The Boy who cried wolf
The Dad Who Cried Wolf
There is a beautiful valley nestling in the foothills of some faraway mountains. Waterfalls cascade down from the alpine forests that overlook the spectacular crags. The silver river meanders past orchards and lush green meadows, leading eventually to a tiny, picturesque village called, let’s say, Rimbleflimpleton.
The villagers are a happy bunch. None of them are rich, but no one wants for anything because there is enough of everything to go around and each family has a specific job to do. The Smiths do all the blacksmithing, the Bakers do all the baking, the Coopers do something or other, and the Shepherds look after all the sheep.
They were a nice family, but nobody really liked Mr Shepherd. At the village meetings he would always want to talk about things that nobody else was bothered about. They might want to organise the summer festival, while he would argue that the festival money should be spent on a higher wall around the fountain. If they wanted to upgrade the Christmas lights for the enormous tree they had every year, he would try to convince them to improve the electrical wiring. And so on.
It was the same at home. All the children in the village had huge climbing frames in their back gardens. All except young Peter Shepherd. The only toy he was allowed to play with was a woollen blanket and that was taken off him when his father found him trying to make a swing with it.
“It’s just too dangerous, Peter. You could end up strangling yourself.” His father had said.
The only time Peter was allowed to do anything unsupervised was when he was carrying out his duties looking after the sheep. Out in the Lower Pasture he was far enough away from the village for his father not to know what he was doing. Sometimes his friends would come out and they’d play football. Other times he’d just run around blindly, enjoying the mindless danger of not looking where he was going. He’d often fall over and roll down the hillside. He couldn’t help laughing when he did that.
“Dad? Can I take the sheep into the Middle Pasture tomorrow? The sheep haven’t got much fresh grass left on the Lower Pasture. I think…”
Mr Shepherd’s face turned an ashen white. “No! You must never go into the Middle Pasture. It’s dangerous there because that’s where the Badgerwocky lives. And it’ll hear the sheep and come and eat you.”
“Oh. Right. OK.” Peter said.
The next day when Peter was supposed to be watching the sheep, his friends came out to play football. And while they were playing three of the fattest sheep wandered out of the Lower Pasture.
A while after his friends had gone home, he noticed the missing sheep. They had left an easy trail to follow because they were so fat. Peter realised immediately that they’d escaped to the Middle Pasture where the Badgerwocky lived.
Peter was frightened. He didn’t know what to do. He would be in serious trouble if he went back to the village without the three fattest sheep but, on the other hand, he didn’t want to be eaten by a monster.
After a few minutes he decided to climb the tallest tree where he’d be able to see into the Middle Pasture. He clambered up, hauling himself from branch to branch. He’d never been allowed to climb a tree before because his father had told him it was very, very dangerous.
When he got to near the top, he looked to the north and saw the Middle Pasture. He had expected to see burned bushes where the Badgerwocky had breathed its fiery breath and huge gouges in the ground where it had raked its terrible claws.
But it was not like that. It looked beautiful. Lovely long grass swayed beneath some little apple trees. A stream trickled down from the Upper Pasture, babbling through the meadowsweet and daisies. And three sheep grazed in the centre, untroubled and peaceful.
Peter watched. He expected a tornado of whirling claws and gnashing teeth to hurtle across the meadow and devour the sheep, but nothing happened. Peter waited for a while. Still nothing happened.
Eventually he climbed down the tree and crept into the Middle Pasture. The sun was beginning to touch the high mountains surrounding the valley, and the shadows were lengthening. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the Badgerwocky only came out at night.
Each of his footsteps seemed to echo around the valley, ricocheting off the high cliffs like a gunshot. Surely, if the Badgerwocky was anywhere near by it would come swooping down and gobble him up.
But still nothing came.
When he reached the stupid sheep they greeted him with loud bleats of happiness. He tried to quieten them down and herd them back to the Lower Pasture. Reluctantly, noisily and slowly the sheep made their way back.
Peter was dripping with sweat when they finally set foot back onto the short grass of the Lower Pasture even though the night was turning cool. He rounded the rest of the flock up and hurried back to the village.
It was almost fully dark by the time he got back. His friends saw him first and ran up to meet him.
“Where have you been?”
Peter was so relieved to be back he could barely speak.
“Three of the sheep wandered up onto the Middle Pasture and I had to rescue them.”
“Rescue them?” Gregory said. “Rescue them from what?”
“From the Badgerwocky! It lives there and it eats people.”
There was a moment’s silence and then his friends burst out laughing.
“There’s no such thing as a Badgerwocky. It’s just an old wives’ tale.”
Peter was glad it was dark because his face flushed bright red. He felt so stupid. Now he was safe within the village the idea that a flaming eyed monster prowled the Middle Pasture seemed utter mimsy.
That evening, Peter and his father had a row.
“Why did you tell me that I’d get eaten by the stupid Badgerwocky?”
“It was for your own good, Peter. The Middle Pasture is too far from the village. If something bad did happen you wouldn’t be able to get back.”
“Yes, I would. It’s not that far.”
It took a while, but Peter forgave his father for telling fibs and over the next few weeks he took the sheep regularly up onto the Middle Pasture to graze. They loved the greener grass and buttercups and clover, and got bigger and fatter than ever.
“Dad?” He asked. “Can I take the sheep onto the Upper Pasture tomorrow? There’s loads of clover and forbs in there.”
“No! You must never go into the Upper Pasture. It’s dangerous because that’s where the Fruggalo lives. And it’ll hear the sheep and come and eat you.”
“Really?”
Mr Shepherd nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
So, a few more weeks went by until Peter fell asleep on a sunny afternoon and the three fat sheep wandered out of the Middle Pasture, up the rocky path and into the Upper Pasture. When he woke up, Peter realised what had happened and climbed the tallest tree to see if he could spot the errant sheep.
Sure enough, they were munching their peaceful way through mounds of the most succulent looking grass and forbs Peter had ever seen. He watched for a while, waiting for the Fruggalo to bound across the field and rend the animals apart with its terrible tusks, claws, teeth and jaws, but nothing happened. He waited for a while. Still nothing happened.
Once again Peter clambered down the tree and crept into the Upper Pasture. His footsteps seemed to make even more noise this time and he had to creep further. The three fat sheep carried on eating when he got to them and it took all his shepherding powers to convince them to come back down with him. He was shaking with unspent adrenaline when they reached the flock and he wasted no time hurrying them all back to the village.
His friends met him on the main street.
“Peter! You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Oh, I think I have.” He panted. He was exhausted from rushing home. “I had to rescue the three fattest sheep from the Upper Pasture where the Fruggalo lives.”
“The Fruggalo?” Gregory said.
“Yes!”
“Peter, don’t you know? There’s no such thing as a Fruggalo.”
That evening, Peter and his father had another row.
“Why did you tell me that I’d get eaten by the stupid Fruggalo?”
“It was for your own good, Peter. The Upper Pasture is too far from the village. If something bad did happen you wouldn’t be able to get back.”
“Yes, I would. It’s not that far.”
Peter forgave his father after a while and before long he was herding the sheep between all three Pastures. They’d have breakfast in the Lower, lunch in the Middle and then dinner in the Upper. And they all got really fat.
In the Upper Pasture there was a trail that led into the Deeping Woods and although it was quite dark beneath the canopy of trees Peter could see the most beautiful cowslip growing there.
“Dad?” He asked that evening. “Can I take the sheep into the Deeping Woods tomorrow? There’s…”
“No!” Mr Shepherd roared, his face livid. “You must promise me that you will never go into that accursed wood.”
Peter snorted.
“Promise me, son. Please. Never go in there. There are Wolves.”
Peter nodded. “OK, Dad. You know best.”
The very next day Peter went straight past the Lower Pasture where the sheep wanted to eat their breakfast, and then straight past the Middle Pasture where the sheep wanted to have their lunch, and then straight past the Upper Pasture and into the Deeping Woods.
“There!” He said to his sheep. “Eat all the cowslips and clover and forbs that you like. This surely must be the tastiest breakfast you’ve ever had!”
“It certainly is!” The King of the Wolves said, as his pack tore into the sheep. “And you look like the tastiest morsel of them all.”
This is an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo effort “The Book of Lies”. I’m currently on 8387 words and I should have written about 16,666 by now.
Any thoughts, encouragements or comments are always welcome.