Lancelot - The one-armed Kangaroo Read online

Lancelot - The one-armed Kangaroo

  Adrian Plitzco

  "This is the thing for you"

  Children’s Book Council of Australia

  "Well crafted and full of suspense and drama"

  Compulsive Reader

  "Beautifully told story"

  Celapenepress

  Copyright 2010 Adrian Plitzco

  This book is also available as an audio book at

  https://www.bubenberg.com.au

  Discover other titles by Adrian Plitzco at

  Chapter One

  A brave Knight

  It was winter in Australia. The beaches in the south of the continent were empty. Further inland, where gentle hills and rolling meadows dominated the landscape, an icy cold wind blew. The sky was grey. Heavy clouds rolled down upon the meadows, almost touching the tip of the grasses. A kangaroo was tangled up in a barbed wire fence, separating the paddock from the forest. It had been trapped in there for several days, its eyes closed as if it was asleep. To its feet, a baby kangaroo - or joey - lay curled up in the wet grass. The joey was freezing and very, very hungry.

  “Hungry,” it whined, the wind carrying away its cry for help before anyone could hear it.

  In the distance, a car pulled up. Its shiny bonnet together with the blinding headlights looked like the face of a greedy monster. The joey was scared, trying to hide in its mother’s pouch.

  “Mummy,” it cried, stretching its little arms. The mother would not hear it. The Joey could not reach her pouch without her help. It ran off instead. It dashed through the wet grass but tumbled over its own legs and fell on its nose. Two giant hands picked it up. A voice said:

  “Don’t be afraid. I will not do you any harm.”

  The Joey looked up and saw a strange face. A mouth so flat, it was impossible to imagine that it could suck a teat. A nose so small, there was no way it could sniff a mother’s warm pouch. And the ears were not on the head they were stuck on either side. How terrible, thought the joey, not knowing that this was the face of a human being.

  “I am the farmer,” said the human being. “I am the owner of the paddock. Don’t be afraid, poor thing. I’ll take you home. My house is warm and my wife will give you a bottle of warm milk.”

  The farmer put the joey on the back seat of his car. Wrapped it up in a woollen blanket and drove off. The Joey was unable to move, could not kick its legs or wiggle its arms. Helpless, it glanced through the rear window, looking for its mother who became smaller and smaller the further they drove.

  “Mummy,” it cried, “Wake up.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the farmer, patting the joey’s head.

  The blanket felt soft and warm. Soon the joey closed its eyes and fell asleep. It dreamed of curling up in its mother’s snugly pouch.

  As the joey woke up it was sure it had latched on to its mother’s teat. It started to suck. But there was an unfamiliar taste. And no milk was flowing. It opened its eyes and was stunned to see another strange looking creature, the farmer’s wife.

  “It believes my finger is a teat,” said the farmer’s wife.

  “That’s good,” said the farmer. “It means the little bugger is hungry.”

  “I prepared some warm milk for you,” said the farmer’s wife to the joey. “Be a good boy and drink.” She put the bottle in its mouth. The milk tasted good. The joey was so hungry; it forgot to be scared of the farmer’s wife. Still, it kept an eye on her, wondering if it could trust her, while it greedily sucked the bottle.

  “We should give it a name,” said the farmer’s wife.

  “How about Lancelot?” suggested the farmer. “Lancelot was a noble and brave knight. And this little bugger is very brave.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” said the farmer’s wife, smiling. “From now on your name shall be Lancelot.”

  “Lancelot?” Lancelot asked himself. “Why are the saying Lancelot all the time. It must be the stuff I’m drinking.”

  The milk was delicious. Warming his stomach, appeasing his hunger.

  “Yummy! Lancelot tastes yummy,” said Lancelot to himself and scratched his tummy. “I could drink another bottle of Lancelot. Right now.”

  The farmer’s wife put Lancelot in a pouch she had made, using an old blanket. She hooked it on the wall behind the wood heater. The warmth crawled slowly and steadily into Lancelot’s body. He felt safe. He curled up, his mind at ease.

  Chapter Two

  Grumpy-Head

  It was spring. The days had become warmer and Lancelot grew into a handsome kangaroo. He had forgotten the incident at the fence and also forgotten his mother. Nothing was clearer to him than the fact that the farmer’s wife was his mother. Her name was Emmy. Of course the farmer was his father. His name was Bill. Lancelot had grown out of the woolen pouch. He was big and brave enough to sleep in the laundry on a bail of straw. Like any other kangaroo he slept in the afternoon and stayed up all night. He had also learned how to eat on his own and did so mainly at night. He loved apples, pear, apricots and even melon which Emmy sometimes gave him when she felt like spoiling him. But first of all he ate grass, like any other kangaroo. There was an abundance of grass on the farm. In the garden around the house, and in the horse paddock.

  Sometimes, Lancelot was full of mischief. He did naughty things like eating the leaves from the rosebush, growing under the kitchen window.

  “How can it possibly grow if you chew up all its leaves?” Emmy told him off, after she had caught him red-handed.

  And sometimes he sneaked up to a horse from behind, to give it a fright:

  “Boo!”

  The horse trembled. “You little devil. Don’t you dare to give me such a fright.”

  “Let’s play,” Lancelot demanded.

  “I am in no mood to be childish,” the horse said.

  “Grumpy-head. You are a grumpy-head.”

  “Go away.”

  “Play with me. Play with me.”

  “Get lost!”

  Alarmed by the bickering, the other horses in the paddock came running at a gallop and formed a circle around Lancelot.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lancelot asked. Now he was scared. “Aren’t we supposed to be friends?”

  “Not when you give us a fright,” said the brown horse.

  “We horses are sensitive creatures,” said the black one.

  Neighing they bared their enormous, yellow teeth. Lancelot cringed, jumped between their legs and hopped away as fast as he could.

  Chapter Three

  Meryl Sheep

  Lancelot was hiding behind the stable which in fact was a tin shed. Bill had moved it from the garden into the paddock. He made the floor soft, scattering some straw over it, and put a bucket of water in the corner. From that day on it served as a simple but comfy bedroom for the only sheep on the farm. Once Lancelot was sure the horses could not see him anymore he left his hide-out, and asked the sheep:

  “How come your name is Meryl Sheep?”

  Meryl Sheep was not in a hurry. Hardly anything could upset her. In her long life she gained a lot of experience and a bit of wisdom too. Wisdom had taught her not to rush in life and to take it easy. She snatched a few blades of grass, chewing them calmly until she finally lifted her head. Very, very slowly.

  “Well,” she said, while munching the grass, “Bill named me after a very famous movie star. He says my wool is as white as her hair and my bleating as soft as her spoken words.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Alas! You wouldn’t know her. You’re too young. But tell me why your name is Lancelot?”

  “I am as brave as the Knight Lancelot.”

  “I wouldn’t say so. Your trick on the horse was not par
ticularly brave. It actually was quite stupid.”

  “It was funny.”

  “Not in the horse’s eye. Horses are shy. They don’t like it when you sneak up on them. Especially from behind. They kick you with their hoofs when they get a fright. I’d rather not know what could happen to you if you get kicked by one.”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me. Why aren’t you coming with me? Let’s go to the horse paddock. We could all play together. It’ll be fun.”

  Meryl Sheep set her eyes on the horse paddock and sighed:

  “I wish I were as free as you.”

  “Why are you kept in here?”

  “I was not always in this little paddock of mine. Once upon a time, when I was a little lamb, I was allowed to spend all day all around the garden. Even in the vegetable patch. However, one day I discovered a very special bush under the kitchen window.”

  “The rosebush,” Lancelot interrupted her.

  “Yes. The rosebush. How I love its leaves and petals. They are delicious. Simply divine.“

  “Did Emmy catch you red-handed?”

  “She was furious, and Bill erected the fence on the very same day. Well, since then they keep me in here. Every day. Day in, day out. That’s life. Anyway I would give anything for just one last go at the rosebush. My whole wool for just one teeny weensy bit of leaf.”

  “I hate the rosebush. It tastes horrible,” Lancelot said, and, disgusted, spat on the ground.

  “You are a bad liar,” Meryl Sheep said. “I can read it in your face that you desire the rosebush just as much as I do.”

  “I’m not eating any of it anymore. Emmy said I am not allowed to.”

  “That’s life. You can’t have what you long for. At least you are able to eat juicy grass in the horse paddock.”

  “The grass in your paddock is just as yummy. No, that’s not true, it actually tastes much better.”

  “You are a nice fellow,” Meryl Sheep said, followed by a deep sigh. “But you don’t need to pretend. I know what I see. I see the creek streaming down the horse paddock. It keeps the soil around it soft and moist. And what grows on moist soil? Delicious, juicy, fat grass.”

  “How do you know all that?” Lancelot asked, astonished.

  “I studied it for a long time. After all, the horse paddock is right under my nose, every single day. Now, look at my paddock. Why do you think the grass is not green but brown?”

  Lancelot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Because there is no creek. Therefore no water. My paddock only turns green after a long, good rain. And rain we have not had that for an eternity. That’s a very long time.”

  “I’ll pick some grass for you,” Lancelot said and jumped the fence, into the horse paddock. He collected as much grass as his little paws could hold. He wished he had a pouch to fill up with mountains of grass. However, only female kangaroos have a pouch. Males do not. And Lancelot was a male.

  Meryl Sheep was excited. For once she did not dawdle and instantly took a bite of the bundle of grass Lancelot had picked for her. She closed her eyes and chewed and chewed. In between she said: “Yum. I knew it. It tastes so good it nearly blows my mind.“

  “From today onwards I will pick some grass every day. Just for you,” Lancelot promised. Satisfied, he stretched his arms and legs, yawned and lay on the ground, in front of Meryl Sheep. He watched her chewing. Her lower jaw quietly moved from one side to the other, making a crunching sound, evenly and lulling.

  “Crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch!“

  It sounded like a clock, marking the seconds.

  “Tic . . . tic . . . tic!“

  The only difference being that he would hear a crunch.

  “Crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch!”

  With every sound Lancelot’s eyelids became heavier and heavier. He was tired. He closed his eyes, drifting slowly between sleep and waking. The crunching sound faded, seemed to come from far away, and faster than lightning would flash, Lancelot fell asleep. He dreamed of curling up in a pouch, hearing a constant but strange sound.

  “Tic . . . crunch . . . tic . . . crunch . . . tic!”

  It went right into his heart, making him feel safe. Contended, he turned around and clicked his tongue. This was the end of his dream.

  Chapter Four

  Dirty little Thief

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Bill suggested.

  “Up to Mount Pear,” said Emmy.

  Mount Pear was really a hill. A big hill though. It was named Mount Pear because it did look like a pear. A fat bottom and a skinny top. On its peak stood a dried up tree looking like the stalk of a pear. A steep path littered with rocks led up to Mount Pear. Lancelot had to be careful hopping over the rocks. Had he slipped, the sharp edges of the rocks would have scratched his coat, leaving marks. Tackling this path was hard work. Lancelot had to concentrate and therefore found no time to take in the view.

  “Boring,” he moaned. “Going for a walk is not only boring it is also exhausting.”

  He was just about to stop, refusing to hop any further when he saw a huge paddock in front of him, stretching a long way to the horizon. The grass was greener and taller than any other he’d seen in his whole life. And here and there –and this was the most exciting bit- were massive water fountains shooting over the paddock. Lancelot was stunned.

  “A creek flowing into the sky,” he shouted. He jumped the fence, landing in the grass, on his belly. Rather he landed on cloud nine, because the grass was as soft as a cloud might be and tasted sweeter than a huge bag full of candy.

  “I must tell about this Meryl Sheep,” Lancelot thought.

  He rolled over the ground, biting off a bit of grass, here and there.

  “Get out of there! Now!” Emmy shouted.

  “The paddock belongs to the neighbour”, Bill shouted even louder. “He doesn’t like it when someone sets foot on it.”

  Lancelot refused to hear their calls. He jumped high up into the air, stretching his arms and flopped back into the grass. Then another jump. This time, he stretched his legs. And a third jump. Lancelot was just about to turn it into a somersault when a gunshot sliced the air.

  He froze midair and plumped onto his face. A second shot followed. So loud that Lancelot had to shut his ears.

  “Stop it,” Emmy yelled.

  “Stop it right now,” Bill yelled even louder. He ran towards Lancelot who stood shocked and as stiff as a scarecrow in the paddock.

  Emmy followed Bill. She threw her arms above her head and said: “I will call the police if you don’t stop shooting.”

  It was the neighbour they yelled at. Lancelot turned and saw him standing in front of him, his face as grim as a rainy winter’s day, pointing his shotgun at Lancelot’s head.

  “Your last hour has come, you dirty little thief,” he said cold bloodedly.

  “Please! Don’t shoot!” pleaded Bill and Emmy at the same time.

  “Shut up,” the neighbour said. “You are scaring my prey.”

  “He is not prey,” Bill and Emmy insisted. “He is Lancelot. He belongs to us.“

  Emmy pushed the shotgun out of the way and clutched her arms around Lancelot, protecting him. “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “You nearly killed him with your shotgun,” said Bill.

  “Take it easy,” the neighbour said, interrupting Bill, “This is my paddock. Here I can do whatever I please. It’s up to me to tell who is allowed to set foot on my land. Your bloody kangaroo can get lost. Do you really believe I water this paddock for your little dirty pet to have a feast? You’re wrong. This grass is meant for the sheep.”

  “He’s still a baby,” Emmy said, pulling Lancelot closer to her chest. “How can he understand that he is not allowed to eat your grass?”

  Lancelot’s eyes filled up with tears. But only because he saw a tear rolling down Emmy’s cheek. He had no idea that he nearly lost his life but he understood that the neighbour was bad, nasty and dangerous. However, even more dangerous was hi
s shotgun. Lancelot swore never ever again to walk onto his paddock.

  “I will shoot every single kangaroo stealing grass from my paddock,” the neighbour said. His voice grim and dark. “It is my right. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “We all know too well that you are not friends with kangaroos,” Bill said. “Unfortunately there is no law against it. But there is a law that says you must not kill them. You know that. Whatever the case, the kangaroos are desperate to eat your grass because they are hungry. There wasn’t enough rain last winter. There is no grass on Mount Pear where the kangaroos live.”

  “Do I care? Why don’t they go somewhere else?” the neighbour said.

  “There aren’t that many kangaroos anyway,” Bill said.

  “As if. I have counted them. All up there are thirty of them.”

  “Kangaroos don’t eat much.”

  “You have no idea. The amount of grass one single kangaroo eats each day could fill up three hats. You figure it out yourself how many hats would be filled up by thirty kangaroos.”

  This must be a huge mountain of hats, Lancelot guessed. A mountain as big as Mount Pear. Still, there was something he did not understand: Who were they talking about? Who ate all that grass? Kangaroos? Never heard of it. Who could that be? He did not know that he was one himself. No one ever told him.

  “Enough,” Emmy interfered, telling Bill and the neighbour to halt their argument. “Shame on you.” She took Lancelot’s paw and Bill’s hand and marched on. “We are not interested in your opinion, dear neighbour.”

  Back on the steep path Emmy was insisting they go home. But Bill pulled her back and whispered:

  “Shush!”

  “I don’t feel like going for a walk anymore,” Emmy said, on the edge of anger.

  “Shush!” Bill whispered again. This time a bit louder.

  “What’s that all about?” Emmy asked.

  Bill gestured to the forest. Emmy turned and fell silent. Only a few steps away they saw thirty kangaroos, staring back in disbelief. Lancelot took a good look at every single one, from tip to toe. He was stunned to see that they looked exactly like him. Grey coat; pointy ears; black eyes; thin arms; strong legs and a long tail they were using to support their body with. He felt as if he was watching himself thirty-fold in a mirror.