at them through the forest. Why, I’ve
more to fear from the snails and brownfly than them!” he’d heard
one lady shout.
“My turnapples’d turn sour and
poison the land for that foul behooded lot if they laid a hand on
them anyways!” another chimed in.
On Appleby’s farm plot, Ben
tried to assist as best he could. On the first day as their guest,
Eva showed him around to get him familiarised so that he could help
with her chores.
She began with the pomp-hens.
“Pomp-hens lay us big, rounded eggs, like these beauties.” She held
up a black-shelled sphere the size of a tennis ball from the laying
tables inside the wooden hutch. “If we’re lucky, they each lay
three a day, and that’s plenty for us and leftovers to barter with.
But Pomp-hens need to be treated carefully,” she said, as she
placed the egg carefully in a grass-cushioned tray and directed Ben
outside to the day pen.
“Pomp-hens are very majestic
and like to be treated with respect. You have to stick to the same
time going into their hutch so as not to surprise or interrupt
them, and if you’re looking at one and catch her eye you should bow
and show her lots of humility, or she will get very grumpy and peck
and scratch at you till you’ve learned your lesson. When you feed
them it’s best to keep your eyes down and carefully spoon the feed
into neat piles; they’re a very particular about that as well.”
Ben stared at the strange
things. They were a lot like the chickens he knew, but bigger and
prouder, and with bright, multicoloured feathers more like he’d
expect to see on a parrot. One of the birds strutted towards him,
and he noticed a bright yellow crest on its head, swept upwards and
to one side like Jordan’s blond quiff. It looked boldly back at
him, and he suddenly realised that Eva was bowing next to him. He
hastily bent over, hoping he had been fast enough. After a minute
the pomp-hen pivoted like a catwalk model and swaggered away
confidently.
Next, Eva moved them along to
the digboks enclosure. As Ben walked towards it he thought it might
be empty, as he couldn’t see anything moving within the fence
perimeter. All he noticed were some muddy mounds, and near them a
few short posts, which had wide, flat metal bases.
“Digboks are very difficult
animals to keep,” Eva began, “because they love to burrow. If we
let them, they would dig their way to the great open plains west of
Murdimore, and I bet the one or two we have lost are there right
now, feasting on the green grasses.” She chuckled.
Ben looked more closely. At the
top of each post there was a taut rope, leading straight down into
a little hole in the ground. The mounds must be everything they had
dug up already, he realised. “So you keep them from escaping with
those heavy anchors in the field?”
“Yes, exactly. The land anchors
hold them. But we keep them well fed so I think they’d miss us if
they escaped anyway.” She picked up a bucket of yellow pellets from
near the gate, and motioned to Ben to follow her inside.
They approached one of the
holes, and Ben leaned over to see how deep it went. It dropped
steeply for at least five metres and then ran off towards one of
the other openings.
“I think the tunnels probably
connect with each other down there in a big underground cave where
they all sit, planning how to overthrow us and make their escape,”
she said as she shook the feed bucket.
For a minute or so nothing
happened. Then the rope on the anchor twitched.
Ben took a step back, slightly
apprehensive about what creature might emerge.
The other ropes began to
slacken, and Eva kept shaking.
After a few more rattles of the
bucket, a short legged, pale haired creature the size of a lamb
sprang out and looked around. It shook off the dirt to reveal a
pair of large ears, baby horns, a hairy beard, and a snout covered
in long whiskers. A tongue hung from its open mouth, and it looked
very much like it was smiling.
Ben stepped back beside Eva
more to fear from the snails and brownfly than them!” he’d heard
one lady shout.
“My turnapples’d turn sour and
poison the land for that foul behooded lot if they laid a hand on
them anyways!” another chimed in.
On Appleby’s farm plot, Ben
tried to assist as best he could. On the first day as their guest,
Eva showed him around to get him familiarised so that he could help
with her chores.
She began with the pomp-hens.
“Pomp-hens lay us big, rounded eggs, like these beauties.” She held
up a black-shelled sphere the size of a tennis ball from the laying
tables inside the wooden hutch. “If we’re lucky, they each lay
three a day, and that’s plenty for us and leftovers to barter with.
But Pomp-hens need to be treated carefully,” she said, as she
placed the egg carefully in a grass-cushioned tray and directed Ben
outside to the day pen.
“Pomp-hens are very majestic
and like to be treated with respect. You have to stick to the same
time going into their hutch so as not to surprise or interrupt
them, and if you’re looking at one and catch her eye you should bow
and show her lots of humility, or she will get very grumpy and peck
and scratch at you till you’ve learned your lesson. When you feed
them it’s best to keep your eyes down and carefully spoon the feed
into neat piles; they’re a very particular about that as well.”
Ben stared at the strange
things. They were a lot like the chickens he knew, but bigger and
prouder, and with bright, multicoloured feathers more like he’d
expect to see on a parrot. One of the birds strutted towards him,
and he noticed a bright yellow crest on its head, swept upwards and
to one side like Jordan’s blond quiff. It looked boldly back at
him, and he suddenly realised that Eva was bowing next to him. He
hastily bent over, hoping he had been fast enough. After a minute
the pomp-hen pivoted like a catwalk model and swaggered away
confidently.
Next, Eva moved them along to
the digboks enclosure. As Ben walked towards it he thought it might
be empty, as he couldn’t see anything moving within the fence
perimeter. All he noticed were some muddy mounds, and near them a
few short posts, which had wide, flat metal bases.
“Digboks are very difficult
animals to keep,” Eva began, “because they love to burrow. If we
let them, they would dig their way to the great open plains west of
Murdimore, and I bet the one or two we have lost are there right
now, feasting on the green grasses.” She chuckled.
Ben looked more closely. At the
top of each post there was a taut rope, leading straight down into
a little hole in the ground. The mounds must be everything they had
dug up already, he realised. “So you keep them from escaping with
those heavy anchors in the field?”
“Yes, exactly. The land anchors
hold them. But we keep them well fed so I think they’d miss us if
they escaped anyway.” She picked up a bucket of yellow pellets from
near the gate, and motioned to Ben to follow her inside.
They approached one of the
holes, and Ben leaned over to see how deep it went. It dropped
steeply for at least five metres and then ran off towards one of
the other openings.
“I think the tunnels probably
connect with each other down there in a big underground cave where
they all sit, planning how to overthrow us and make their escape,”
she said as she shook the feed bucket.
For a minute or so nothing
happened. Then the rope on the anchor twitched.
Ben took a step back, slightly
apprehensive about what creature might emerge.
The other ropes began to
slacken, and Eva kept shaking.
After a few more rattles of the
bucket, a short legged, pale haired creature the size of a lamb
sprang out and looked around. It shook off the dirt to reveal a
pair of large ears, baby horns, a hairy beard, and a snout covered
in long whiskers. A tongue hung from its open mouth, and it looked
very much like it was smiling.
Ben stepped back beside Eva
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