“Right!” said Gavin. “First tour over! Everybody back to the farmhouse for …”
Malcolm finally looked up. At least there would be nice food. And he was peckish.
“… Stinky Blinky sandwiches!!” said Maven.
Led by Gavin and Maven, Year Six shuffled off towards the farmhouse, which was an old, thatched building, encircled by all the various animal pens.
Malcolm, suddenly less peckish, watched them go. He let out a deep sigh. At this moment, three days felt very long indeed.
“Hey, Malcolm, you coming?” said Barry.
“Yeah,” said Malcolm, about to join his classmates when he stopped. Because he had a weird sense that someone was watching him. He looked around, but couldn’t see anyone. He shrugged, and tried to think nothing of it … but no, he could feel eyes on him, somewhere.
Then, he realised where.
Straight in front of him: the goat.
K-Pax had come over to the edge of the pen and was leaning his head over the small fence. His bulging amber eyes were, it seemed, trained on Malcolm. Staring at him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” said Malcolm.
But K-Pax didn’t. He kept looking. Well, of course he’s still looking, thought Malcolm. He’s an animal, and one of the most boring things about animals is that they don’t speak English.17
So Malcolm tutted, and stared right back into K-Pax’s eyes.
“OK. Tell you what,” he said, “let’s pretend that Gavin and Maven are right, and you, K-Pax, are really, really wise. Then answer me this. Every other kid in the world loves animals. Every other person in the world, it seems, loves animals. But I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend you, or any other of your furry friends, but I … I just can’t see the point of you.”
During this speech, K-Pax just carried on listening imperviously, occasionally munching on some much-chewed-up grass. If he was offended, he didn’t, it has to be said, show it. He continued simply to stare into Malcolm’s eyes.
Malcolm, even though he knew it was silly, got a strange feeling that the goat was actually staring at him: staring into his soul. He didn’t want to feel that – he particularly didn’t want to feel that about an animal, who he knew couldn’t possibly be doing it – so he made a point of leaning in even closer to K-Pax’s snouty white face.
“So, K-Pax, my question is: why is that? Why don’t I love animals? And more importantly, how – in order to be like everyone else – am I ever going to learn how to love them?”
After Malcolm asked this question, K-Pax seemed, for a second, to shut his eyes, almost – almost – as if he was thinking about it. But it was so quick, it may have been a blink. And when he opened them again, his eyes looked bigger and bulgier than ever.
It had actually felt quite a relief for Malcolm to finally say this stuff out loud. These were things he felt very deeply, but most of the time kept to himself. But once it was out, and the goat was just looking back at him, Malcolm thought:
This is just stupid. I may as well be talking to a brick wall.
Plus there was quite a strong scent of Stinky Blinky coming from … well, Malcolm didn’t really want to think about where it was coming from. So he started to back away.
Except he couldn’t. It was weird. It was like he was rooted to the spot. The ground was a bit dirty around the pen – maybe his wellies had sunk into the mud?
He made to look down at his feet – but he couldn’t do that either. He couldn’t, in fact, take his eyes away from K-Pax’s eyes.
It was like he was being hypnotised. By a goat. This seemed very unlikely to Malcolm, seeing as perhaps the one thing he knew for certain about goats was that none of them had trained in hypnotherapy.
But one or two things about the situation really did seem like hypnotism.
Other eyes looking deep into your eyes, while you look into them, for example; not being able to look away; and … this was probably the big one … suddenly feeling …
… very … very …
… slee ………….
When Malcolm woke up, on the grass near the goat pen, he felt a little odd. For a start, he felt very tired. Or at least … he felt like all his limbs were much heavier than normal, and that moving his head – or his arms, or his legs – was a real effort. His body in particular felt weighed down, like there was something hefty on his back, pressing him into the grass.
But he had occasionally felt a bit like this waking up at home when he’d gone to bed late. Plus his dad had once described to him feeling exactly like this when he woke up.18
So maybe, Malcolm thought, I’ve just slept badly. Which would make sense, seeing as how I hadn’t been planning on going to sleep at all. Last thing I remember was that stupid old goat staring at me, and then – well – I must have passed out. No wonder I feel weird.
He tried to see where the goat had gone, but he couldn’t, for some reason, see much at all. Every time he lifted his head, all he could see were the tips of the grass and just the bottom edge of the goat pen. He strained his neck as high as it could go – it felt, strangely, like he could in fact stretch his neck further up from his shoulders than usual – but he still couldn’t see more than a foot or so above the ground.
Well, of course, Malcolm thought, it’s because I’m lying down. I can feel my tummy and hands and legs on the grass. On, it must be said, the wet and muddy grass. So let’s stand up.
This turned out to be much more difficult than usual. Try as he might, Malcolm couldn’t seem to get off all fours. He pushed and pushed with his arms, trying to get himself up, but nothing doing. It was exhausting.
One more push, he thought. One big heave.
He summoned up all his strength, and started, yes, genuinely started to get up – he even, for a second, saw a tiny bit of goat horn peeping over the pen fence – before tumbling over and ending up on his back.
And then it really seemed impossible to get up. Lying on his back, looking up at the sky, all he seemed to be able to do, however much he tried, was wobble from side to side. He felt like a Weeble. His arms and legs were gyrating, uselessly, in the air. He must look, he thought, like a beetle or a cockroach when they get stuck on their backs.
It was at this point Malcolm noticed something about his arms, which were the only limbs he could actually see. He noticed that they were … kind of green. And kind of … elephantine. Not in the sense of large. More in the sense of small, but really like an elephant’s. Which was odd, seeing as the main thing about elephants is that they are big.
So, he thought – mainly to think about something so as not to just start screaming in terror – what isn’t an elephant but has legs and arms a bit like an elephant’s, only much smaller … plus when they roll over they can’t turn back again … plus is: green?
He felt like the answer was right there, just beyond his reach.
“Hello …” said a deep, low voice next to his ear. “You in a bit of a pickle, mate?”
Malcolm looked round to see where the voice was coming from. Despite everything else he might have thought at that moment when he saw where it was indeed coming from, what he actually thought was: of course.
That’s what’s smaller than an elephant but with similar-shaped arms and legs and gets stuck on its back and is green.
A tortoise.
And then, finally, he screamed in terror.
About a minute later, Malcolm stopped screaming. Maybe I imagined it all, he thought.
He closed his eyes tight, and opened them again.
Then he looked at his wrinkly green arms, and thought about how he’d rolled on to his back and got stuck there.
He craned forward, and saw a section of something that was clearly on his back. It looked a bit like a World War Two German soldier’s helmet – only greener – and more, well, shell-like. Tortoise-shell like.
Then he started screaming again.
The tortoise – the one who wasn’t Malcolm – just watched him curiously the who
le time. Then he said:
“Well, it’s not that bad.”
“Yes, it is!!” said Malcolm. “I’m a tortoise! I’m a tortoise!”
“I know that. But it’s happened to all of us at some point …”
“Has it?”
Malcolm, through his fear, felt a glimmer of hope. It happens to lots of people? This tortoise was also a human who had somehow ended up a tortoise? Of course! That’s why he could speak! Then there must be a way back to being hu—
“Hey!” he said, as the tortoise broke Malcolm’s train of thought by nuzzling his snout somewhere under Malcolm’s shell.
“Hang on!” said the tortoise.
“Hang on to whaa—” said Malcolm, as he felt himself being lifted on to his side. And then perched on his side. He rotated slightly like a very slowly spinning coin. The tortoise backed away, and retreated inside his shell.
“What are you doing?” said Malcolm. “Don’t leave me on the edge! On the edge of my … edge!”
“Just taking a breather,” said the tortoise, emerging from his shell. “You’re not exactly terrapin-sized, are you? And besides, I need you to keep spinning round until I’m facing your shell-side.”
“Can’t you walk round to my …” Malcolm couldn’t believe he was saying it, “… shell-side?!”
The tortoise blinked. “Do you want to stay like that until next year?”
“Er …”
“No. Thought not.”
Malcolm continued to revolve. Helplessly, he watched as the tortoise disappeared from view.
“Right!” said the tortoise’s voice. “Try and stay like that. I’ll take a bit of a run-up.”
About fifteen minutes passed.
During those fifteen minutes, Malcolm thought about what on earth could have happened. These were the options as he saw them.
A) He was dreaming. But he didn’t think this could be right, as he normally only dreamt about computers. And never about animals. Plus, it really didn’t feel like a dream.
B) He was having some kind of hallucination, brought on by extreme boredom following a whole day – a whole life, it felt like – of people telling him about animals.
C) He had turned into a tortoise.
He was mainly going with option B, option A being dismissed for the reasons explained within option A, and option C, being, um, not possible.
Either way, he thought, it was best to just go along with what was happening, and assume that, eventually, everything could be got back to normal. The only alternative, after all, was screaming in horror, and there was a limit to how long he could do that for.
Then Malcolm felt a bump as the other tortoise finally reached him.
Gradually, more or less at the speed that the Bailey family car-boot door shut when not slammed, he came back down: the right way up.
“Ooofff!” he said. He looked to his left. The tortoise was still there.
“Thanks,” said Malcolm, because that was what the tortoise looked like he was expecting.
“No worries.” The tortoise, satisfied, began to turn round.
“Sorry … um …?”
“Benny.”
“Benny? You’re one of the farm tortoises …? With Bjorn?”
“Yes. Course. I’m not a wild tortoise.”
Malcolm frowned, although that wasn’t something that was easily noticeable. Basically, his face just went a little more wrinkly than usual.
“Are there such things?”
“Not in the UK, no.”
“Um …” said Malcolm. “You said – earlier – that it happens to all of us …”
“Well, it does.”
“How do you get out of it, then?”
Benny looked at him. “Like I just showed you.”
“What did you show me?”
“How to get out of being stuck on your back!”
Malcolm shook his head. Even that, he was aware, took quite a bit of time.
“No! I thought you meant get out of being a tortoise. How do you get out of being a tortoise!”
“Oh,” said Benny. “Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”
Which was when Malcolm started screaming again.
“But I don’t want to be a tortoise!” said Malcolm, when he finally stopped screaming.
“Excuse me!” said another voice, sounding very cross. Malcolm and Benny looked round.
It was another tortoise.
“That’s a terrible thing to say!” the other tortoise said, in a higher voice than Benny’s. “Why would you not want to be a tortoise? It’s a wonderful thing to be!”
“No, it isn’t,” said Benny.
“Shut up,” said the new tortoise.
“It’s a bit depressing sometimes. You know, when a frightening thing happens, like a fox appears, or a loud noise, and you stick your head inside your shell – sometimes you can be in there for hours, not sure whether or not to come out …”
“Only if you’re a scaredy-tortoise, like you!”
“Although I like the long sleeping part,” said Benny. “That’s nice.”
“Bjorn, I presume,” said Malcolm, to the new tortoise.
“Yes. However, I prefer Bjornita …”
“Oh. You’re like a girl tortoise born in a boy-tortoise body?”
“No. I’m just a girl tortoise. And Gavin knew that as well, when they named me!”
“So why did they call you Bjorn?”
Bjornita raised her eyes, almost as if she had eyebrows.
“They thought calling the two of us after the two human men in Abba was hilarious.”
“I mean, personally …” said Benny, “I think if you’re going to do that kind of joke, there are other options …”
“Sonny and Cher!” said Bjornita. “It’s obvious! You could have been Sonny, I could’ve been Cher …”
“Sorry, who?” said Malcolm.
“Sonny and … you mean you’ve never heard of …? Oh well. They were a singing duo in the 1960s – married – well, for a bit. She was a hippie, and he was—”
“How do you know all this stuff?” said Malcolm, interrupting what looked like it was going to be a fairly long description of the career of Sonny and Cher.
Bjornita and Benny looked at each other.
“Well,” said Benny, “we are 150 years old.”
“Speak for yourself!” said Bjornita. “I’m not a day over 148.”
“No, I mean,” said Malcolm, “how … Wait, really? You’re really 148 years old?”
“Are you saying I’m lying?” said Bjornita, looking hurt.19
“No …” said Malcolm.
“Well, to be fair, Bjornita, you are,” said Benny.
“So I’m 149!” she said. “So sue me!!”
“No, what I meant was – how do you know about human stuff?”
“Oh,” said Benny. “Humans. They think animals can’t understand what they’re talking about.”
“Well,” said Bjornita, “except for when they say things like ‘Come here, Benny; come here, Bjorn – lettuce, look, lovely lettuce …’ They think we understand that. Frankly, though, I find it patronising. Talking to us like we’re children.”
“I guess it must be,” said Malcolm. “Especially when you’re actually 149 years old.”
“148!”
“You already admitted your age,” whispered Benny.
“Oh yes,” said Bjornita.
“Anyway,” said Malcolm, “so you’re telling me you’ve never been humans? And so you don’t know any way for me to get back to being a human?”
Benny and Bjornita looked at each other.
“Sorry, walk that very slowly past me again?” said Benny, turning back to Malcolm.
Malcolm frowned.20 “Don’t you mean run that past me again?”
Benny looked at him. “I’m a tortoise.”
“Oh, I see,” said Malcolm. “Well. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m not a tortoise.”
Benny and Bjornita stared at
him, at his green skin and bald head and little elephant-y limbs and large, hard shell. “Are you sure about that?” said Bjornita.
“Yes. I’m a boy. A human boy. My name is Malcolm.”
“Really?”
Benny and Bjornita seemed to suppress laughter. They shook a little inside their shells. “Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You’re shaking inside your shells.”
“That’s a tortoise thing,” said Benny.
“You’ll get used to it …” said Bjornita, “… Malcolm!!”
“No, you are laughing! It’s a bit hard to tell because your tortoise faces don’t really smile, but you are!”
“All right, we are,” said Bjornita. Benny, embarrassed, had put his head inside his shell.
“So stop!”
“OK.”
“And Benny. Come out again!”
He did.
“So. Listen. Please. The fact is: I’m not a tortoise. Or at least, I’m not usually a tortoise. I was just talking to that goat—”
“Talking to a goat? So – were you a goat? As well as a human?” said Bjornita, a bit sarcastically.
“No, I was talking to the goat when I was a human. In human language. I wasn’t thinking that the goat understood. I was just telling the goat, in fact, that I—”
“Which goat was it?” said Benny, suddenly.
“Which goat? Um … What was he called again?”
Malcolm tried to remember. Suddenly, that felt difficult: as if everything that had happened up to the point of him becoming a tortoise was … disappearing from his memory. For a second, he started to wonder if what he was saying was wrong, if he had ever been a human at all.
And that felt even more frightening than anything else that had happened so far.
But then it came back to him.
“K-Pax! The old one!”
Benny nodded. Bjornita nodded.
“What?” said Malcolm.
“Well …” whispered Benny, “there’s a rumour here on the farm … that K-Pax … can do stuff …”
“Like what?”
“Weird stuff,” said Bjornita, also in a whisper.
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