Edwin flapped, squawked and struggled for all he was worth, but it was to no avail. In a calm, deliberate motion, the fox took hold of Edwin’s legs and pulled him out of the sack. It was pitch dark inside the lair, but Edwin saw a pair of burning amber eyes, and waited for the killer blow to come…
Then the fox let go of Edwin, and the amber eyes receded into the gloom.
Edwin continued to flap and squawk, mainly because he wasn’t sure what else to do.
“Please don’t struggle,” said a smooth, posh voice that sounded oddly familiar. “You cannot escape from here, so it’s pointless trying.”
Edwin stopped squawking, and his wings became still.
“That’s better,” said the voice. “I can assure you, this will be quite painless if you co-operate.”
“Then just get it over with,” said Edwin. “Eat me.”
“Thank you for the offer,” said the fox. “Not many in your position would be so co-operative. But supper must wait. I have some questions to ask.”
Edwin was confused. “What questions?”
“Questions such as this,” replied the fox. “Who are you?”
Edwin hesitated. Telling the truth could spare his life, but then who would believe him? Especially a fox.
“Or rather,” continued the fox, “what are you? You’re no chicken, that is obvious. You might look like one, you might sound like one, you can even lay eggs. Lots of them. But you definitely aren’t a chicken.”
“I don’t lay lots of eggs,” countered Edwin. “It only happened a couple of times, and that was by accident.”
The fox chuckled. “The sack in which I brought you here was full of them.”
“Well…” Edwin felt embarrassed. “I was panicking.”
“You were obviously panicking a lot. Do you get in a flap easily?”
“Was that supposed to be a joke?” said Edwin.
“No joke intended.” There was a genuinely apologetic tone to the fox’s voice. “Now please tell me who and what you are.”
“What difference would it make?” asked Edwin. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“I might,” mused the fox. “And it could make all the difference to whether you live or die. Or, for that matter, whether we all live or die.”
“What do you mean?” Edwin suddenly forgot about his own desperate plight.
There was a pause before the fox spoke again. “These are dangerous times. There are changes in the wind, and not for the better. A creature such as I can sense such things. Trouble is brewing, and Barrenbrake Farm is somehow part of it. And so are you, my little chicken. If indeed you are a chicken.”
“You’re right.” Edwin realised there was no point holding anything from his inquisitor. “I’m not a chicken. I’m a human boy, and my name is Edwin.”
There was another pause, longer this time. “And how did a human boy called Edwin become a chicken?”
“Jed and his mother threw me into their Plunge Pool. When I came out I had turned into a chicken. My stepsister Bryony became a pig. I think it was some sort of magic.”
“Of course,” said the fox. “I suspected foul play.”
“Fowl play?” Edwin clucked indignantly. “Is that another joke?”
“Not at all,” replied the fox. “I meant that I knew there had to be a supernatural explanation.”
Edwin was surprised by his captor’s reaction. He had expected disbelief, even ridicule. “You believe me?”
“Strange things have been happening on that farm for a while,” said the fox. “Like walking scarecrows, for example.”
“They’re real people,” explained Edwin. “At least they were. Somehow they’ve been turned into scarecrows. They did it to my mum and stepdad. Ma said they need a workforce to bring in the harvest. But there aren’t any crops in the Cursed Field, so I don’t know why they need so many scarecrows.”
“It isn’t crops they are harvesting,” said the fox.
“What else could it be?” asked Edwin.
“I am sorry,” said the fox, after the longest pause yet. “I have been an utterly atrocious host.”
A soft light permeated the darkness, growing steadily brighter until Edwin could discern his surroundings.
The fox’s den wasn’t like Edwin had imagined. He hadn’t imagined a carpet, for one thing. Or flock patterned wallpaper. Or a brick fireplace, with a mantelpiece with a carriage clock on it.
The fox was nowhere to be seen, but there was a man sitting in a high backed leather armchair. He was of striking appearance, with high cheekbones and a slender, elongated nose. His eyes burned deep amber, their colour matching his large sideburns and old-fashioned handlebar moustache.
“Captain Rathbone,” said Edwin, after a shocked squawk.
“At your service,” said the Captain, nodding formally.
“But I don’t…” Edwin started flapping his wings again. “Where are we? I thought we were in the fox’s lair.”
“We are,” confirmed Captain Rathbone. “Sorry the carpet’s a bit of a state, but I can’t afford a butler these days.”
“But...” The carpet was the least of Edwin’s concerns. “What happened to the fox?”
“Ah yes. Probably best if I explain.” The Captain leaned forwards. “I am the fox. Or rather, the fox is me. Whichever way you’d care to look at it.”
“I see,” said Edwin.
“You do?” The Captain sounded surprised.
Edwin nodded. “I’ve met creatures like you before. A woman who could turn into a cat, and a man who could turn into a bird. Katya Pauncefoot and Mr Dawes. They work for the Shadow Clan.” Then a thought struck Edwin, which prompted another nervous squawk. “Do you work for the Shadow Clan?”
Captain Rathbone sat back in his armchair. “I suppose you could say I’m similar to Pauncefoot and Dawes. Like them I am a liminal being, a creature with two distinct states of simultaneous existence within a single consciousness. But enough about me. Would you care for some tea?”
“You drink tea?”
“Naturally. I’m an Englishman. And an Englishfox.”
Edwin shook his chicken head. “I’m not fussed about tea, thanks. I’m still a bit confused. Are you a real Captain?”
“Yes indeed,” confirmed Captain Rathbone. “Served with distinction in three world wars.”
Edwin cocked his head doubtfully. “But there’s only been two world wars.”
“Two human wars.” The Captain tapped his elongated nose. “But what you’re really asking, is whether I’m one of the good chaps.”
“Can you blame me?” said Edwin. “You kidnapped me in the dead of night, and then questioned me in the dark.”
“I am sorry.” The Captain bowed his head apologetically. “I don’t usually approve of such methods, but there was a great urgency to establish the truth.”
“Well you know now,” said Edwin, still eyeing the Captain warily. “So can I go?”
“Not just yet.” The Captain leaned forwards again. “There are a few more questions I’d like you to answer. When we met earlier, I asked where you lived. As I recall, you didn’t get a chance to reply.”
“I live in Wychetts,” said Edwin. “With my mother, Bill and Bryony.”
Captain Rathbone nodded. “Bryony is the dark haired girl?”
“Yes.” Edwin noted the uneasy look on the Captain’s face. “What’s the matter?”
“Bryony is afraid,” said the Captain. “I could see it in her eyes. It is not good to be afraid. Fear drives irrational behaviour. Mistakes get made.”
“It turned out she had good reason to be afraid,” pondered Edwin. “Do you know what’s really going on at Barrenbrake Farm?”
“We’ll come back to the farm in one moment. First, there is something else I must know about you.” The Captain leaned even closer to Edwin. “Are you a Guardian?”
Edwin hesitated. “Yes,” he clucked. “And so is Bryony.”
The Captain nodded. “And as Guardians you are entrusted with the Wyche
tts Key?”
“Yes, but…” Edwin decided to come clean. “I lost it when I was attacked by the scarecrows on the farm.”
“There is no need for further questions.” Captain Rathbone stood up suddenly. “The boy’s account ties up satisfactorily.”
Edwin realised the Captain wasn’t addressing him anymore. There was movement on the mantelpiece, and a small whiskered face with large rounded ears and black button eyes emerged from behind the carriage clock.
“Stubby!” Edwin clucked and flapped excitedly. “How did you get here?”
“Our police service is wonderful,” said Stubby. “It only took three minutes for transport to turn up after I logged my report.”
“Report? Transport? Police?” Edwin looked at the Captain. “You work for the Police?”
“Indeed I do,” admitted Captain Rathbone. “I’m actually an Inspector, but was permitted to retain the title of Captain from my army days.”
That wasn’t really what Edwin had meant. “But you’re a fox,” he pointed out. “At least sometimes. Do the Police know that?”
“Of course they do. Being a liminal being has advantages in my line of work.”
“The boy is confused,” said Stubby to the Captain. “He assumes you work for the Human Police.”
“I see.” Captain Rathbone chuckled. “No, I don’t work for the Human Police. I work for the real Police.”
Edwin was getting even more confused. “The real Police?”
“The Animal Police. Countrycide Division.”
That revelation did little to clear Edwin’s sense of burgeoning bewilderment. “Animals have their own Police?”
“I would have thought that was obvious,” said the Captain. “Human Police aren’t going to bother pursuing gangs of miscreant stoats, or stop a passing sparrow to check he has a valid flying licence.”
“Sparrows need flying licences?” Edwin remembered how he’d laughed at Bryony’s suggestion. “Would I need one, too?”
“Of course,” said Captain Rathbone. “Once you’d passed your flying test.”
“First you’d need to learn the Flyway Code,” said Stubby. “Which way to fly round a cloud, understanding wing signals, that sort of thing.”
Edwin had no intention of staying a chicken long enough to worry about taking a flying test. In any case, there were more urgent matters to think about.
“So if you’re a Policeman, with real police powers, can you arrest people?”
“Not people, no.” The Captain shook his head. “As a member of the Animal Police, I have no jurisdiction over humans. Most regrettably, because in my experience humans are the worst criminal offenders.”
Edwin was at least slightly less confused now. “So Stubby reported what’s happened on the farm to you?”
“He did indeed,” said the Captain. “Via our super-fast emergency underground communication network.”
“Earthworms,” explained Stubby. “They can pass information on very quickly.”
“The report came through to me in a matter of seconds,” said the Captain. “I was then able to dispatch transport to collect Mr Stubby for further questioning.”
“A bat,” said Stubby. “With a glow worm on its head as a flashing light. I had to make the ‘dah-dah’ siren noise, though.”
“I then decided to act forthwith to see if Mr Stubby’s story was true,” continued the Captain. “Which is why I raided the hen house and brought you here. And I’m glad I did, for I was able to corroborate Mr Stubby’s evidence, and rescue a Guardian in the process. So Edwin, please tell me all you know about Barrenbrake Farm.”
Overcoming his surprise at the turn of events, Edwin did his best to recount all that had happened that day. And when he’d finished, Captain Rathbone was happy to divulge his own theory.
“I have been aware of mysterious goings on for some time, and have paid regular visits to the farm in an attempt to glean proof of my suspicions.”
Edwin nodded. “I saw you there today.”
“However, I have so far been unable to obtain any meaningful evidence. And I’ve been forced to limit my visits of late, as I fear Jed is beginning to suspect my motives. Nevertheless, I am sure Jed and Ma are not working alone. There is another agency involved, most probably controlling them.”
“That’s what I thought,” agreed Edwin. “They must be getting that magic from someone else.”
“Or something else,” suggested Stubby.
“I think it’s Mr Boglehob,” said Edwin. “That lopsided scarecrow that stalked us from the Cursed Field.”
“I know of Boglehob,” said the Captain. “And whilst it’s true he is as wicked a villain ever to shuffle across the face of the earth, this seems beyond the scope of his usual ambitions.”
“Ma said Boglehob works for the Ministry of Agriculture,” ventured Edwin. “Do you really think the government would be involved in something like this?”
“Unlikely,” said Stubby. “Turning people into shuffling straw-filled zombies isn’t exactly a vote winner. Although having said that, compared to their recent policies on welfare reform it does seem quite moderate.”
“Then who’s behind this?” clucked Edwin.
“That remains to be seen,” said the Captain. “But whoever is responsible, we must act quickly to stop them.”
“We’ll need to find the Wychetts Key,” suggested Edwin.
“Bryony should be our first priority,” countered the Captain, who had started pacing around the lair. “She is in grave danger on the farm.”
Edwin knew the Captain was right, and felt ashamed for not putting Bryony first; by now he should have known better.
“But finding the Key is important,” admitted Captain Rathbone, giving Edwin a reassuring smile as he strode past. “I fear we may not be able to resolve this mystery without its power.”
“So that’s the plan,” agreed Edwin. “We go back to the farm, rescue Bryony, then find the Key and use the magic to stop the harvest, and save everyone turned into scarecrows.”
“Agreed,” said Stubby. “Provided we can find enough flying pigs to take us there.”
Edwin sensed doubt in Stubby’s voice. “You don’t think our plan will work?”
Stubby twitched his whiskers. “Let me put it like this: it’s the worst plan since Henry the hyperactive high-jumping hedgehog booked up a hot air ballooning holiday. We have no idea what we’re dealing with here. Walking scarecrows are bad enough, but there could be much worse in store.”
“I concur it may not be quite a simple as young Edwin assumes,” said Captain Rathbone, still pacing restlessly upon the carpet. “But we have no alternative strategy at present. We shall proceed to the farm, rescue Bryony, and then locate the Key. Those are our priorities, in that order.”
Suddenly there was a weird whistling noise.
“Excuse me,” said the Captain. “Incoming call.” He marched quickly to the other end of the den, where Edwin spied a small hole in the wall. The Captain put his fingers into the hole and pulled out a very long worm. Then he held the tip of the worm to his ear, and listened.
“What is it?” asked Edwin, suddenly feeling strangely hungry at the sight of the worm.
The Captain fed the worm back into its hole, and then turned back to face Edwin and Stubby with a grave expression.
“My scouts have reported heavy scarecrow activity in the Cursed Field. It seems things aren’t going to be that simple after all.”
Chapter 12- Harvest Time
Wychetts and the Farm of Fear Page 14
