaps they could work in a circus? Or on television?”
Whetū wasn’t sure about that. The magician was a secretive man, and nobody knew the wonderful secrets of his home. She and Mum had even had to sign legal forms swearing they wouldn’t tell anyone about the magician’s private life. He probably wouldn’t like people knowing his animals could talk.
“I think we’d better stick to normal horse things,” said Whetū, scrubbing out the word Talking. “Maybe I’d better ask the horses first. They might have some ideas.”
“It’s certainly good to have help with a problem.”
Whetū turned to the next page and wrote Pigs with a black line underneath. She thought for a bit, tapping her pen idly against her lips, and then said, “Mum, what do pigs usually do on a farm?”
“They make chops,” said Mum, tipping a couple of juicy pork chops onto Whetū’s plate.
“Oh dear,” said Whetū, putting down her pen and picking up a fork. “I thin
k I’d better ask them about that, as well. I have a funny feeling they might not like that suggestion.”
“I think that would be wise.”
13
– HARD WORK IS GOOD FOR YOU –
The next day, after breakfast, Whetū held a meeting in the courtyard. It took ages for all the animals to assemble. Ramses wore a picnic blanket tied around his body and head so that he wouldn’t blind them all. The lazy pigs had to be coaxed out of their sty with handfuls of chocolate buttons, and the bull was so terrified of the crowd that he requested a paper bag be put over his head so he wouldn’t have to see anyone.
Whetū had a quivery feeling in her tummy about having to speak in front of everyone. But she gathered her courage, stood facing them all and waited for the animals to hush. When they were finally quiet, she said, “Good morning! And thank you all for coming.”
“Forced into coming, more like,” came Errant’s voice from behind the lazy pigs.
“Be quiet, you,” Whetū said.
The animals gasped. They were obviously used to Errant being treated with more respect. Well, not any more, thought Whetū. Errant wasn’t better than anybody else, and it was about time he knew it.
“I have called this meeting,” she said, “because it seems that we, the farm, are in trouble.”
“Trouble?” said one of the horses. “What nonsense! Everything is just as fine as it’s ever been.”
“Be quiet!” thundered the golden ram. “Do not dare to contradict the keeper!”
He glared around at all the animals, who could barely suppress their giggles. Ramses did look rather odd wearing a pink tartan picnic blanket.
“The thing is,” Whetū continued, “there’s no money.”
“Money? What’s money?” said one of the horses.
“I’ve never had any,” said another.
“If we’ve never had money, why should we care that there isn’t any more?” roared another, and a burst of chatter arose.
“Please, be quiet!” said Whetū. “We need money to buy grain and oats and electricity and lots of other things. The thing is, you’ll all have to help, or else you’ll be sold to other owners and … places,” she said, with a sideways look at the pigs. “So we need ideas. Ramses has kindly offered to sell some of his fleece.”
The animals gasped again. Ramses tried not to look smug.
“It’s nothing, hardly anything at all!” he murmured.
“And the chicken has agreed to lay eggs for sale,” said Whetū.
“Brilliant,” said Errant. “Droppings everywhere, and think of the noise!”
“Do be quiet!” said Whetū. “Unless you’ve got something sensible to say.”
“What about us?” said the big white pig. “We can’t do anything. Anyway, it seems like far too much trouble.”
“Far too much trouble,” echoed the black pig.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” asked Whetū. “We really do need everyone to pitch in and help.”
The pig with the black and white and pink blotches lifted its bristly chin (although it kept its eyes closed) and said, “Truffles”.
“Oh yes,” said the white pig. “We can do that. But it’s far too much walking.”
“What’s truffles?” asked Whetū.
“A truffle,” Ramses said, “is an edible fungus that grows underground on the roots of oak trees. They are considered a delicacy. Pigs can smell them out, you see.”
“And people eat them?” asked Whetū doubtfully. An edible fungus didn’t sound like her idea of a delicacy.
“People pay buckets of money for truffles,” said Ramses, “and we do have a forest of oak trees just behind the farm.”
“They’re ages away!” protested the black pig.
“Ages and ages,” agreed the white pig. “We couldn’t possibly.”
“It’s not that far,” said Whetū. “And I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
“You would,” put in Errant.
Whetū ignored him and turned to the horses. “Do you have any ideas for how you can earn money?”
The horses looked at each other, and one of them said lamely, “I like galloping.”
There was a long silence.
“Perhaps you could just help out the others until we can find you a proper job?” said Whetū finally. “The pigs will need your help getting to the oak forest. They could ride on the back of the wagon, if one of you would pull it. And you could help muster the chickens. We don’t want them getting everywhere.”
“Muster the chickens?” scoffed Errant. “Ridiculous!”
Whetū lost her temper. She turned on him. “The horses would be helping to muster the sheep if it wasn’t for your stupid lamb. And why are you even here? You’re supposed to be changing the lamb back to normal! Go on!”
“Such rudeness!” Errant sputtered.
He looked around at everyone as though for support, but all the animals avoided his eye. One of the horses began casually whistling a little tune.
Ramses glared at Errant. “Do as you’re told. The keeper is not to be contradicted.”
“Oh, bilge,” Errant muttered, but he loped off behind the barn without a backward glance.
Whetū sighed. “Well, that’s that, then. I’ll have a word with the magician when he gets back and let him know what we’ve decided to do. Thank you all for being so reasonable, and–”
There was a sharp intake of breath and a crackle of paper.
“But wha-wha-what about me?” sobbed the bull. “I haven’t got anything to d-d-d-dooooo!”
“Here we go,” muttered one of the horses.
“Oh dear,” said Whetū, who was beginning to wish she’d never taken on the job of animal keeper in the first place. “Well, I talked to my mum, and she said that bulls mostly just … er … meet lady cows to make little calves, and I thought …”
The animals were all in fits of laughter. The chicken had its wings over its ears and was clucking “La la la,” and the pigs were snorting loudly.
“I know what you thought,” sobbed the bull. “You thought I was ugly!”
“Of course not!” said Whetū. “You’re very handsome and–”
“Then why did you put a paper bag on my head?” roared the bull.
The meeting broke up after that. Ramses led the bull away to have a little lie down. Whetū returned to her chores, pleased that the animals were willing to help out. She cleaned the pens and the yard and didn’t bother checking that Errant was doing as he’d been told. She’d had quite enough of him for one day.
14
– THE MAGICIAN RETURNS –
The day of the magician’s return grew closer. Most of the animals had come round to the idea of contributing in some way. Some of them were keen to start right away, but Whetū insisted they talk to the magician first. It was his farm, after all.
The animal most excited about his new job was, most surprisingly, the bull. After the initial shock had faded, he could often be found in his field, practising dance steps with a long-stemmed rose between his teeth. Then he’d whip it out and hold it to his chest, crooning, “Your eyes are as brown as a mud puddle in winter,” and, “I love your hooves, were they on sale?”
Errant still hadn’t found a way to turn the lamb back to normal. Whetū thought he’d be worried about it, but Errant was as cocky as ever. Whenever she peered behind the barn to see if he’d made any progress, she saw Errant sitting in front of the lamb’s cage, waving a paw and muttering a string of unintelligible words. There was nearly always a puff of coloured smoke. Errant was very good at conjuring coloured smoke. Sometimes there was an explosion. But always, the air would clear to reveal the lamb pacing up and down in the cage, rats’ blood smeared around its muzzle, glaring at Errant as though he’d like nothing more than to gobble him up.
“Will Errant be in terrible trouble?” she asked Ramses, the day the magician was due back at the farm.
“Oh, I should think so,” the ram replied. “But h
e doesn’t care. He was a stage assistant for so long, he knows all the magician’s little tricks. Even if he was fired, the magician wouldn’t dare let him go in case he betrayed his secrets. Magicians rely on being secretive about their magic. If everybody knew how to do it, nobody would bother going to the shows.”
There was another explosion from behind the barn, and a faint trickle of purple smoke filtered through the beams of the wall.
“I don’t believe he’s trying very hard at all,” said Whetū. “I think he’s just pretending.”
“You’re probably right,” said Ramses. “But there’s nothing to be done until the magician returns. Don’t worry, Whetū, you’ve done an excellent job.”
Whetū was pleased. She got to her feet, and bidding the ram goodbye, went out of the barn to check on the lazy pigs.
The wind swirled around the yard, and Whetū shivered. The day had started off sunny enough, but the weather was closing in, and it was very cold. A huge bank of grey cloud billowed in from the west. The clouds began to swirl in a circle, faster and faster. The grey clouds turned black. There was a sizzling blast of lightning, and a great white streak of light hit one of the trees in the forest. The tree exploded in a shower of sparks, and then came a crash of thunder so loud she clapped her hands to her ears.
She ran to the sty, half expecting the clouds to open up and a torrent of water to come splashing down, but there was no rain at all.
“Are you all right in there?” she called over the wall to the lazy pigs, who were lying in a heap as usual. None of them seemed troubled by the storm; the pig with white, black and pink splotches was fast asleep.
