Of Lions and Unicorns

by Michael Morpurgo

  To begin with, he never strayed far from Roxanne. He would follow her everywhere, almost as if he were guarding her. Then one day – and by this time, Roxanne was maybe ten or eleven – he broke out of his barn and followed her to school.

  I was sitting at my desk sharpening pencils and the class was settled at its work, when Bruno’s great panting face appeared at the window, tongue lolling out and drooling. Roxanne managed to shut him in the woodshed where he stayed till lunch, happily sharpening his claws on the logs.

  Not much schoolwork was done that day.

  For Best Mate, being rescued is only the start of his adventures. He journeys from unwanted burden to favourite companion, and from pet dog to champion racing hound …

  e hitched up his school bag and felt suddenly all bright and breezy, until he saw the swan some distance ahead of him, standing there on the towpath, looking at him, waiting for him. That worried him, because Patrick knew this swan, knew him all too well. They had met once before. It looked like the same one who had blocked his path on the way to school only a couple of weeks ago. He’d come running at Patrick wings outstretched, neck lowered to attack and hissing like a hundred snakes. Patrick had had to run into the undergrowth to escape him and had fallen into a patch of nettles. So Patrick did not like this swan, not one bit. Yet somehow he was going to have to get past him – it was the only way to get to school, and he had to get to school. The question was how to do it.

  Patrick stood there eyeing the swan, just hoping that sooner rather than later the swan would decide it was time to go back into the water. But the swan stayed steadfastly where he was, glaring darkly at him, his great black feet planted firmly on the towpath. He was showing no signs of moving anywhere.

  Patrick was still wondering what to do, when out of the corner of his eye he saw something floating out in the middle of the canal. It was bright green and looked plastic – a sack of some kind. He probably wouldn’t have paid it any more attention – a sack’s not that interesting, after all – if he hadn’t heard the squeaking. It sounded as if it was coming from the sack itself, and that didn’t make sense.

  Patrick thought at first it might have been the piping of ducklings or moorhen chicks – he’d heard them often enough on the canal. But then he remembered that there weren’t any chicks around, not any more, because it was autumn. The whole place was carpeted with yellow leaves, gold leaves, red leaves. They were all around his feet. Spring and summer were over. No, it really had to be the sack itself that was squeaking.

  It was still early in the morning and Patrick’s brain must have been working very slowly, because several moments passed before he realised that there was something alive inside the sack, and even then it wasn’t only the squeaking that convinced him. The sack, he noticed, wasn’t just drifting gently along like everything else, the leaves, the sticks, all the other flotsam in the canal. It was turning of its own accord, as if it was being propelled from the inside. There was definitely something inside it, and whatever it was seemed to be struggling against the side of the plastic sack, kicking at it, trying to escape from it and squeaking and squealing in terror. He had no idea what it might be, only that it was alive and in danger of drowning. The canal wasn’t that wide. It was dirty but it wasn’t wide. He could do it.

  Patrick didn’t think about it any more. He shrugged off his school bag and leapt into the canal. He knew he was a good enough swimmer, so he wasn’t worried about drowning, only about getting cold and wet. He didn’t want the canal water in his mouth either, so he kept it tight shut. Just a few quick strokes out into the canal and he’d grabbed the sack, turned, and was swimming back again. Suddenly the bank seemed a long way away, but he got there.

  Climbing out was the most difficult part because his clothes were heavy and clinging, and the sack was slippery in his hands, difficult to hold on to. He felt suddenly very weak, felt the cold of the water chilling him to the bone. But with one huge effort he heaved himself up, enough to hook one leg up, on to the bank, and then he was out. Standing there, dripping from everywhere, he untied the sack and opened it. There were five puppies inside, leggy, gangly looking creatures, skeletal almost, all of them trembling with cold and crawling over one another, squirming to get out, mouths open and squeaking frantically. They were like no puppies Patrick had even seen before.

  He had two choices, and he knew neither of them were any good. He could go home at once and leave the puppies in his bedroom – he had a key, he could easily let himself into the flat. There’d be no one home, but at least they’d be warm there. This way he could change his wet clothes too. He could feed them when he got back after school. The trouble was that it would take for ever to get there and back, and by the time he got to school he’d be so late that Mrs Brightwell would probably have one of her eruptions and he’d be in detention for a week, and she’d be bound to send him home with another cross letter for his mum and dad.

  She certainly wouldn’t believe his excuse: “Please Mrs Brightwell, sorry I’m late, but I had to jump into the canal on the way to school to rescue some puppies.” If he didn’t have the puppies with him, and he’d already changed into dry clothes, she’d be bound to think he was making the whole thing up. She hated excuses anyway, especially incredible ones. She’d go ballistic.

  Or he could go straight to school all wet and smelly from the canal, only a little bit late and carrying the puppies with him. At least she’d have to believe his story then, wouldn’t she? But then he thought of what Jimmy Rington would say when he walked into school all dripping and sodden, how everyone would laugh at him. They’d never let him forget it, that was for sure. And then there was that swan he had to get by, still there blocking his path, still glaring at him.

  In the end it was Mr Boots, the lollipop man, who made up Patrick’s mind for him. Patrick was standing there, numb with cold, still wondering what he should do, when he saw Mr Boots come hurrying along the towpath, lollipop stick in his hand, his white coat flying. Patrick had never much liked Mr Boots. He wasn’t called “Bossy Boots” for nothing. He was a bit full of himself, a bit puffed up and pompous. And there was something about him Patrick had never quite trusted. He was a bit of a phoney, Patrick thought. But all the same he was glad to see him now.

  Mr Boots arrived breathless. For a while he could only speak in gasps. “You jumped in!” he spluttered. “Whatever d’you want to go and do that for?”

  By way of an answer Patrick showed him what he had in his sack. Mr Boots bent over to look. Then he was spluttering again. “Blow me down! Puppies, greyhound puppies they are. Little beauties!” He looked up at Patrick. “You could have drowned yourself, doing that. Look at you, you’re soaked to the skin. You’ll catch your death standing here. Best get you into school and fast. I’m telling you, when Mrs Brightwell hears about this … You come along with me. Here, you can take my lollipop stick if you like, and I’ll carry your school bag and the puppies.”

  As the two of them hurried along the towpath a barge came chuntering past. “Been in for a bit of a dip, have you, son?” laughed the man at the wheel. But Patrick paid him no attention – he had his eye on that swan. He felt a little more confident though, because he had the lollipop stick to wave now. As it turned out he didn’t need it. The swan moved aside as they came hurrying towards him and swam out into the canal, riding the wake of the barge. Then they were up the steps from the towpath and across the road into the school playground.

  Patrick knew he was already late the moment he walked through the door. There was no one about. They’d all be in assembly by now. He’d be in really big trouble. He felt like running off home there and then. But he couldn’t, because Mr Boots had him firmly by the hand and was walking him down the corridor towards the hall. He could hear Mrs Brightwell’s voice now. She was making one of her important announcements, and by the sound of her she was in full flow and already cross about something. Not a good moment to interrupt her, Patrick thought. Mr Boots stopped at the door to stra
ighten his tie and smooth down his hair – he didn’t have much of it, but what he had he liked to keep immaculate. Then, clearing his throat, he threw open the double doors, and in they went.

  Everyone turned and gawped. Up on the platform Mrs Brightwell stopped in mid-sentence. A deep hush fell around them as they walked the entire length of the hall up towards Mrs Brightwell. Every step Patrick took seemed to squelch louder than the one before, and all the way the puppies in the sack were squealing and squeaking.

  Mrs Brightwell did not look at all pleased. “Mr Boots,” she said, “what is this? Why is Patrick standing there dripping all over my assembly hall? What on earth has happened?”

  “Actually, it’s a bit of a long story, Mrs Brightwell.” Mr Boots sounded typically self-important. “You had to see it to believe it. There I am, just minding my own business on the crossing outside the school, when I hear this splash. So I look over the bridge, and what do I see? Only young Patrick here in the canal swimming like a fish. Well of course I think he’s fallen in, and he’s drowning. So I start running, don’t I? I mean I’ve got to save him, haven’t I? But then I see he’s not drowning at all. He’s got hold of this sack and he’s swimming like billy-o for the bank. And I’m thinking to myself: You’re off your tiny rocker, my son, taking a dip in that filthy old canal just to fetch out a dirty old plastic sack. Luckily for young Patrick here I was on hand to help him out, cos he wouldn’t have made it on his own, that’s for sure.”

  You fibber! Patrick thought. You great big fibber! But he didn’t say anything.

  Mr Boots hadn’t finished yet. He was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “So Patrick’s standing there now on the bank, all shivering and shaking, and that’s when I have a little look inside the sack, don’t I? And what do I find? It’s full of puppies, that’s what, five of the little beggars, and if I’m not mistaken, which I’m not, they’re greyhounds, about seven weeks old by the look of them. We’ve got brindles in there, blacks and a fawn one too. I go down the greyhound track from time to time, so I know my greyhounds. I’m what you might call a greyhound connoisseur. They’re lovely pups too, fine dogs. And young Patrick here jumped in the canal and saved them. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s a bleeding hero, if you ask me – ’scuse my French, Mrs Brightwell – but that’s what he is, a bleeding hero.”

  Patrick had never heard such a depth of silence as he heard in that hall when Bossy Boots had finished. Then one of the puppies squeaked, and suddenly they were all at it, a whole chorus of squealing, yelping puppies. “Aaah, sweet,” said someone. Someone else started giggling, and soon there was laughter and clapping too, rippling round the hall. Within moments the assembly hall was loud with cheering and whooping – one or two were yelping like puppies. Patrick stood there soaking in the applause and feeling about ten foot tall. Even Mrs Brightwell was clapping now. Patrick saw there were tears in her eyes as she beamed at him. That was the first time, Patrick thought, that she’d ever beamed at him. He’d never seen her cry before either; he didn’t know she could. Suddenly he found himself really quite liking her, and that hadn’t happened before either.

  As the applause died away at last, Mrs Brightwell came down off the platform, and peered into the sack. “One. Two. Three. Four, five, and they’re all alive because of you, Patrick. What you did was very special. You risked your life to save them. I think that’s about as special as it gets.”

  Miya’s grandfather decides to trace his family tree, to find out who his ancestors were. Sometimes the most amazing stories are hidden in your own family history …

  ou’re an ostrich, Grandpa,” Miya told me, sitting herself down on my bed and peeling an orange for me.

  “And why’s that then?” I asked her.

  “Because whenever you see something you don’t like, you just bury your head in the sand and pretend it’s not there.”

  It was an old argument between us, not that you’d call it an argument as such, more of a tease. But whatever it was, I knew that sooner rather than later she was going to wear me down. Miya was determined to drag me into the twenty-first century whether I liked it or not. And now she’d found the perfect opportunity.

  “You’ve got nothing else to do, Grandpa,” she went on. “You’re bored out of your mind. Why not try it, at least? I’ll come in and teach you, if you like, every evening. Won’t take long. It’s easy-peasy – nothing to be frightened of.”

  “I’m not frightened,” I replied. “I just don’t see the point of all these new-fangled machines, that’s all.”

  “Like I said, you’re an ostrich. Here.” She gave me my orange. “Eat. It’s good for you,” she said. “Listen, Grandpa, it’s brilliant, honest it is. There’s millions of different things you can do on it – email, word processing, games, shopping …”

  “I hate shopping,” I told her.

  “You’re a grumpy old ostrich too,” she said, bending over to kiss me on the cheek. “We’ll get started tomorrow. I’ll bring over my laptop, all right? Byeee!”

  And she was out of the door and gone, ignoring all my protests. She had won.

  All this came about because I’d been ill – just flu at first, but then it became pneumonia. The doctor, who’s a good friend of mine as well as my doctor, wagged his finger at me, and said, “Now you listen to me, Michael McLeod, this is serious. You’re no spring chicken any more. You’ve got to stay in bed, and in the warm. No more gardening, no more golf, no more fishing. You’ve got to look after yourself.” So, cooped up in my flat for weeks on end, I had become, as Miya had so rightly diagnosed, bored out of my mind.

  Miya was fourteen, my eldest granddaughter and the apple of my eye. She was always popping in to cheer me up, bless her – she lives just round the corner. And she did cheer me up too, even if she did go on and on about the joys of her wretched computer. The truth was that so long as she came to see me, I didn’t mind what we did, or what she talked about. It would pass the time, and talking about computers made a welcome change from losing to her at chess – again.

  The computer lessons did not start well. I just could not get my head around it all. Then, bit by bit, day by day, with Miya’s help, I began to make some sense of it; and once I’d made sense of it, I began to enjoy it – much to my surprise. A couple of weeks later Miya went off on her summer holidays, leaving me strict instructions as to how to plug in and keep in touch with her by email. She told me I must promise to practise every day on the computer. I promised, and I like to keep my promises.

  So, except for occasional check-up visits from my doctor friend, and from my neighbour who very kindly did all my shopping for me, I was left alone in the house with Miya’s computer. One morning, as I sat there in front of it, about to switch on, I began asking myself why I was doing this. I mean, what was this machine really for? What could it do for me? How, now I’d begun to master it, could I use it to help me through the long days of convalescence that still lay ahead of me? I needed a project, I thought. Something to occupy my mind, something I could really get my teeth into, and something this computer could help me to achieve.

  I had a sudden idea. It was an old idea, one I’d had in the back of my mind for many years, but had never bothered to do anything much about. This was my opportunity. I had the time, and now I had the means – literally at my fingertips. I would set out on a quest, a quest I could achieve without ever leaving the flat. I could do it all, the whole thing, on the Internet, by email. I would search out my roots, piece together my family tree, discover where I came from, who I came from. I would trace my family line back as far as I could go.

  On my mother’s side, the Meredith side, this proved simple enough because they had lived in the country, in Suffolk mostly, for many generations, and I could track them down through parish records, through registers of births and marriages and deaths. I managed to trace that side of the family all the way back to a Hannah Meredith, who I discovered had been baptised in Southwold on 2 May 1730.

  It was like dete
ctive work, genealogical detective work, and I was soon completely engrossed in it. I was emailing dozens of times a day. I had all the information I had gathered on a database. Miya and I exchanged emails often, particularly when I got stuck and needed her help. As Miya had said, her computer was “brilliant”, utterly “brilliant”.

  But my father’s family, the McLeod side, the Scottish side, proved much more difficult to trace even with the help of the computer, because they had moved about the world, one of the family to Argentina, one to Australia and another to the United States of America. Only a few generations back the trails kept going cold, and I was beginning to feel very frustrated. I simply had no more clues to follow up, not a single one.

  Then, thank goodness, Miya came back home from her holiday and to my rescue. She told me I should upload my whole family tree on to a genealogical website, and appeal for help that way. So that’s what I did. For several days I had no response at all. Then one evening Miya logged on for me and found an email from Marianne McLeod of Boston, Massachusetts, in the United States.

  She had, she wrote, studied my father’s side of my family tree with great interest and felt sure we must be distant cousins. She, like me, had been researching her family background – she called it her “lifelong obsession” – and had traced her family to Scotland, as far back as the 1700s, to her ancestor, and mine, she hoped – one Robbie McLeod of Inverness-shire. Quite by chance she had recently discovered hidden away amongst her family papers, Robbie McLeod’s last will and testament. It’s the most wonderful story I have ever read. I’ve scanned it into my computer. Would you like to see it? Would I! I emailed back to her at once. Greetings, distant cousin, I can’t wait. Miya was as excited as I was now. There was no reply until nearly twenty-four hours later. Miya was there beside me when I first read it. One glance told me that it had been worth waiting for. As I read, my heart in my mouth with excitement, I knew that my quest had been achieved, that with the help of Miya’s new-fangled machine, Miya and I had discovered something quite wonderful, as wonderful as any holy grail. I was reading the last words, in his own handwriting, of my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. He was speaking to us from across the ages.