marmalade in bed. “I’ve done the milking and taken the cans down,” he said. “There’s some fresh pig rooting up the back paddock. I thought I might take Old Smoko and have a look.”
“There’s a dog-scoffing wild boar pig been hanging around, waiting for the ewes to drop their lambs,” said his lackadaisical father. “Take the twenty-two.”
“The boy’s too young to trust with a rifle,” said Billy’s stepmother.
His father hummed “Home On the Range”, leaned against his pillow, and went to sleep.
“You heard what your father said,” Billy’s stepmother told him and went back to sleep, too. She snored, her red-lipped mouth wide-open, and Billy noticed that, on either side of her lower jaw, one tooth had grown a bit longer than the others. He looked but couldn’t see if she had grinders in her top jaw.
He took his father’s straight-edged sticking knife out of the cutlery drawer, a packet of .22 longs from the hot water cupboard, and the Browning pump-action twenty-two from behind the back door.
Old Smoko saw the rifle, but said nothing. Up in the back paddock, he pointed at some rooting so fresh, the soil hadn’t had time to dry out. As Billy looked, a clod rustled, collapsed, and slid in moist crumbs of dirt.
“A boar pig,” Old Smoko whispered. “Just ahead of us!”
“How do you know it’s a boar?”
“The stink.” Old Smoko sniffed the air. “Those tracks– as big as dinner plates. And look at his poops – the size of a two-pint billy. My sainted aunt, Billy, we are on to something big!”
By his language, Billy could tell Old Smoko was excited. They tiptoed across the churned-up dirt.
Old Smoko pointed at mud smeared high up the trunk of the old kahikatea that stood like a turreted green castle in the middle of the back paddock. “See how he’s worn off the bark, rubbing his neck to get rid of the ticks? He must stand six feet high at the shoulder. I fear that a pea-rifle will be of little use against so enormous a pig.”
“I’ll nick back and get Dad’s three-nought-three!”
“Too late,” Old Smoko whispered – with unusual brevity, Billy thought. The air turned a coppery colour, a smell like burning linoleum filled his nostrils, and a snout the size of a beer barrel shoved between two whitey-woods on the edge of the bush above. As Billy stared, an enormous boar pig bent the trees apart, strode to the fence, put one hand on top of a strainer post, and vaulted into the back paddock. He was long in the snout, heavy in the shoulder, black-bristled, with a long hairy tail, and carrying tusks like cutlasses. Billy noticed that the tusk and both legs on the downhill side were longer.
“That is the boar pig, and he is coming for us,” said Old Smoko. Billy went up the kahikatea remarkably fast. Even so, Old Smoko overtook him and reached the top first. “You climb well for a draught horse,” said Billy.
“I had much practice in my youth,” Old Smoko replied. “Now, that is what I call a Captain Cooker!”
Billy stared down at the enormous boar pig.
“I will wager that Johnny Bryce has never even dreamt of tusks so big,” Old Smoko murmured.
The Captain Cooker trotted across to the kahikatea, reared up on his hind legs, beat his chest with his front trotters, and bellowed something. Billy could not understand the boar pig’s language, of course, but it sounded very like, “Fee-fi-fo-fum!”
“Where have I heard that before?” Billy exclaimed aloud. “I know – it was in a fairy story my real mother used to tell me!”
“I have warned you before about your tendency to impertinence,” Old Smoko whispered, poking out his lips and moved them carefully so Billy could see what they were saying, “Do not mention fairy stories. Boar pigs have excellent hearing and are very sensitive about their dignity!”
Unfortunately, the sensitive monster had heard Billy. “Scoff! Scoff!” Sparks gushed off the grinders as the gigantic Captain Cooker whetted his
“There’s a dog-scoffing wild boar pig been hanging around, waiting for the ewes to drop their lambs,” said his lackadaisical father. “Take the twenty-two.”
“The boy’s too young to trust with a rifle,” said Billy’s stepmother.
His father hummed “Home On the Range”, leaned against his pillow, and went to sleep.
“You heard what your father said,” Billy’s stepmother told him and went back to sleep, too. She snored, her red-lipped mouth wide-open, and Billy noticed that, on either side of her lower jaw, one tooth had grown a bit longer than the others. He looked but couldn’t see if she had grinders in her top jaw.
He took his father’s straight-edged sticking knife out of the cutlery drawer, a packet of .22 longs from the hot water cupboard, and the Browning pump-action twenty-two from behind the back door.
Old Smoko saw the rifle, but said nothing. Up in the back paddock, he pointed at some rooting so fresh, the soil hadn’t had time to dry out. As Billy looked, a clod rustled, collapsed, and slid in moist crumbs of dirt.
“A boar pig,” Old Smoko whispered. “Just ahead of us!”
“How do you know it’s a boar?”
“The stink.” Old Smoko sniffed the air. “Those tracks– as big as dinner plates. And look at his poops – the size of a two-pint billy. My sainted aunt, Billy, we are on to something big!”
By his language, Billy could tell Old Smoko was excited. They tiptoed across the churned-up dirt.
Old Smoko pointed at mud smeared high up the trunk of the old kahikatea that stood like a turreted green castle in the middle of the back paddock. “See how he’s worn off the bark, rubbing his neck to get rid of the ticks? He must stand six feet high at the shoulder. I fear that a pea-rifle will be of little use against so enormous a pig.”
“I’ll nick back and get Dad’s three-nought-three!”
“Too late,” Old Smoko whispered – with unusual brevity, Billy thought. The air turned a coppery colour, a smell like burning linoleum filled his nostrils, and a snout the size of a beer barrel shoved between two whitey-woods on the edge of the bush above. As Billy stared, an enormous boar pig bent the trees apart, strode to the fence, put one hand on top of a strainer post, and vaulted into the back paddock. He was long in the snout, heavy in the shoulder, black-bristled, with a long hairy tail, and carrying tusks like cutlasses. Billy noticed that the tusk and both legs on the downhill side were longer.
“That is the boar pig, and he is coming for us,” said Old Smoko. Billy went up the kahikatea remarkably fast. Even so, Old Smoko overtook him and reached the top first. “You climb well for a draught horse,” said Billy.
“I had much practice in my youth,” Old Smoko replied. “Now, that is what I call a Captain Cooker!”
Billy stared down at the enormous boar pig.
“I will wager that Johnny Bryce has never even dreamt of tusks so big,” Old Smoko murmured.
The Captain Cooker trotted across to the kahikatea, reared up on his hind legs, beat his chest with his front trotters, and bellowed something. Billy could not understand the boar pig’s language, of course, but it sounded very like, “Fee-fi-fo-fum!”
“Where have I heard that before?” Billy exclaimed aloud. “I know – it was in a fairy story my real mother used to tell me!”
“I have warned you before about your tendency to impertinence,” Old Smoko whispered, poking out his lips and moved them carefully so Billy could see what they were saying, “Do not mention fairy stories. Boar pigs have excellent hearing and are very sensitive about their dignity!”
Unfortunately, the sensitive monster had heard Billy. “Scoff! Scoff!” Sparks gushed off the grinders as the gigantic Captain Cooker whetted his
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