SHAKESPEARE’S CUTHBERT
Chapter One
The crow tilted one wing and rode the thermals diagonally across the valley. He could see it all from here - scattered houses and a farm nestled in a fold of the earth below him. Whoever had designed the crow had been truly inspired. The way the head stuck out in front gave a panoramic view without the wings obscuring threats or danger. The colour wasn’t perfect as it made formation flying at night an absolute bugger.
Some birds covered miles every day in search of food or at least the chance of something interesting to stare at. However, the crow was content with the valley. The occupants and their habits kept him riveted as he tried to fathom out why humans made life so complicated. They built houses and didn’t leave the roofs open for a start, how would a crow take flight in emergency with a roof over its nest? And doors? Why shut something behind you when it would only be in the way again next time you came out?
The crow glided closer to the farm and watched someone head into a barn with an empty bucket. He recognised this one, he was about to feed the chickens and by association supply the crow with breakfast.
The chap who ran the farm seemed to be the same chap who dealt with dead people. He made a huge job of wrapping them in cloth, fastening them into a box and then burying the lot on top of the hill.
Even a crow knows that bodies are best left out at night for the local fox. Spreading his wings and fluttering a few feathers to adjust his trim, the crow landed gracefully on top of a fence. One wing caught a rake propped carelessly nearby and the implement slid sideways hitting the barn door and opening the latch. The door creaked open ominously.
Cuthbert watched the crow land, he watched the rake fall and he watched the barn door as it finished creaking and crashed open.
He was faced with four angry tons of bow-legged malevolence, he stared. The bull stared back.
Cuthbert wasn’t prone to panicking. The messages didn’t usually get there in time for his reactions to get their boots on, so he continued to cross the farmyard nonchalantly swinging the bucket of chicken feed.
This was the first time the bull had experienced apathy. Sheer abject terror was the norm and it paused. The bull pawed the ground in anger, playing for time to allow this idiot in front of him to recognise him and scream.
The chickens were bobbing about as if one of them had lost a contact lens before they spotted Cuthbert and appeared from everywhere like demented snowflakes.
The bull ponderously swung its mighty head to watch the distraction, his horns gleaming with intent. When the head swung back, Cuthbert was gone. The bull charged into the middle of the farmyard skidding to a halt as if ‘El Cordobes’ himself was out there.
The expression ‘Bull Market’ was a bit of a mystery because bulls were not the fastest thinkers around and when they found themselves in any type of market it was pretty much, ‘game over.’ This one swung his head from side to side and gradually wondered why the chickens were congregating around the horse trough. Not wanting to appear slow compared to a chicken, the bull ambled over.
Cuthbert gibbered silently. He could feel the ground shake. ‘Think. Cuthbert,’ he urged himself, ‘Analyse your resources.’ Cuthbert looked around. He was behind a horse trough and he had a metal bucket and a flock of chickens. He briefly wondered how badly a bucketful of chickens would hurt a bull. Perhaps it was best not to annoy it.
The bull had met chickens before. They did not share social skills with each other. He usually just walked all over them. He sneezed as a sudden burst of feathers appeared under his hooves.
Cuthbert had a plan. He would suddenly jump up and strike the metal bucket against the iron water pump on the trough. If he shouted at the same time, the noise should startle the bull and he could run for the house.
The chickens clacked and chattered as he swept them away from the bucket.
Leaping up, Cuthbert bellowed and swung the bucket, missing the pump and striking the bull right on the nose. Both man and bull went cross-eyed and gasped. One, at the realisation of what had happened and the other at the realisation of what was about to happen. Cuthbert ran.
The bull roared, nobody was allowed to embarrass him in front of a chicken. He charged. One horn snapped the pump clean off and a geyser of water shot into the air. He firmly stamped one hoof into the metal bucket and was enveloped by a cloud of corn chips. The deluge from the pump turned the corn into a paste almost immediately and he ran blindly, clumping across the yard in search of Cuthbert.
Cuthbert had managed to reach his washing line, he now had rope and a set of signal flags. Was it ‘red rag to a bull’ and white to surrender? It didn’t really matter, a bachelor farmer’s clothing usually ceased to be white the second it came out of the packaging. Cuthbert advanced steadily towards the bull holding out a red flannel shirt.
The bull snorted out two jets of super-heated steam as it peered through the congealed mess all over its face. ‘Is this clown coming to wipe my eyes?’ he thought in disbelief.
Cuthbert struck a pose and shook the red shirt.
The bull tensed and charged. The clanking increased rapidly as the bull picked up speed.
Cuthbert stepped nimbly to one side, allowing the bull to crash into the huge stone gate-post.
The bull was stunned.
Cuthbert smiled, made a mental note to buy a new bucket and went to put the kettle on. The bull slowly clanked back to the barn for a lie down.