COWS!
© Martin D Rothery 2012
All Rights Reserved
First Edition Published in Great Britain in 2012
Cover Illustrations by Martin Rothery
Cover arrangement in collaboration with Warren Lee
Title and character and place names are all protected by the applicable laws
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from copyright owners
This book is a work of fiction, therefore names, characters and events are fictitious and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, or any actual event is purely coincidental
Smashwords Edition
Published by Fishcakes Publications
Before It Begins....
“Has an emissary been located?”
“We have identified an infant human male in the nearby village who has the correct genetic DNA sequencing that we have been searching for. In our opinion he is a perfect match.”
“Really? A perfect match? We couldn’t have hoped for better. Training and conditioning needs to begin immediately.”
“I’ve already instructed our top agents to begin the task.”
“Good. The sooner the tempering begins the more effective he will be in the future. What about a guardian, has a suitable candidate been found?”
“Scouts report healthy specimens on the local farm, born of excellent herding stock. We have worked with the mother and father on several occasions and believe they will be more than cooperative. They are sympathetic to the cause.”
“This is most fortuitous. Advise them of the situation and see which candidate they recommend for advancement. Secrecy is of paramount importance as you already know. Discretion is a priority.”
“Of course. But may I also advise caution. This is a bold plan, not to mention dangerous should the enemy find out. Are you sure we can implement it effectively?”
“We have been left with no choice. We know they have begun to formulate new plans; we must have a counter offensive prepared, even if we don’t need to use it. Our statisticians predict they will be ready to act in approximately twelve to fourteen years time. We must be ready to act.”
“It shall be done.”
“Good, now will you move your hooves and get off that piece of grass – it looks delicious and I’m starving.”
Chapter 1
Chew, Chew, Chew.
When you watch a cow in a field you don’t expect to see very much happen do you, just chew, chew, chew.
Maybe you’ll get a moo.
Chew, Chew, Chew.
Moo, Moo, Moo.
That would seem to be pretty much it!
Therefore it may come as some surprise to you that behind those big black docile eyes with their merrily fluttering eyelashes lurk some of the keenest minds you’ll ever encounter on planet earth.
Yes, really!
And they are planning to take over the world!
Does that come as something of a shock to you?
Let me explain.
You see, they’re smarter than those cuddly little chimps who, to their credit, may be beginning to develop the use of rudimentary tools or those cocky dolphins who perform for the public in exchange for rewards of fishy treats. Their intelligence pales in comparison to these grass eating methane generators that dwell in our countryside much closer to home.
For reasons that will soon become apparent, they just don’t want us to know!
Of course, there are sheep in the country as well – and they know. They’ve always known. We just didn’t know that they know because they didn’t want us to know.
It’s one big countryside conspiracy – humans not included.
It may surprise you that, in this surreal world of countryside intrigue, that we do have some farmyard allies, notably in the form of pigs. They are very fond of humans, but if they told us what was going on, they’d be considered squealers.
To begin this tale of farmyard conspiracy, let me take you to a small country village, nestling among the lush green valleys of the Yorkshire hills. A quiet, sleepy, yet spirited community built on the traditions of farming and priding itself on its dairy herds.
Come to think of it, they are rather strangely devoted to these undisclosed Bovine masterminds, bordering on fanaticism almost. What better place to start a revolution.
We join our black and white meaty renegades at their daily strategical, analytical, tactical, planning, territorial campaign meeting – also known as milking time.
Within the earthy smelling, dimly lit confines of the milking shed, the air thick and heavy, we find our Bovine aggressors conspiring amongst the background hum and gurgling of the machinery, many of them lazily chewing the fodder as they have their udders evacuated, occasionally bellowing out a moo or a grunt. At a brief glance to the passing observer, nothing would really look out of the ordinary. But don’t be fooled, they are the masters of deception.
“I call this meeting to order!” bellowed the Prime Admiral Tactical Commander of Herd (codenamed P.A.T.C.H and quite appropriate really due to her unusual marking that has the familiarity of a quilt knitted by your favourite Granny).
Patch was a tyrant among her kind, who commanded obedience and definitely stood out among the herd.
She was also the leader because she was the biggest!
Often leading by example, this trooper was known to eat up to two hundred pounds of grass and drink one hundred gallons of water in a day which was phenomenal for a cow, roughly twice the daily amount required, an inspiring precedent for all her troop. Why you may ask? Well, imagine the output from the other end, something that all cows aim for and would be explained soon enough.
Although the cows were having a meeting, we know they can’t actually talk, not in the conventional sense anyway. If this was the case then surely they would have given themselves away a long time ago and we would have cottoned on that they were up to something. Can you imagine the publicity of a talking cow! By jingo, that would never do; they needed to be discreet in their affairs.
The mooing mellowed down to a low background throb of rumbles, snorts and gurgles with a few rump trumpets thrown in.
“Ooooh, the farmer’s put the suction up too high again,” groaned Delta Alpha 1 5 Yankee (conveniently codenamed D.A.1.5.Y), “the tubes are really chafing my udders.” Her knees were knocking together like coconuts on a palm in a force five gale. She was trembling so much the black and white hide had blended into grey.
“Thank-you, for that amazing insight Daisy.” Patch shot the cause of the interruption a big black-eyed look of disapproval. “You’ve got no-one to blame but yourself. If you’d been concentrating on the human instead of idly tit-tattling to your buddies when you came in, you could have instructed it to lower the pressure. Let that lapse be a lesson to you! The humans are ours to command but you have to stay focused at all times.”
The surprising use of cow telepathy allowed them to keep their thoughts to themselves, and each other, another hidden truth behind Bovine advanced culture that has developed over the millennia.
However, many cow theologians philosophise it may have been better to evolve the ability to milk themselves which would be a much more useful skill to their species as humans (or calf birth) were still required to remove their milk.
If they weren’t milked, it could be quite uncomfortable and unpleasant for a cow resulting in the need for dirty human medical attention – or worse!
“Sorry Ma’am. It won’t happen again.” Shifting uncomfortably, Daisy started counting the grains in the trough before her, avoiding eye contact with her immediate counterparts.
These meeting were held every day and were orchestrated by Patch to be used to discuss tactical deployment, distribution, human domination and, of course, where the best grass was.
“Today’s meeting is very important!” Patch announced to the gathered herd. Our numerous years of planning, work and toil are about to come to fruition. I’ve received word from H.E.R.D command and they believe we have reached a critical juncture in which to advance our plans and more excitingly our unit has been chosen by the High Longhorn herself, long live her Hornness,” this was echoed throughout the shed, “ to undertake an advance mission to seek any signs of resistance prior to full deployment.”
The ‘Human and Earth Radical Domination’ command is the Bovine agency in charge of taking over the planet. It is believed to be based in Devon, which makes sense as they are the cream of the crop, but this has never been confirmed
“Ooooh, how exciting a secret mission. I’m so nervous it’s making my rump tingle!”
Patch’s eyes narrowed as she, once again, stared through the gloom at the source of constant interruptions.
“Thank-you again Daisy for another remarkable comment that once again emphasizes the importance of this unique mission,” Patch said demonstrating the Bovine legendary sarcasm. In fact to say a cow wasn’t sarcastic would be like saying milk isn’t white and doesn’t make yoghurt. (That’s the traditional stuff of course with no fancy fruit purees or distracting chocolaty sprinkles packaged in unnecessary compartmentalized plastic cornered container); “anyhow…..I have orders to begin ‘Operation Milkshake’.”
A few shifting hooves of nervousness around the room as well as a few involuntary oscillating releases of methane from rear ends; the most obvious sense of tension releasing.
“This is due to commence at 0600 hours – milking time tomorrow. I’m now going to hand over to the Command Liaison Officer Vanguard Enforcement Registrar for further details and instructions.” She’s known as C.L.O.V.E.R to you and me, otherwise that would be quite a mouthful, wouldn’t it?
Quite incidentally, she had a black Patch on her shoulder that did actually resemble a four leaf Clover. Ironically, it never brought her any luck.
Cow’s names are frequently abbreviated and become very similar to the fondly given pet names we may give a cow? Quite a nice coincidence isn’t it? It makes them sound a little nicer and easier to relate to for humans. Shame they wish to force total dominion over us. You never know, on another planet, at another time we may have even been friends; but no point in philosophising over that now.
“Thank-you Ma’am.” Clover enthusiastically lolled forward to the head of the cow shed before being promptly catapulted back in surprise after forgetting she still had the suction tubes attached to her udders.
She promptly got back up and blew the straw out of her nose, unconvincingly trying to look as casual and dignified under the circumstances as she came forward again, more tentatively this time. Cows don’t blush and go red like humans do; however the milk that was being sucked out of her began resembling a strawberry milkshake.
“As you know, this unit has been doing some excellent work in collaboration with other local and regional units. Our herd’s methane production alone has helped raise the planet’s temperature by one tenth of a degree Celsius, a fabulous achievement I’m sure you’ll agree. This greenhouse gas effect is having the predicted results in raising the planet’s ambient temperature and is now at the optimum level for maximum telepathic yield. The funny thing is, and I’m sure you’ll agree, is that we still have the humans believing that it is them causing the phenomenon by burning their fossil fuels, ha ha.”
Her chuckles were echoed around the room.
What is all that about I hear you asking? This all sounds like Gobble-De-Gook (although the feathered future Christmas dinners, known as Turkeys, would prefer the term Gobble-De-Gobble as they can’t say Gook).
It’s no secret that scientists have recently discovered the amount of gaseous discharge coming from the Bovine community has been contributing to global warming.
The third largest contributor in the world, apparently.
Little did they know it was deliberate.
You see, cows like a warm environment, there’s no doubting that. The problem with Old Blighty is, the temperature for most of the year is, let’s face it, pretty cold and this can lead to very inactive cows. You’ll probably agree, during most of the time throughout the year you’ll see them standing around in fields fairly statuesque. This is how they get caught by those terrible cow-tippers. Many a Friesian has ended up on its side after these pranksters had sneaked up on them and pushed them over, just for a laugh. This is not amusing to the poor cow, who just didn’t have the energy to move away.
Most of the time, they can just about manage to chew, but in our climate this takes tremendous concentration and effort.
In comparison, on a warm summer’s day, this can be their most productive time. If you were to venture in to the countryside and stand amongst a herd for a while, being both very still and quiet, the most common noise you would hear is an orchestral fanfare of raspberry style eruptions.
So now we know they are trying to warm the planet, why is that you may ask?
Let’s find out more from Clover.
“The mean ambient global temperature has now reached critical density for optimal telepathic discharge to be transmitted allowing full mental assault upon the human species. Lactose cerebral control formulation has reached maximum yield resulting in optimum consumption and Homosapian saturation to allow remote brain operation.”
“Do you mean the humans have drunk enough milk changing their brain chemistry and now the air is warm enough for us to use our brainwaves to control their tiny little minds?” enquired a confused looking Daisy.
“Yes Daisy, I thought that’s what I said?” Clover rolled her eyes.
“Oh….. good.” Daisy slowly nodded as it all began to register.
Patch moved back to the fore.
“As you know, we’ve been planning this takeover for some time now. Our ancestors conceived this plan decades ago and it has taken some time to reach this critical juncture. We will make them proud. For too long, too many of our kind have been made into roast dinners and beef burgers. Tomorrow, we will honour their sacrifice!” Patch’s rallying cry raised moo’s of approval; “We will take control of the humans and bind them to us as our slaves. Tomorrow, we take this village, after that we will become rulers of the world!”
This dramatic speech was met with rousing applause, or more accurately, a large stomping of hooves.
Well, that sounds exciting and dramatic doesn’t it? But let’s just take time to remember, cows can’t actually speak English. Of course they can’t. They don’t have the ability to move tongues and lips as we do, not to mention the fact they don’t have a voice box. And besides, who would teach them? They can’t exactly walk into a primary school and ask the someone to teach them their a, b, c’s can they? Cows can’t read our language either.
However, taking this into account, it wouldn’t make a very interesting story if we couldn’t understand what they were saying would it? So, I have taken the time to translate for you. This was not an easy feat, mind. Cow is no easy language to learn, so the translation may not be one hundred percent accurate. I still have trouble with pre-tensed double hyphenated moo come rumble that is deep from the back of the throat. Be warned, if translated incorrectly it could refer to some rather rude insult towards your parentage. (Just try it; you’ll see what I mean.)
The meeting continued late into the evening, the final elements of the plan being finely honed and polished, and up above the sun set over the old wooden cowshed hitting the atmosphere with its amber glow.
Down in the nearby valley, in the village of Golthwaite, lights began appearing in the little cottage windows deterring the ingress of night. Peaceful, nocturnal activities began oblivious to the fortunes that lay ahead for the inhabitants within.
In the Meantime....
“Latest intelligence reports they are due to commence their offensive.”
“What? They must be mad! Do they not realise if they commence these actions then the treaty is broken?”
“Affirmative. They must be confident in their plan if they are willing to risk a peace that has lasted this long.”
“The problem is we don’t know the full extents of their plan. We need more information. Is the avian spy network in position?”
“Yes, they are on constant alert and currently active. Reports are starting to come in but we have nothing concrete as yet.”
“Is the emissary prepared and up to the task?”
“Training and conditioning has taken place over the last ten years. Although his general intelligence quotient is below normal level, his aptitude, empathy, cognitive skills and competence rate very highly.”
“He still remains unaware of our interaction but this will allow him to fulfil his task more efficiently without directly implementing ourselves. Unfortunately, some side effects have become apparent, but these are negligible”
“Good. From all other reports the guardian is also doing an excellent job and has firmly bonded with the emissary. She still shows some signs of resistance to us but this is no more than a slight rebellious streak within her.”
“Will she be responsive should the task require her skills?”
“Yes, she is more than ready and should the need arise, she will seek our aid.”
“Good. Also, order the Avians to render any aid or warning where necessary.”
“We are now on full alert – as soon as I’ve had a nibble on that delicious looking clover over there”.
Chapter 2
As the evening drifts in over the little village of Golthwaite, we join one of its junior inhabitants safely residing in one of the beautiful little stone cottages that bordered the village green.
This certain young lad, Jimmy Tatley was his name, was readying himself for bed even though it was only just turning eight o’clock. You may think this is a little bit soon for a bed time, especially as this young man was fourteen and he could stay up until at least half past ten if he wanted to. His parents, Gerald and Susan Tatley, wouldn’t have minded, as even they thought it was a bit weird for a lad his age to be putting his head down early. There had never been any sign of teenage rebellion in him.
Laid at the bottom of his bed, watching his every move with disinterest, was a black and white border collie.
“Ok Flossy, my alarm is set, my wellies are ready by the door with your collar and lead,” Flossy lifted her head and looked up at Jimmy judgingly; he caught the glare in her eye.
“Alright, we’ll not take your lead; I know you don’t like it.” Flossy settled her head back down between her front paws, seemingly pacified.
“Where’s my whistle? Oh, there it is. Can’t do with forgetting that can we, otherwise you’ll be pretending not to hear me again at sheep herding practice, won’t you lass.”
Now, as you know, dogs can’t speak English, but they do understand it and human folk perfectly well, so she did what she did best and pretended to ignore him (just like when he kept blowing that irritating whistle). Although she loved her owner, and they had a very strong bond, he did wind her up sometimes.
“We’ll get up nice and early tomorrow lass; about quarter past four should do it. I told Farmer Ken I’d be at the farm around five-ish to help get the cows in for milking.”
Tomorrow was Saturday and Jimmy loved Saturdays as he got to help out on the local farm, just on the outskirts of the village, which was owned by Farmer Ken.
It had turned out that Jimmy had a natural talent with all animals, an unusual empathy that allowed easy collaboration and understanding with them on an unseen level; all except cows. Strangely enough there always seemed to be an innate sense of distrust with them.
He was also not afraid of hard work and getting his hands dirty – what better place to apply these talents than on a farm.
To be fair Jimmy wasn’t the brightest of lads. At school he struggled with his a, b, d’s, thought geometry was a form of earth measuring and home economics was the art of mathematics practiced by estate agents. He was never going to be an extraordinary academic. Therefore he and his parents were delighted to find he had such a knack with animals and he had taken to farming as a goose takes to a pond.
Farmer Ken was a friend of Jimmy’s father (as was everyone else who went drinking down at the Frog on the Green public house on a Friday night), so Gerald had asked him if Jimmy could spend the odd Saturday helping out on the local farm and to Jimmy’s delight and good luck, he’d agreed. (Actually there wasn’t much luck involved as Farmer Ken, being a tight fisted skinflint, was never going to turn down free labour).
Therefore every Friday night you would find Jimmy getting ready early for bed early, brimming with excitement, so he could be up and off at first light.
He stripped off his woolly slippers, pulled on his slightly faded navy blue woollen pyjamas, slid himself under his soft, cosy woollen sheets and put his messy brown haired head down on fluffy woollen pillow whilst cuddling his woolly stuffed toy sheep.
I know what you’re thinking – that sounds like a lot of wool. You see, Jimmy loved wool but could never explain to anyone why. He just felt so comfortable either in it, on it or surrounded by it. A bit unusual you might think and you’d probably be right. It was even bordering on obsession. Even on a hot sunny day, you’d find Jimmy wearing his woolly pullover. He’d even named his sheepdog Flossy (a name she was not at all happy with at all, when the last thing she needed was a constant reminder of the role that had been dictated to her within canine society. The thought of even chasing sheep made her tired and she blatantly refused to count them just to get to sleep. She was pretty sure she could turn her talents to other uses. But obviously, she couldn’t tell him all of this, she was only a dog!
“Goodnight Flossy, sleep tight girl, busy day tomorrow.”
If only he had known how busy it was going to be.
Jimmy was awake before the alarm even sounded. The young lad contentedly lay snug, wrapped in his woolly covers coming around as he slowly waited for the monotonous chimes to begin. There was a slight chill in the air and the sunlight was already beginning to intrude between the cracks in the curtains promising a grand day ahead. Flossy was curled up the foot of Jimmy’s bed still fast asleep in an attempt to try and delay the day ahead.
The alarm heralded the time to rise and, startled, Flossy jumped and fell off the bed in a great heap. Heaving himself slowly out from under his blanket he bent down and lifted the big shaggy pile of black and white fur off the floor, placed her gently back on the bed and gave her an affectionate tickle behind the ears.
“Come on girl, time to get up. Let’s get dressed, get some brekkie and then we can be off.” She did not look too enthusiastic and began the dreaded wait till they had to leave.
Stretching off the morning grogginess he began to pull on his clothes, all wool of course, even, rather strangely, his underpants. Once dressed Jimmy wandered over to the window and pulled back the curtains, soaking himself in the early morning sun that streamed in, it was going to be a lovely day. Wide awake now, he quietly opened his door, left his room, crept his way across the landing and then downstairs on his tippy toes.
The house was as silent as a stone, which was to be expected at around four thirty in the morning as his parents were still in bed fast asleep, but for Jimmy something didn’t feel quite right. As his ears strained he realised that he couldn’t hear the usual unearthly rattle that was his father’s snoring. Normally at this time it would be shaking the tiles on the roof but today there was not as much as a whispering snort to be heard.
“I’ll bet mum has stuffed a sock in his mouth, Flossy,” Jimmy whispered in a grin as she padded along beside him. “She’s been threatening to do it all this time; sounds like she’s finally done it.” He chuckled to himself as he continued his toe ended descent.
He hastily made himself some toast, downed a glass of orange juice and put a bowl of food down, absently dispensed from the first can he found, for Flossy who, unseen to Jimmy, looked at his back with disapproval and disgust with the choice put before her. Unsurprisingly the dog food he had given her was lamb. She would have chosen anything but and considered if sometimes he did it on purpose.
Breakfast out of the way, Jimmy enthusiastically pulled on his wellies, slipped the wool collar on Flossy (remembering to leave the lead to one side), grabbed his woolly coat, checked his pocket for his dog whistle and then swiftly but silently exiting through the kitchen door, meandering down the cobble path through the beautifully manicured front garden to the gleaming white wooden gate. Heading through, he carefully closed it behind him and pointed himself down the lane in the direction of Farmer Ken’s farm.
Now most Saturday mornings, most normal places that you and I may come from are usually quiet at such an ungodly time of the morning. At the end of a working week we all like a bit of a lie in to recharge our batteries and so on. Therefore you really wouldn’t expect to see many people around and about in the small hours of Saturday morning and as Jimmy made his way through the quaint village streets, bordered by grass verges, tidily manicured hedgerows and neatly laid drystone walls bordering the villagers’ ordered and blossoming gardens, they were unsurprisingly deserted.
Unsurprising to you or me that is because as mentioned before, this was a village built on farming tradition. Early mornings were part of everyday life here so you would usually find at least one or two of the native folk on their way to work or maybe a few lights in windows as people breakfasted.
But - there was no-one.
Nothing moved.
Jimmy thought there was something wrong with his ears and shoved his index finger deep in his right one just to test it was working. He was rewarded with a waxy fingertip.
If it wasn’t for the slight rustling of the leaves as the breeze gently nudged them into movement or the sound of his own footsteps on the path, he could have sworn he had lost his hearing.
Where were the paperboys doing their morning deliveries? Where were the market traders who would normally be setting up their stalls on the village green and the farmers bringing their wares to be traded? But most importantly where was the wool stall that regularly drew Jimmy’s attention like a big fluffy magnet. He couldn’t help it; the colour, texture and variety seemed to just grab his attention. Jimmy was often asked by Mrs Shearing, the stall owner, to move along as the drooling Jimmy often scared her customers as well as rendering her stock rather damp
It was only then that Jimmy noticed the birds, but not in the usual sense. They were flying around, whizzing across the sky in the normal manner doing what birds do best – either tree hopping, collecting nest materials or scrabbling around on the ground digging for worms, berries and seeds – but he couldn’t hear them.
However, their eyes were always intent on what was going on upon the ground as if watching for something.
But, they were all silent, no noise passed their beaks.
Where was the dawn chorus?
You may or may not agree, but one of the most pleasant experiences to be had in the country is to wake up in bed and listen to the bird song permeate the morning air – it warms the heart. After a while it becomes an unnoticed background noise but it still provides an omnipotent symphony that fills the countryside with avian melody
Jimmy felt strangely uneasy; with every step he thought he would shatter the very air with every thud of his feet. Each breath seemed to be stretching the atmosphere with its rasping.
Then something peculiar happened.
In the periphery of his vision, Jimmy spotted a small blur hurtling from the sky and landing just ahead of him before suddenly realising what it was. “Well hello Mr. Robin, why aren’t you tweeting this morning?”
The robin sat about three metres away from Jimmy on a garden spade handle, (because that’s usually where you usually find a robin of course as they do seem strangely drawn to them), where it was tilting its head giving the young lad a curious but appraising look. The questioning in its eyes seemed to suggest misunderstanding, almost as if Jimmy shouldn’t be there. This made Jimmy shiver rather uncomfortably.
“Tweet-Tware,” the little brown and red feathered bundle emitted.
Wide eyed, Jimmy gaped before replying…..”Err….What?” It’s amazing how articulate he could be sometimes!
“Tweet-Tware, Tsutid.”
It appeared to be conversing with him. Jimmy was stunned beyond belief.
This really comes as no surprise at all when you think about it as robins know all about us. They are nosy so and so’s. You’ll catch them looking in through your window, or sitting on a post nearby, seemingly innocent, but all the time they are actually spying on us. Just you have a look next time you see one.
“Er…..what?” he repeated in the absence of any other words forming due to the shocking developments.
The robin’s expression took on a disgruntled appearance and it let out a sigh that seemed slightly larger than one it should be able to produce for something of its size. It hopped down on to the dirty path and began scratching along the ground with its beak.
Jimmy’s face beamed with delight at this spectacle watching this fascinating feathered artist in action as Flossy looked on unimpressed – show off she thought. It all looked like a lot of effort to her.
B….E….W….A….R….E.
The young lad looked at the letters scrawled in the earth.
“I get the feeling it’s trying to tell us something Flossy, what could it be?”
Flossy lay down on her belly, lowered her head and put her paws over her face letting out a small moan. The robin shrugged its wings.
C….O….W….S.
The robin looked up at the boy; agitatedly hopping around the letters it had just scribed upon the floor hoping enlightenment may suddenly dawn upon him. Unfortunately, if Jimmy’s brain was a hotel then his eyes would have been displaying the vacant sign.
“I’m sorry Mr. Robin but I don’t have time to play hangman, I have to go to work; maybe another time though,” and with that Jimmy turned away shaking his head. “C’mon Flossy we’ll be late.”
Trouble is Jimmy had the tendency to get bored a little too easily with things he didn’t really understand. Plus he had the attention span of a cat in a string factory; not a good combination. So as he continued along the picturesque country lane, becoming distracted by a beautiful display of yellow and pink flowers that were trailing over the drystone wall of Mrs. Pettigrew’s garden, he was soon forgetting about the tiny avian and its cryptic message.
The robin, after all its hard work, was not amused.
“Twit!” chirped the fiery chested bird whose torso appeared to have gone an even angrier shade of red than before and was hopping on the spot shaking its little feathery head, a tiny swirl of dust forming at its feet.
“Oh yes, Twit Twit,” Jimmy caught himself replying and turned waving goodbye. Smiling to himself he said, “What a lovely little creature.”
Looking back, out of Jimmy’s sight, Flossy eyed the robin suspiciously through squinted eyes. She was quite intelligent and knew something was going on; that this avian’s warning should be heeded. She almost felt embarrassed that her owner could dismiss such an obvious sign; then again maybe that’s why she was around. Although he didn’t know it, they made a good pair and more often than not she would get Jimmy out of all sorts of precarious situations.
She glanced back at the robin and gave it a sly nod and a wink whilst the teenagers back was turned, a sign of understanding between the two. In return the bird opened its wings wide and lifted its eyes to the sky, almost deflating as it let out a huge breath, a distinct sign of relief that someone had understood the message.
A few minutes later they were passing through the large flaky green painted planks of wood that made up the big farm gate. Their rickety construction belied the weight of these timber barriers which Jimmy, even for a strapping young lad, normally struggled to move on his own. Normally he would climb over them, it was much easier. Lying wide open as they were now however worried Jimmy slightly as Farmer Ken liked to keep them closed at all times just in case any of the animals got loose. The proprietor was usually very particular and meticulous about details like this.
In addition to this the farm was quiet – too quiet.
No cockerels crowing.
No sheep bleating.
No pigs squealing.
No cows mooing.
Of course, where were the cows?
It was milking time and, looking around at the surrounding fields, they were nowhere to be seen. Around now, they would be normally waiting at the gate at the end of the lane that entered the field where they grazed and they knew they were going to be fed and milked. They weren’t there and the gate was wide open.
Jimmy’s thought (he could only form one at a time, poor lad,) immediately turned to Farmer Ken.
“I think something odd’s going on here Flossy, things just don’t seem right. We have to find Farmer Ken and make sure he’s ok. We’ll go to the farmhouse first, maybe he’s just having a late breakfast. You never know if we’re lucky, Mrs. Farmer Ken…” (She preferred to be called Nishitori or Nishi to her friends, but Jimmy was always respectful) “…might have some bacon and egg kung po waiting for us.” Nishi’s stir fry’s were legendary and Flossy’s ears pricked up at this tit bit of information, she preferred pork to lamb any day.
They continued to make their way along the winding pebble path, passing the stone sculptures, lotus blossoms, bonsai and stunning purple acer trees, crunching their way through the still present silence, towards what can only be described as a chocolate box, picture postcard perfect farmyard cottage.
Farmer Ken kept it in immaculate condition inside and out from the perfect stone tiled roof to the beautifully white painted cottage windows set neatly between the fine quarried stone blocks that had stood against the ravages of time. The whole front façade was softened by the green ivy waterfall that cascaded from the roof to the garden below. The path led right up to a wonderfully inviting wooden front door framed by an ornate Japanese style pergola covered in pink trailing roses.
However this was all lost on Jimmy who, following the lead of his ever ravenous belly skirted his way around towards the back of the cottage towards the back door as this was the fastest access to the kitchen. He was rounding the last corner when…..
They just stood there.
Tens of black glass marbles set into long snouted black and white visages all staring at him. Jimmy froze.
They didn’t move.
Jimmy didn’t move.
They stared at him.
He stared back.
Their long Bovine faces showed no emotion (nothing new there).
Jimmy’s face rarely showed any kind of emotion at all as this required complex thinking and coordination but on this occasion a slight frown seemed to appear on his brow.
The intensity of that collective glare penetrated right through him, almost as if they were trying to find something deep within his body, within his mind. You could argue they would be lucky to find anything of value within that brain of his anyway but they seemed intent upon finding something.
At the front of the herd was a larger cow with a checkerboard patchwork appearance who was getting very annoyed as well as slightly confused – why wasn’t this boy responding to her mind probes? The blank vacant expression of this human boys face suggested that their mental assault was working but the weird thing was she just couldn’t register any control, activity or consciousness at all come to think of it, within his head. Surely this youth couldn’t be brain dead: there had been no zombie activity reported for years. She seriously couldn’t believe this backward little village community had enough collective intelligence within it to construct an android – of course not; he couldn’t be one of those. It had taken her years to design of them herself and her intelligence was vastly superior; even though her mighty intellect hadn’t succumbed to the common sense notion that she would never be able to build it having no articulate hands to manage the feat. She mentally reminded herself that she would have to get one of her future human slaves to build it for her.
She put aside and discounted the zombie and android options and turned her mind back to the current task that presented itself.
The staring had now been going on for several minutes and neither party looked like giving way at any point. This made Flossy a little uneasy. She kept turning her head from the group to her master for signs of….well anything, but both the cows and Jimmy were as statues locked in a battle of dimwits.
The cows appeared frozen in the pose of being caught doing something they shouldn’t have been - like rabbits caught in the headlights, (although rabbits usually prefer spotlights. They are excellent performers and are a boon at any talent contest or gala. It was the rabbits that taught the magicians to pull them out of the hat and not the other way around, you know), and Jimmy simply appeared dumbstruck at the appearance of the cows in the back yard.
Emitting a low growl, Flossy began to nudge Jimmy just behind the knee.
“Wha….Oh, not now girl. I’m having a staring competition with these cows – and I think I’m winning.”
Flossy’s eyes rolled. She grabbed the top of his welly in her teeth and gave a sharp tug, putting Jimmy off balance. The eye contact was lost as he stumbled slightly and tried to regain his pose.
“Flossy! Oh, ok. I suppose you’re right. I’ll never beat a cow at this game, they are so dumb. I think we better find Farmer Ken and tell him the cows are loose in his back yard. He’ll want them back in the shed for milking and not idling about playing silly games with us.”
Innocently, he turned his back on the cows and set off back around the cottage heading for the front door instead as they were blocking the access to the rear kitchen door and there was no way he would be able to move them.
Flossy, on the other, hand backed up tentatively never taking her eyes off the black and white barrier.
Just as he was rounding the corner of the building, Jimmy quickly glanced back peeping around the gable end to see if they were still there. Those shiny black orbs were still peering back...
“I’ll beat you next time,” was his parting shot.
“Why couldn’t we control him?” Patch angrily shot the accusation at Clover.
“I....err....I mean....I don’t know, I’m at a complete loss Ma’am. I could register no brain activity or consciousness there at all. It was almost as if he wasn’t there.”
“I sensed the very same thing. This is not good. That human has the potential to harm our plans. We must put an elite detachment on him now and discover how he is resisting us. I want that boy hunted down. Daisy, front and centre!”
“Yes Ma’am!” Daisy was before her leader faster than they could recite the Bovine national anthem, which incidentally has over one hundred verses mainly about grass and how to chew it, so you can imagine her speed.
“Track that human youth and his mangy canine. Find out what he is up to – detain him if possible, use force if necessary, but don’t kill him. I need to run some tests to find out how he has just resisted us. Take as many troops as you need. Now go.”
“Yes Ma’am. Buttercup, Dandelion, Hyacinth – you’re with me.”
(If I even tried to decipher all those code aliases it would take ages and I’m sure you would rather get on with the story instead.)
Daisy, although sometimes a little scatterbrained for a mentally acute cow, was actually an elite commander of a sub-unit within the herd known as the ‘Cowssassins’.
As you would expect from the name, they are considered quite dangerous and unbelievably they are armed with over one hundred ways to kill. Luckily these skills are rarely used on humans. Their most obvious tactic they employ is the stampede, a favourite amongst the Spanish and American herds (you must have seen the chases in the Iberian streets or the old Wild West films – they were all planned by cows). However, in Old Blighty, these cows prefer the more traditional approach of sitting on a victim until they passed out or suffocated and cleverly making it look like an accident. Well how many people would believe a cow fell or sat on a human on purpose? This is considered a more refined and civilised approach in cow society as opposed the brash approach of their foreign cousins.
Daisy and her elite quad shot into action, moving with the speed, grace and elegance of drunken jelly. Loping in the same direction as Jimmy, faster than speeding custard.
Of course, if Jimmy had known about this, he could have sat down, had a glass of lemonade, got up casually and strolled away without a care in the world. He was totally oblivious to any danger that would befall him. As far as he was concerned they were just silly cows.
Meanwhile to the rear of the farmhouse the anger expressed by Patch at this moment made her go redder and redder. Her appearance was now more of a giant ladybird than that of a cow.
“Why couldn’t I probe his mind? When I focused on his head, it was empty”
Jimmy’s teachers had suspected that for years but never had the telepathic ability to prove it.
If world domination was going to be realised every human had to be under the mental influence. That might be difficult if some of them didn’t contain a brain.