The Day the World Stopped Turning

by Michael Morpurgo

  The soldier saluted again, and turned away. “Kommen Sie!” he ordered his men, and they all drifted away across the farmyard. It was a small victory, and it should have felt good, but the giant soldier now knew who we were and where we were. We had been hiding away on the farm, and our enemy had discovered us.

  Henri was trying to usher us all into the farmhouse when it happened. A shot rang out behind us. I looked up to see an egret above us stuttering in its flight, then falling, gliding on wings outstretched, floating down into the farmyard, where it bounced once, and was still.

  We saw the soldier who had shot it. He was bowing to his friends, accepting their applause, joining in their raucous cheering. Then they were running back toward the fallen egret to retrieve it. But Lorenzo was there before them, on his knees beside the bird, stroking its feathers.

  I ran after him, and was trying to console him, when the soldiers arrived, breathless and elated. They would have pushed us aside had the giant soldier not been there to control them, to bring them to their senses. They were contrite almost at once and silent. No one spoke. The wind ruffled the dead egret’s feathers. Lorenzo was bending over him, trying to breathe life into him. But he could see it was hopeless, and soon stopped. He looked up at us in despair, showing us the blood on his hands.

  “Grette grette,” he moaned, rocking back and forth.

  We could not understand a word the giant soldier was shouting at his men as he formed them up to march them away, but his anger was evident. He was still reprimanding them as they marched off down the farm track.

  Long after they had gone, Lorenzo stayed there, kneeling by the egret for hour after hour, stroking its feathers, wailing a lament, the same note over and over again, and rocking himself over the body of the dead bird. Nancy tried everything to persuade him to come inside, so did Henri, but he would not be moved. I knew better than to try. I stayed with him because I felt he wanted me to. The rain came later in the day, driving in over the marshes, thunder rolling and rumbling about the skies. Even then, Lorenzo knelt there, mourning the egret.

  That evening, with thunder and lightning raging, Lorenzo and I buried the egret in the corner of a field, both of us soaked to the skin and shivering. Maman and Nancy came out time and again to call us in from the storm. But Lorenzo was kneeling by the grave, still grieving, and would not be moved. I could not leave him to grieve and mourn on his own.

  In the end, it was Cheval neighing wildly from the field behind the barn that ended Lorenzo’s vigil. Henri came running over to us.

  “Renzo, you have to come!” he cried, shouting out against the storm. “Cheval is mad with fear. You know how he hates thunder. I have tried and tried to catch him, but he won’t let me get near him. He has iron shoes on his feet, Renzo, and, with this lightning about, it’s dangerous for him. You must come. Cheval needs you. I need you. I can’t catch him. You can’t do any more for the egret. Tomorrow the storm will be over, and we can all come out and put flowers on his grave, all right? But you must come now, Lorenzo. No one else can catch Cheval.”

  Lorenzo laid his hand on the newly turned earth, and thought for a few moments. “Grette grette,” he murmured. “Grette grette.” Then, his mind suddenly made up, he was up on his feet, and running toward Cheval’s field, calling to him. Henri and I followed, and watched from the gate as he walked out into the field toward Cheval, who was careering around and around, crashing time and again into the fences, his neighing shrill with terror.

  Lorenzo was out there now in the middle of the field, holding out his hand. “Val Val,” he called softly, “Val Val. Moi. Renzo. Moi.”

  Almost at once the horse was calmer. Within moments, he was standing there, looking at Lorenzo, breathing heavily, tossing his head, whisking his tail. And there he stayed as Lorenzo walked slowly toward him, humming as he came. When Lorenzo stopped and waited, Cheval looked at him, and then after awhile came trotting over to him. They stood for long moments, foreheads touching. It was a miraculous sight to see. A short while later, Lorenzo was leading Cheval by his mane, out of the field and back into his stable. There he rubbed him down and fed him, before Nancy took Lorenzo firmly by the hand, and at last managed to persuade him to come back into the house.

  “Sausage, Renzo,” she said. “Hot bath, Renzo.”

  “Sausage sausage,” said Lorenzo as he walked off with Nancy.

  “Hot bath for you too,” Maman said to me.

  As we were led away from each other, Lorenzo pulled free of Nancy, and came back to me. We touched foreheads.

  “Zia Zia,” he said. I knew then we were friends for life.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Out of Sight, Out of Mind

  “Strange to think of it now, isn’t it, Vincent? Aujourd’hui, today, we have cars and trucks and tractors everywhere—on the roads, on the farms. But in those days it was still mostly horses, and on a farm like this just one working horse. So, when we found Cheval had gone lame the day after all that charging around in the storm, everyone knew life was not going to be easy. Henri thought it was a torn tendon that could take weeks, even months, to heal, if it ever did. Without Cheval, Henri said, all of us were going to be needed more than ever on the farm.

  We all watched as Lorenzo examined Cheval’s leg, then, without a word, led him away into his hospital shed and shut the door behind him. I wanted to go in with him, but Nancy caught my hand.

  “He likes to be alone with them, remember?” she said. “He’ll make him right again, you’ll see.”

  “Maybe our Honey could do some of his work,” Maman suggested. “She’s a big strong horse.”

  It sounded like a good idea, but we all soon discovered that Honey had no intention whatsoever of becoming a farm horse. She would pull a caravan all day in blistering heat or driving rain. She would endure all the flies and the rutty tracks, but she would not be used to pull a dung cart out into the field. She would not be used to round up the bulls and the horses and the sheep. It was beneath her dignity. Papa and Maman and I knew well enough that she was difficult and grumpy, but we never imagined just how obstinate she could be. She would let Henri mount up, but then she would not move, no matter how much Papa shouted at her or slapped her backside. Not even the sight of a raised stick would get her going. We could all see it was no use. We would just have to work the farm ourselves without a horse, until Cheval was fit again.

  I hardly saw Lorenzo over the next few days. Mostly he was inside his hospital shed, with the door closed. He came out rarely, and then only to gather flowers to put on the egret’s grave. I would see him kneeling there for a few minutes, and then he would disappear back into his shed. He spoke to no one. I don’t think he even knew we were there. Grieving or healing, Lorenzo wanted to be left alone.

  My lessons with Nancy were soon abandoned. All of us were needed out on the farm now, Maman told me. With no horse to help, everything had to be done by hand, on foot, so it all took much longer. We were fetching and carrying to every corner of the farm, endlessly pushing wheelbarrows—that’s what I remember most. I had never been so tired in all my born days. But I was happy enough to do it.

  For awhile, it felt good to be busy, working alongside everyone, not to be thinking of the ruins of the carousel lying spread out in the barn. Still no one mentioned the carousel, but it was on my mind every time I passed by the barn, pushing another wheelbarrow. I could not bring myself to go in there again, and I never saw anyone else go in either. It was the first thing I thought about every morning, and the last thing at night. That old saying—we have it in French also—“out of sight, out of mind” did not work.

  As the days passed, I found I was missing Lorenzo more and more. I had not spoken to him for days on end, and was feeling miserable and lonely, and sorry for myself, I suppose. I was a child with no brothers or sisters, so I had been used to being alone, happy enough with my own company, but not anymore.

  I remember I had been sent out to gather herbs and berries on my own. The mosquitoes w
ould not leave me alone, whining about my head, biting my face, my hands. Very soon I had had enough of herbs and mosquitoes, enough of being on my own. I decided I would go looking for Lorenzo. I went to the hospital shed where I knew he must be, and called for him softly from outside the door.

  “Renzo, can I come in?” I whispered. “Renzo? Renzo?” There was no reply.

  I opened the door and went in. The little black calf we had been looking after was still there, lying down in the corner, beside the two orphan lambs we had been feeding. They bleated loudly at me, and ran over to the door, butting at my legs to be fed. But there was no sign anywhere of Cheval, or of Lorenzo. Outside in the farmyard I called for him again and again. I was about to run into the house to raise the alarm, to tell Nancy, or whoever I could find, that Lorenzo was missing when I saw some horse droppings on the cobbles, and then more of them farther on down the farm track. I knew then that he had gone to Camelot. I ran as fast as I could go, brushed my way through the rushes, onto the bridge, under the gateway, and into the castle courtyard. I was right. There he was; there they both were.

  Lorenzo was sitting on the stone in the middle of the courtyard, watching Cheval trotting around and around, freely, easily, with no sign of lameness at all. He smiled when he saw me, and then leaped up onto the stone, and clapped his hands.

  “Val Val! Rousel rousel!” he cried. It took me awhile to comprehend what he was talking about. Then he was singing—more shouting than singing, it was. I recognized it at once, from the rhythm rather than the tune. It was his favorite music from Maman’s barrel organ, “Sur le Pont d’Avignon.” Now I understood! Look, idiot, he was trying to tell me, listen! Cheval is just like Horse on the carousel, going around and around, with the music playing.

  He was beckoning me to join him on the stone. So I climbed up to be beside him. We stood there, looking out over the marshes and the pink lakes, toward the blue of the sea beyond, both of us bellowing out “Sur le Pont d’Avignon.” Suddenly he stopped singing.

  “Flam flam!” he breathed. “Flam flam!” It took me awhile to see them standing there in the shallows, because they were so still. “Hundred twenty-two,” Lorenzo said. “Hundred twenty-two.” I turned to see him standing there stiffly, balanced on one leg, his neck extended forward, his head turning. He honked softly, smiling as he did so. “Zia Zia,” he said lovingly. “Guin Guin.” We touched foreheads.

  Walking back with him that day up the track to the farm, each of us taking turns to lead Cheval, the world seemed mended and whole again, despite the Germans in the town, despite the destruction of our carousel. All was right again, our troubles and fears set aside, forgotten.

  That evening we all celebrated together over a meal in the caravan. It was Maman’s favorite dish, and mine too, an omelette of ham and tomatoes and onions and zucchini, and for Lorenzo all the sausage he could eat. He was even offering it around he was so happy. We were all so relieved to have him back with us, and to have Cheval well again.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Missing, Gone!

  “If Lorenzo brought us joy and laughter, he also brought us worries. I had understood well enough by this time that, for Nancy and Henri, Lorenzo’s habit of wandering off could be serious, that we all had to be aware of where he was and what he was doing. We might have five pairs of eyes between us now, but this was still never easy, not on the farm.

  There were times, almost every day, when someone would say: “Where’s Lorenzo? Anyone seen Lorenzo?” There was no panic: looking for Lorenzo was routine. We’d go off, calling for him around the farmyard, down to Camelot, or out onto the marshes.

  Sooner or later, one of us always found him, usually me because I knew best where he might be. If he heard us calling, he would always answer, “Renzo Renzo!” He would never hide from us. He just liked wandering off.

  But, lately, Nancy told me she had noticed a change in Lorenzo. He was more tired than usual, preoccupied, just not himself. She would find him curled up asleep during the daytime, and that was unusual for Lorenzo. She asked me to keep a special eye on him, so I said I would. I didn’t really understand why she was so worried. Lorenzo seemed happy enough when I was with him. He didn’t seem any different to me. So I forgot all about what Nancy had said. I just put it out of my mind, I suppose.

  One morning, after a night battling mosquitoes, we were woken early in our caravan by the sound of footsteps running across the yard. My first thoughts were that the German soldiers had come back. But then I recognized Henri’s voice, frantic with worry, and Nancy’s too. I knew at once that it must be about Lorenzo. Papa opened the door.

  Nancy was calling out to him: “He’s missing, gone! He hasn’t slept in his bed. He’s been gone all night! He’s never gone off at nighttime before. Never.”

  We were out there searching for hours. He was not sitting on the upturned rowing boat by the lake. I ran down to Camelot and called for him there. There was no reply. I rode out with Henri on Cheval all around the farm, splashed through the shallow pink lakes out to the islands where the flamingos gathered and nested. They took off in their hundreds at our approach, honking at us in indignation. We had disturbed their peace. We rode around all the lakes, searched every field, went in amongst the herds of horses and bulls, fearful he might have been trampled, then set off down the farm track, along the canal, toward town. Hiding away as I had been on the farm, it was a long time since I had been there. But we had forgotten all about that. We had to find Lorenzo. Nothing else mattered.

  Once there, Henri asked everyone we met whether they had seen Lorenzo. German soldiers were forming up outside the mairie. The giant soldier was with them, inspecting them. He stood a head higher than any of them—you could not miss him. He looked up and saw us. He lifted his hand in recognition. Henri asked in the cafés, outside the shops. No one had seen Lorenzo.

  By the time we rode back up the farm track along the canal, I could tell Henri was fearing the worst. He didn’t say anything, but he was walking Cheval ever more slowly, and deliberately so, stopping often to search the banks now, and the canal itself. He was not calling for Lorenzo anymore. Now I was fearing the worst too.

  As we came into the yard in front of the house, we saw Nancy and Maman outside. They were clinging on to each other and sobbing.

  “You found him?” Henri cried out. “You found him? Tell me, tell me.”

  They could speak no words through their tears. All Maman could do was wave us toward the barn. The doors were wide open. Henri dismounted and ran inside. I followed him.

  Coming out of bright daylight into sudden darkness, I could see very little at first, but on the ground in the center of the barn there was an oil lamp glowing, flickering. I was beginning to make out the remains of the carousel spread out on the floor. They were as I remembered them, but then I looked again. Something had changed. I could see they were not as we had left them, not scattered randomly anymore.

  Lorenzo was nowhere to be seen, but Papa was there, crouching down. He turned to us, his finger to his lips. I looked where he was looking. The most extraordinary sight met my eyes. Lorenzo was lying there on the ground, knees drawn up, thumb in his mouth, fast asleep, and all around him, in a great circle, lay the remains of the carousel, no longer strewn about and scattered everywhere, but gathered, the pieces fitted together: Horse together, Bull together, Elephant together, Dragon together. And the rides were all in the right order too. Every one of them was where it should be. The winding gear lay in the middle, twisted, but pieced together, the cranking handle beside it. Maman’s barrel organ was there, the generator too—all broken, but recognizable. It was all recognizable, even the coronet of flying flamingos that had once crowned the carousel.

  Maman and Nancy were there with us by now, smiling through their tears.

  “We never thought to look in here,” Nancy said, keeping her voice low, “not till we had looked everywhere else. I suppose we didn’t want to come in. We searched all over, called for him everywhere. H
e was in here all the time, fast asleep. He must have spent night after night doing this, putting it together again, his ‘rousel.’ He can hardly put two words together, but he can do this.”

  “You know what he’s trying to tell us, don’t you?” Maman said.

  Papa was nodding. “I think I understand the message,” he replied. “He wants us to get on with it, make it what it once was.”

  “We have to bring it back to its glory,” Maman told him. “No more hiding it away, no more putting it off. We know what we have got to do.”

  Papa was walking around the carousel, hands on hips, looking down at it. “We won’t be able to recover all of it. There’s lots we’ll just have to burn, whether we like it or not. Looking at it now, I’d say we could save maybe half of the rides; the rest I can carve again. And you can paint them all, Maman, can’t you?”

  “I can try to fix the machinery, all the ironwork,” said Henri. “It’ll take time, though.”

  That was the moment Lorenzo stirred, woke, and saw us all standing there.

  “Rousel rousel!” he said, smiling up at us. Then he was on his feet at once, whirling around and around, showing us all the animals one by one. “Val! Bull! Agon! Lephant!” Then he was leaping over everything, and running around the outside, around the frieze of flying pink flamingos. “Flam flam! Flam flam!” he cried, clapping his hands with joy.

  Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, as still as a statue, and silent. He was looking past us toward the doorway. We turned. Standing there was the giant soldier, his rifle over his shoulder. For some time, no one spoke. Fear crept up my back and into my neck, into the roots of my hair. I moved closer to Maman, felt her arm come around my shoulder, and felt her fear too.

  “Entschuldigung—I am sorry,” the soldier began, with a bow of his head and a salute. “I see you have found your boy. Lorenzo, I think you call him. That is good. We heard in town that you were looking for him, so I came to see if I could help to search. I have soldiers with me outside. I am pleased you have found him. You must be very happy.” He was looking down at the carousel spread out on the ground.