Lancelot - The one-armed Kangaroo Page 3

  “My apologies, young man,” he said, friendly and good-mannered. “I didn’t know you were asleep. Please forgive me. It was by far not my intention to wake you up.”

  Lancelot stared at him, speechless.

  “I see. I understand,“ the fox continued. „”Please, do not be offended, but it seems to me that you don’t feel particularly well. Am I right?” Not waiting for an answer he crept around Lancelot in a wide circle. “I have a flair for something like this, you know. I was on the other side of the hill, doing nothing, being relaxed, and all of a sudden a smell hit my nose. Straight away, I knew somewhere out there was a poor little kangaroo in great misery. Well, I found you. Here I am.” He stood still, examining Lancelot, his eyes sharp and wide open. “My nose also tells me you are very scared. But please, do not. The only reason that I’m here is to help you. I can put you out of your misery. All you need to do is to trust me.”

  Lancelot had never seen a fox before, let alone talked to one. But this one was scary. Lancelot was convinced he saw a sinister smirk on the fox’s face as he, for a very short moment, hid his eyes behind his paw.

  “Let me see how unwell you really are,” the fox said, again creeping around Lancelot, this time sniffing at him. At his legs; then his back; his head; the bucket and eventually his chest. Detecting the scar he stalled. “Oops, someone already ate your arm,” he said, but quickly corrected himself: “I meant to say . . . somehow I regret . . . that you lost your arm.”

  Now Lancelot could not see the fox anymore because his view was hampered by the bucket. He knew that he was in great danger.

  “I’m asking myself,” the fox said, his nose heading down Lancelot’s legs, “What is the fastest way to take you to my burrow . . . err . . . I meant to say . . .to the hospital. I think . . . yes, of course . . . this will be perfect. Don’t be afraid, brave man, it won’t hurt.“

  His strong and sharp teeth took a firm grip of Lancelot’s leg as the fox began to pull him along the forest floor. Lancelot’s heart pounded, uncontrollably. He kicked around him with his arm and legs, helplessly but determined, as if refusing to drown in a wild sea. Swinging himself onto his back he managed to punch the fox with his tail. The fox yelped, holding his chest, desperately catching some air as he jumped onto Lancelot’s belly. His face was grim. He was now a furious beast baring its fangs.

  “Damn you, you stupid. I could tear you into pieces.”

  He flung open his mouth, threatening to hack his shiny teeth into Lancelot’s throat. Lancelot wanted to scream, but his voice collapsing, it sounded like the yelp of a little puppy. The fox was fuming, his growling and roaring throwing the possums in the forest out of their nap. The earth started to tremble; there was a tremor as if an avalanche of rocks was rumbling towards them. The fox let go of Lancelot, his eyes wandering in fear. For a moment he froze, filled with horror, but quickly pulled in his tail and bolted off, yelping and crying as if a bucket of icy water had been poured over him.

  Lancelot rolled on his side, exhausted and relieved. He asked himself why the fox was horrified all of a sudden. Was it the stupid bucket around his neck that scared him? Or his weird scream? Lancelot looked up and held his breath when he saw the kangaroos he was looking for, standing in front of him. All thirty of them. Popped up from nowhere. Out of the blue. They heard his cry for help and had come to his rescue. Standing around him in a circle, they wondered who he was.

  “What happened?” they asked, confused.

  “Who is he?”

  “A stranger.”

  “He doesn’t belong to us.”

  “Crikey!”

  “We were worried. Thought one of our own was crying. But here we go, it was a stranger instead.”

  “Who are you?”

  “How dare you hopping into our territory.”

  “Crikey!”

  “Hold it!” yelled the tallest kangaroo, stopping the squabbling. His voice was dark. Darker then the darkest cave. “One at a time! I cannot hear my own words.”

  Lancelot was amazed by the size of the kangaroo. He was enormous. A giant. His legs were strong, like the legs of a horse; his belly was big, bigger than Meryl Sheep’s; his chest was larger than Bill’s and his head towered above his broad shoulders as proud as the chimney on top of the farmhouse. The giant kangaroo leaned down, staring into Lancelot’s eyes.

  “Where are you from, you little worm?” he asked.

  Lancelot’s lips felt numb. He could not open his mouth. Could not speak.

  “I see, the little one has lost his voice,” the giant kangaroo continued, blinking at the other kangaroos, his mob. As if on command everybody burst out laughing, their bodies shaking all over. The ones with pouches were holding onto them, protecting their joeys from falling out, due to the trembling.

  “The fox must have given you a big fright,” said the giant kangaroo. “Count yourself lucky. He could have swallowed you in one piece without lifting a finger.”

  The kangaroos laughed again.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you not to wander around on your own?” the giant kangaroo asked, his gaze locked on Lancelot.

  “Uncle! Look! He’s missing an arm!” a kangaroo girl shouted.

  “Oops,” the kangaroos said, stepping back a little, stunned.

  “Look at him. How terrible!”

  “He only has one arm.”

  “And where is the coat on his chest?”

  “His head looks strange too.”

  “Crikey!”

  “Anyhow,” the giant kangaroo grumbled, “He doesn’t seem to be well.”

  “He’s sick to death,” the kangaroos reasoned. They stuck their heads together and squabbled and quarreled about what to do with Lancelot.

  “We will take him with us and look after him,” the kangaroo girl suggested.

  “What’s he to us? He only has one arm,” said a kangaroo.

  As if on command the kangaroos started again to talk over each others heads.

  “We can’t feed him.”

  “We have nothing left for ourselves.”

  “He will not survive anyway.”

  “The way he looks!”

  “Only one arm!”

  “I haven’t seen anything like it in my whole life.”

  “Crikey!”

  “Hold it!” the giant kangaroo yelled. “One at a time!”

  The kangaroos shut up. Silence reigned. The giant kangaroo began to speak:

  “You are right. Last winter was too dry. There is hardly any grass left in our feeding grounds. We can’t afford to help a stranger. But at the same time, we shouldn’t leave him behind in the pitiable state he’s in. Therefore I have decided that we shall help him with a bunch of grass from our stock. It will be enough for him to bounce back. And after that, young man, you must go home.” His impressive body towered over Lancelot. His eyes gazed at him, promising big trouble if Lancelot did not obey. “We don’t want you here. Do you understand? Make sure you’re gone when we come back next time. Have I expressed myself clearly enough?”

  A kangaroo mother took some grass out of her pouch and put it down on the ground in front of Lancelot. The giant kangaroo raised his paw, and on command the mob turned. Rumbling, rustling and stomping, the mob hopped away in wide and elegant leaps. Lancelot felt helpless and sad. His eyes followed the kangaroos until the horizon swallowed them, taking the tips of their tails with them.

  Lancelot sighed. He took a sniff at the delicious grass but did not feel like eating anymore. All he desired was sleep. A long sleep. And to never ever wake up anymore. He looked into the trees. They were swaying in the wind that just had picked up. The leaves softly whirled around as if they were waving at Lancelot, telling him to let go and be carried away by the wind. Far far away to a paddock where no kangaroo is starving; where no neighbour shoots his shotgun; where no horse kicks his hoof in fright and where foxes ate nothing else but juicy grass. And, who knows, maybe even his dead mother would graze in this wondrous paddock. Lancelot long
ed to be there.

  “Hurry. Hurry,” he said to himself, “I must go there.”

  He was ready to close his eyes, ready to fly far far away to the promised paddock when a butterfly flew out of a tree. It bounced and frolicked in the air, free and easy, as if there were no worries in the whole world. Slowly it descended towards Lancelot, stopping short in front of his nose. It stretched out its tentacles. At their ends were soft and snuggly tassels, tickling Lancelot’s nose.

  “You must eat,” the butterfly whispered and leaped from one grass-tip to the other. Lancelot, in his mind, followed, flying.

  “You must eat,” the butterfly said again but Lancelot wouldn’t listen. Instead he closed his eyes and floated through the air. The wind brushing his coat, he felt free and happy until a punch in his shoulder pulled him out of his delusion. He fell hard onto the forest floor.

  “You must eat,” the butterfly said and shoved some grass into Lancelot’s mouth. “You will die if you don’t eat.”

  Lancelot recognized the voice. It was the voice of the kangaroo girl. He opened his eyes and saw her standing in front of him. His heart was throbbing, wilder than ever before. He was relieved to see her again.

  “Now be a good boy and swallow it,” the kangaroo girl said, watching Lancelot’s every step.

  Lancelot struggled chewing the grass, but with every bite he swallowed he felt his body growing stronger and stronger.

  “You have a funny hat on,” the kangaroo girl said after a while. “I like it. The boys in my mob would never wear a hat like yours. They are stupid anyway. They can’t think of anything more exciting than to wrestle each other all day. What a brainless thing to do.” She kicked a small pile of dry leaves as if she was angry. “Do you have someone to play with you?” she asked.

  Meryl Sheep had taught Lancelot not to speak with his mouth full, so he could not give her an answer. Instead he shook his head.

  “Come on, have more,” the kangaroo girl encouraged Lancelot, offering him another bunch of grass. “My auntie always tells me that I must eat if I want to be big and strong.”

  After Lancelot had swallowed the last bit of grass he felt strong enough to get back on his legs.

  “Thank you,” he said and cleaned himself up, getting rid of dry leaves tangled up in his coat.

  “Where is your other arm?” the kangaroo girl asked.

  “I lost it.”

  “You lost it?”

  Lancelot nodded.

  “Just like that?” Did you go and look for it?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I see. Are you said about it?”

  “A bit.”

  “I would be too,” the kangaroo girl said. “But I’m sure you can do everything with one arm what you normally do with two. Am I right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll show you. Watch me.” She hid one arm behind her back. “See? I also have only one arm.” She picked up a twig and held it above her head, wielding it through the air. “I can conduct an orchestra.” Then she plucked a leaf from a bush. “I can tickle myself.” Stroking the leaf across her cheek she pulled a funny face as if she really was being tickled.

  Lancelot, watching her anxiously, did not notice that he was smiling, for the first time since he had learned of his mother’s death. Nothing could hold the kangaroo girl back anymore. She put the leaf into her mouth, pretending to eat it. Then she rubbed her belly and burped. Ashamed, rather pretending to be ashamed, she held her paw in front of her mouth. “See! All that I can do with only one arm.” Now she poked her nose, sucked her thumb and finally wiggled her paw in front of her face. “Help!” she shouted, her eyes wide open. “A monster.” Then she played the drums on a tree stump, dancing to the rhythm at the same time. She hopped around another tree, swung on a branch and performed crazy tricks that normally only clowns in a circus do. First she stretched one leg, and then the other one, crossed them, wiggled and finally clapped her feet.

  Lancelot laughed. “Can you scratch yourself?” he asked.

  The kangaroo girl quickly climbed a rock. From its peak she shouted: “I not only can scratch my belly, I can also scratch my back.” She swung her arm around, so vividly that she lost her balance and disappeared behind the rock, accompanied by a high-pitched scream. Lancelot bellowed with laughter. What a funny girl she was, he said to himself. He liked her and he wished she could be his friend.

  Minutes had passed and the kangaroo girl still hadn’t shown herself, she was obviously still hiding behind the rock. But Lancelot started to worry.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  The kangaroo girl did not answer him.

  “Say something,” he shouted, waiting.

  Nothing. No answer. There was only silence. It was so silent you could hear an ant’s wriggle, had one hurried over the rock right now. All of the sudden, from behind the rock the kangaroo girl jumped in front of Lancelot.

  “Boo! I am the tickle-monster.”

  She tickled Lancelot’s feet. Lancelot laughed and laughed until he couldn’t bear the tickling any longer and begged for mercy. The kangaroo girl let go of him.

  “Just wait,” Lancelot said and started to tickle her feet. Then they tickled each other, laughed and screamed and shrieked until both plunged themselves onto the ground, breathless and exhausted.

  “My name is Lancelot,” Lancelot said after a while.

  “What’s that?” the kangaroo girl asked.

  “It’s my name. Don’t you have one?”

  The kangaroo girl shook her head. “What’s the point of having a name?”

  “So everybody knows who you are.”

  “Everybody in my mob knows who I am. Without a name.”

  “Sure. But, what if you meet a stranger?”

  “A stranger like yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “By now you know who I am.”

  Lancelot looked at her, puzzled. The kangaroo girl shrugged her shoulders and both burst out laughing.

  “Where did you find your name?” the kangaroo girl asked.

  “I did not find it. It was given to me. I could give you a name too, if you like.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “How about . . . Rosebush?”

  “Rosebush? Cool. I like it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Fight

  The same night Rosebush came back with more grass. Lancelot was starving and gulped it down in no time. Soon after he felt his strength coming back into his body, making him believe that he could shift a whole mountain with his bare paw, if he wanted to. In fact it was Rosebush who gave him the courage to live on.

  “I wished I could be with you and your mob,” he sighed.

  “That’s not possible,” Rosebush said. “My uncle would never allow such a thing.”

  “The giant kangaroo?”

  “Not only is he my uncle, he also is the chief, reigning over the mob.”

  “Why doesn’t he want me? What have I done?”

  “He doesn’t like you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you are a boy.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lancelot said, scratching the bucket.

  “Neither do I,” Rosebush agreed. “But that’s what male kangaroos are like. Whenever they come across each other they want to wrestle. Nothing else seems to be on their mind.”

  “Wrestle?”

  “Yes, they wrestle. Kicking each other, boxing, pulling each other’s ears and twisting their arms. All day.”

  “Is it like playing?” Lancelot asked.

  “Follow me,” Rosebush said. “I’ll show you.”

  She took him to the edge of the forest where they had a good view onto the mountain. Both hiding behind a tree, Rosebush whispered:

  “Be quiet. Nobody shall know that I am with you.”

  On top of Mount Pear, Rosebush’s mob was resting. Rosebush gestured to two kangaroos to the side of the mob, wriggling their arms.

  “They ar
e wrestling,” Rosebush whispered. “You know the one on the right. He’s my uncle.”

  The fight looked like a funny dance. Rosebush’s uncle and his opponent tried to grab each other’s shoulders while jumping up and down. Lancelot admired the size and the strength of the uncle’s body. The uncle was able to jump enormously high. He also was faster and without a doubt superior to his opponent. He leaned back, far back, his body resting on his tail, and flung his legs against the opponent’s belly, like a slingshot.

  “Ouch!” Lancelot said.

  “Shh!” Rosebush told him off.

  The opponent staggered, while the uncle repeated his attack. He leaned back and flicked his legs, hurling the opponent to the ground.

  “Ouch!” said Lancelot again, imagining how it must hurt.

  “The fight is over,” Rosebush said.

  “What did they argue about?” Lancelot asked.

  “That wasn’t an argument. My uncle had to demonstrate his power as a chief. He is after all the strongest and oldest kangaroo in the mob. It’s him who decides where we sleep and where we graze. And he only gives permission to a friendship between a female and a male kangaroo. If you don’t obey, you’re asking for trouble.”

  “Will I be in trouble too if your uncle knows about our secret meeting?”

  “I’d rather not know what he would do to you. Lancelot, we can’t be together. My uncle does not tolerate a stranger in the mob. He doesn’t want you. Especially now, since everybody is starving. There was not enough rain this winter. The feeding grounds are as dry as a desert. There is not a single stem of grass to be found. For weeks we have been eating dry, tough grass we found behind rocks and under trees. There is not much left. We will all die unless some miracle happens. Like a downpour. Or a wizard wielding his wand and turning Mount Pear into a giant heap of grass.”

  “But today you gave me fresh grass,” Lancelot said. “Where did you get it from?” He did not wait for her answer. He remembered the sweet flavour and instantly knew where Rosebush had picked the grass. “From the paddock next to the rocky path,” he said, terrified.