by Steve Cole
Bo ignored him as she followed the professor from the shed on all fours. “Hey, it’s dark out here.”
“Well, it is the Dark Age,” McMoo reminded her.
Pat poked out his nose. The air was crisp and fresh. A full moon shone down from the night sky, its light splashing silver over peaceful countryside. The shed had landed in a large field ringed by low hills. To the east loomed the first sentinel-like trees of a spooky forest, while in the distance to the north Pat could see the impressive ramparts of a walled city. Towering above the walls was a magnificent castle, festooned with turrets and banners, its white stonework aglow in the moonlight.
“That must be Camelot!” cried McMoo. “We have arrived in the right place. Just think, the real Merlin and King Arthur live in there . . .”
Pat nodded, staring in wonder – when suddenly a rough sack was brought down over his head! “Hey!” he yelled, as strong hands grabbed hold of him and tried to bundle him away. “Get off!”
“What d’you think you’re playing at?” Bo hollered – and Pat realized she must have been attacked too. He heard angry human voices, but without a ringblender, he couldn’t understand them. Likewise, he knew that humans would hear anything he and Bo said only as a series of moos.
McMoo, however, was wearing his ringblender. “Stand back, peasants!” he commanded. “How dare you attack these cows?” Then he gasped. “Oh, no. Not YOU . . .”
Frantically, Pat pulled free of the sweaty, clutching hands and shook off the sack – to find himself face to face with his enormous, boil-ridden, flabby-cheeked attacker. It was a woman. But not just any woman.
She looked exactly like the Fury of the Farmyard herself – Bessie Barmer!
Chapter Three
A WIZARD BULL
Professor McMoo glared at the woman, and the bald, burly man standing beside her. “Stop your moaning, tin-head!” the Bessie lookalike growled. “These cows want to come back with me to my lovely butcher’s shop . . .”
“They do not! Leave them alone,” said McMoo. “Can’t you see I’m a knight?”
“Can’t you see that I’m Bessivere Barmer, the master butcher?” the woman retorted. “And that my husband Henry here has a very big meat cleaver?”
Henry held up the broad blade, which gleamed in the moonlight. “Hurr, hurr!”
McMoo narrowed his eyes. “Pat, Bo, get back beside me.”
“She’s one of Bessie’s annoying ancestors, isn’t she?” Pat panted, backing away.
“We meet them wherever we go,” Bo agreed crossly.
“Quick, take these.” McMoo passed them each a ringblender. “Without proper clothes you’ll still look like cattle – but at least you’ll be able to understand the local lingo . . .”
Bessivere gave McMoo a funny look. “Are you talking to those cows?”
“It’s more fun than talking to unpleasant peasants,” McMoo retorted. “How dare you attack my friends!”
“Because my friends are staying over tonight, and they need feeding!” Bessivere scowled. “Since that rotten wizard Merlin went funny, all the cattle for miles around are holed up in Camelot. No one’s so much as sniffed a bit of beef in weeks! And as you’re not even carrying a sword, you can’t stop us helping ourselves . . .”
“Hurr! Hurr!” laughed Henry, advancing with his cleaver.
With a defiant moo, Bo reared up and fired a supersonic squirt of milk. The gauntlet jammed over her udder was forced flying through the air like a hefty metal fist! It struck Henry right in the face and sent him tumbling into Bessivere, who collapsed in a screeching heap of quivering arms and legs.
Thinking fast, Pat whipped off Bo’s cape and flung it over the would-be butchers.
McMoo grinned. “That covers that, then!”
“Wait!” demanded a very royal voice behind them. “What is going on here?”
The C.I.A. agents whirled round to find a grand-looking man behind them on a magnificent white horse. A dark shaggy bull with remarkably long horns and a dark blanket over his back stood on all fours beside him.
“Oh, no!” Bessivere groaned. “It’s K-K-K-King Arthur . . . and Merlin!”
McMoo noticed the crown perched on the man’s head and the proud spirit shining in his eyes. “Greetings, sire!” he cried, bowing quickly, with a wary nod to the bull. “But, er . . . where is Merlin?”
“Are you blind, good Sir Knight?” Arthur smiled. “Merlin is right here!”
To McMoo’s amazement, the big, brown bull stood and placed a tall, pointed wizard’s hat on his head – and as he did so, the “blanket” on his back was revealed to be a flowing purple cape decorated with moons and stars. “Sorry, I dropped my hat,” the bull said, his eyes sparkling a deep-sea green. “Yes, I am Merlin!”
While Bessivere and Henry started bowing and scraping, McMoo swapped incredulous glances with Pat and Bo.
“The computer never said that Merlin was a bull,” Pat whispered.
“It said he was an old man,” Bo agreed. “That’s got to be a ter-moo-nator – or an F.B.I. agent at the very least. How could anyone believe in a man turning into a bull?”
“This is an age of superstition,” McMoo reminded her. “The people believe in all kinds of miracles. But I’m not so sure I do!”
“Now then.” King Arthur pointed his sword at Bessivere and Henry. “I am here because Merlin, with his mighty powers, sensed the presence of cows in distress. Which of you scoundrels is to blame?”
Henry giggled nervously and looked at Bessivere. “Hurr! Hurr!”
“It probably was her, Your Majesty,” McMoo put in. “Henry here is too stupid to do anything for himself!”
“Thank you, Sir Knight. Well then, be off with you, peasants!” cried Arthur. “And if I ever hear of you menacing cattle again, I’ll put you in the stocks and have you pelted with cowpats, do you understand?”
“Thank you, most merciful Majesticalness,” said Bessivere, curtseying badly and dragging Henry away. “Thank you for sparing us the cowpats.”
“Don’t speak too soon,” Bo murmured, edging round until her bottom was aimed squarely at Bessivere – until McMoo noticed and gave her a warning shove.
The Barmers scurried away into the darkness.
“Well!” King Arthur smiled down at McMoo. “Now that those yucky yokels have gone, who are you, and what is your business?”
“I am, er . . . Sir Angus,” said McMoo. “My cow is called Bo and my bullock is Pat. We have come because men say that Camelot is a safe place for all cattle, and cow safety is my number one concern.” He looked hard at Merlin. “Speaking of which . . . aren’t you supposed to be an old man with a long white beard?”
“I was, once.” Merlin smiled sadly. “But what does outward appearance matter? I wear this form in anticipation of a coming battle . . .”
“Oh, yes?” McMoo raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
“Later,” King Arthur declared. “Sir Angus, will you and your cattle accompany me to my castle, where we can feast, talk in comfort and celebrate the safety of two more cows?”
McMoo looked at Pat and Bo. “Perfect chance to check out the place,” he murmured, “and Merlin’s story at the same time.” He turned back to King Arthur. “You’re on, sire – lead on to Camelot!”
King Arthur shook his head. “It is Camelot no longer, Sir Angus. These days I call it . . . Cow-me-lot!”
Whatever its name, Pat decided that King Arthur’s walled city was quite remarkable.
He and Bo walked on all fours behind the professor, still pretending to be ordinary, unclever cows. Led by the king on horseback with Merlin the mysterious bull at his side, they entered through an enormous cobbled courtyard. It was filled with cattle, munching on mounds of grass in the moonlight. While trumpets blared and noblemen hailed the return of their king, Pat helped himself to a few mouthfuls of the yummy greenery.
Bo nudged up beside him. “I think we should clobber Merlin now and make him tell us what’s going on.”
“The old myths do say that Merlin could change his shape,” McMoo noted. “Perhaps they weren’t myth-taken!” He winked at his two friends. “Come on, keep up – and let’s watch old Moo-lin closely!”
Pat, Bo and McMoo followed the royal procession from the courtyard on to winding, well-lit streets. They passed market stalls and cathedrals, smoky taverns and ornamental gardens. All around them cows and people milled together happily under the stars.
“An F.B.I. agent would never let ordinary cows have such a nice time,” Pat hissed to his sister. “He’d be trying to make them savage and bad.”
“If you ask me, it’s a trick,” Bo grumbled.
“I say! WAIT!” came a booming voice. Pat and Bo tensed themselves as a handsome nobleman rushed up to them. But all he did was lay down his fine, velvet cloak over a tiny puddle in the street ahead of them. “There, my noble cattle! Now you may cross safely and in comfort.”
Bo gave him a funny look. Pat mooed politely to say thank you.
King Arthur glanced back at McMoo. “Do you approve of Cow-me-lot, Sir Angus?”
“Yes, it’s very nice,” the professor replied. “But tell me, Your Majesty – why is everyone so crazy about cattle here?”
“We are kind to cows because Merlin had a dread vision of approaching evil,” Arthur explained.
“Oh?” McMoo turned to Merlin. “And what might this approaching evil be?”
“A beautiful heifer came to me in my dreams,” the wizard proclaimed. “She revealed that an evil federation of fed-up bulls is fast approaching from a land far-off . . . led by the sinister sorcerer, Moodrid.” Merlin’s green eyes glittered. “It is my destiny to battle Moodrid . . . and if I cannot defeat him, the whole world is doomed!”
Chapter Four
A KNIGHT TO REMEMBER
Pat and Bo stared at each other in amazement. “How does he know about the F.B.I.?” Pat whispered.
Bo nodded. “Even about Moodrid!”
“You are very well informed, Merlin,” McMoo remarked.
The bull-wizard smiled thinly. “The heifer in my vision was very precise.”
“But how did you change into a bull?” the professor persisted.
“Magic!” said King Arthur.
“Or rather, moo-gic,” Merlin corrected him. “When I awoke from my vision, I found myself transformed. It can only be the work of this Moodrid . . .”
“But, come, my friends,” said King Arthur. “The street is no place for such a conversation. Let us go to my castle, and talk in comfort in the Round Stable.”
McMoo frowned. “Don’t you mean, ‘Round Table’?”
“No, ‘Stable’,” Arthur insisted. “We have quite a few cows sleeping there at the moment!”
As Merlin padded onwards, McMoo drew closer to King Arthur. “Sire . . . are you certain that is the real Merlin?”
“I have known Merlin all my life,” the king declared. “That bull has all Merlin’s memories, the same mastery of magic . . . the same eyes, even.” Arthur chuckled as he, McMoo, Pat and Bo all set off again. “Besides, turning into a bull is quite normal behaviour by Merlin’s standards! Once, when I was a child, he became a huge dark stag with a white forefoot . . .”
The Round Stable was located in the keep of King Arthur’s castle. As Merlin led the way inside, Pat saw it was indeed a large, circular stable. The flagstones were littered with straw, and a round table sat in the middle, surrounded by several dozing cows. While he and Bo had to make do with a place on the floor, McMoo jumped in a chair and swung his hooves onto the table, grinning from ear to ear.
“I still don’t see why you’re keeping so many cows here in Camelot,” said the professor. “Cow-me-lot, I mean.”
Merlin parked his huge hindquarters on a stool. “The heifer in my vision told me that the fed-up bulls plan to turn cows against people . . . To smite down humans and give savage cows the right of rule!”
“Sounds like them,” Pat agreed quietly.
“So Merlin had the most wizard idea!” Arthur declared. “He told me to decree that all knights must treat cows with the utmost care and respect and that no one in the land must be allowed to eat them. That will make the cows happy – and why should happy cows ever turn against us?”
“He’s got a point,” Bo whispered to Pat.
“And yet, I remain in this bullish form,” said Merlin, his green eyes troubled. “Perhaps I must stay this way until Moodrid and his moo-gic are finally defeated.”
“Never fear, Merlin,” said Arthur. “We shall go on rescuing cows until you’re back as the scrawny, bearded old magician we know and love!” He clapped his wizard heartily on the back, and bowed down to Pat and Bo. “And now, let us feast in thanks for our two new guests. I shall order my servants to fetch food and drink from the nearest tavern . . . Bye for cow – er, now, I mean!” With a cheery wave, Arthur dashed from the stable.
Merlin shuffled off the chair. “Alas, I am too worn out to feast. I think I will retire to my private rooms.” The wizard adjusted his hat, got stiffly back onto all fours and walked away. “Farewell, Sir Angus.”
McMoo waved, as Pat watched the wizard go. “He left in a bit of a hurry.”
“That bull is bogus,” Bo declared. “I bet he’s got rid of the real Merlin. He must be an F.B.I. agent!”
“There’s something fishy going on,” McMoo agreed. “Or bully, anyway – so we’d better watch him. Bo, come with me. Pat, you stay here – so Arthur knows I’ll be coming back.”
“Be careful!” Pat called as Bo and the professor charged out of the stable. Then he settled down among the snoozing cows to wait.
The night air felt cool against Bo’s hide as she ran out into a deserted Cow me-lot courtyard and scanned the area. “There’s Merlin, Professor!” she hissed, jabbing a hoof towards a fancy turret.
McMoo nodded – he could see the wizardly bull yawning at the window. “That tower must be where he lives,” he murmured. “Let’s see what he’s up to . . .”
They ran to the turret, and started climbing the torchlit stairs to Merlin’s private rooms. But as they neared the landing, they heard a heavy door creak open in the shadows.
The next moment, a figure dressed in a monk’s robes appeared in front of them at the top of the stairs. With a sudden chill, Bo saw two yellow eyes glowing in the darkness of its face . . .
McMoo gasped. “It’s a ter-moo-nator!”
Chapter Five
VANISHING ACT
Little Bo reared up and raised her fists. “Don’t worry, Professor – I’ll flatten it!”
With a grind of gears, the metal monster retreated back towards Merlin’s chambers. It seemed taller and slimmer than any ter-moo-nator Bo had met before.
“Quick!” McMoo shouted. “Don’t let it get away!”
Bo was already off and charging along the dark stone landing in hot pursuit. A heavy wooden door slammed shut in front of her. Without hesitating, she launched into a flying kung-moo kick, ready to smash the old wood to smithereens . . .
But just as she was about to crash through the door, it was suddenly yanked open!
“Whoa!” yelled Bo. With nothing in her path she went whizzing into the wizard’s chambers and banged into a massive pile of books, scrolls and manuscripts. Pages went flying and dust clouded into the air as she tumbled to the stone floor in a heap.
Winded and gasping for breath, Bo realized the ter-moo-nator must have opened the door – it was standing with one hoof still on the handle, rocking with silent laughter.
“Laugh about this, metal mush!” Bo hurled one of the heavy books at the ter-moo-nator, conking it right on its hooded head. The robotic creature reeled backwards and crashed against the wall. As it did so, something fell from beneath its robes, clattering to the floor.
The next moment, McMoo rushed inside. “Bo! Are you all right?”
“Behind you, Professor!” Bo yelled, struggling up from the dusty pile of papers.
McMoo turned in time to catch the full brunt of a mechanical punch to the stomach. Although his armour protected him from the worst of the blow, he was still knocked to the floor – while the robed ter-moo-nator escaped back onto the landing.
“Ahhh!” McMoo cried.
“Professor!” Bo crawled over to join him. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fascinated. Look at this!” He showed her a magnificent silver sword lying on the floor. A cow’s head had been carved into the hilt, with green jewels pressed into the eyes. “This design is far too sophisticated for the Dark Age . . .”
“I heard the ter-moo-nator drop it just now.” Bo snatched the sword. “Let’s stick this right up its big, metal—”
“First we have to catch the thing.” McMoo scrambled up and hared back out onto the landing. “I didn’t hear it clanking off down the stairs.”
“So it must be up here still somewhere,” she growled, waving the sword at the shadows. “Come out, you miserable lump of techno-beef. There’s nowhere to hide!”
But apparently there was. Bo soon came to the end of the landing, and it was empty.
McMoo ran to join her. “Strange. How did that ter-moo-nator get away?” He glanced back at the open door behind him. “And where’s Merlin? How come he didn’t come out to investigate the noise?”
“Hang on,” said Bo, pointing to a small metal box in the shadowy corner of the landing. “What’s this?”
McMoo crouched to see. “It looks like an F.B.I. transporter device,” he whispered.
“How does it work?” wondered Bo. She prodded it with the point of the sword – and the metal box hummed into life, glowing with fierce, red energy.
