A Buffalope's Tale

by Philip Caveney

  We came to a halt on the edge of the camp, and the Upright who had been leading me jumped down from his equine and tugged me the short distance to the stream, where he allowed me to slake my thirst. Buffalope get most of the moisture they need from the grasses they eat, but I hadn’t had a handful of food all day, so I drank greedily, gulping down mouthfuls of the cold, sweet water. Mama was brought to stand beside me and after we had both drunk our fill, we grabbed the opportunity to speak.

  ‘Mama, what is this horrible place?’

  ‘It must be the home of the Uprights, little one.’ ‘What do you think they want with us?’ ‘I don’t know. Perhaps to make us work.’ ‘But, you saw what happened to Papa. And I can

  smell burning meat; you don’t think .. ?’

  ‘Hush child. Do not speak of what happened to Papa.

  He fought against the Uprights; and they killed him.

  Perhaps, if we do everything they want us to do, they

  will spare us.’

  I was about to say something else, but then the

  Uprights that held us must have decided we’d had

  enough water; they jerked us viciously out of the stream

  and led us back through the village. There we were

  met by a chaos of shouts and yells, as more Uprights

  spilled out of the huts to get a better look at us. There were yapping mutts that snapped at my

  hooves and clouds of choking smoke from the fires;

  every Upright in the place seemed to want to put his

  filthy paws on me. Some of them even forced open my jaws to look at my teeth and they were all shouting and laughing and slapping my rump. It was a relief when our captors pulled us on through the village and took us to some kind of enclosure made from logs just

  behind the huts, and flung us in there for the night. Our first thought was escape and we moved along

  the four sides of the enclosure, looking for a way out,

  but the wooden barriers were high and stout and unnaturally straight and, even when we tried pushing

  against them, they didn’t budge in the slightest. We

  quickly realised that we were trapped in here until

  somebody came to let us out.

  ‘Don’t waste your time,’ said a voice in the gloom. We looked up, startled, to discover that the words

  had issued from a skinny mule, who was standing in

  the very middle of the enclosure, watching us with

  interest. In the failing light, we hadn’t even noticed

  him. I took an instant dislike to him, even though he

  was speaking the common language of the plains,

  one that is understood by every beast that dwells

  upon them.

  He had a superior sneer and the air of one who

  thinks he knows better than anyone else. Unfortunately,

  he also had huge teeth that protruded beyond his lips

  and made everything he said sound like he was

  whistling a tune.

  ‘Those logs are sunk deep into the ground; nothing

  is going to shift them.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Mama. ‘We didn’t realise there

  was somebody else in here.’

  ‘That’s quite understandable,’ said the mule. ‘You’re

  bound to be somewhat confused. Just been caught,

  have you?’

  ‘Yes, out on the plains,’ said Mama. ‘By the Uprights.’ ‘Neruvians,’ said the mule. ‘That’s what they call

  themselves. Ne-ruv-i-ans.’ He said it slowly, as though

  speaking to idiots. ‘I’ve been here a while, I’ve picked

  up a few words of their tongue.’

  ‘They killed my father!’ I cried.

  The mule nodded, and made a sort of tutting noise. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he said. ‘Probably put up

  some kind of resistance, did he?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Mama, hopelessly.

  ‘Yes, well, you see, they don’t waste time on creatures they don’t think they can tame. That sort goes

  straight into the cooking pot.’

  Mama gave a little gasp at this news, but the mule

  didn’t even seem to notice.

  ‘It’s lucky for me that mules don’t make good eating,

  otherwise that’s where I’d be by now. But you buffalope . . .’ He gave us a sly look. ‘There’s nothing these

  Neruvians like better than a bowl of buffalope stew.’ ‘Do you have to talk like that?’ I asked him. ‘Can’t

  you see we’re already upset?’

  ‘I’m just being realistic,’ said the mule. ‘Sorry, I’m

  afraid I can sometimes be a bit blunt. My name’s Jonah,

  by the way. And you two . . . ?’

  ‘Bess,’ said Mama, politely ‘And this is my son.’ She told him my buffalope name, which is made by

  making a kind of snickering sound at the back of the

  throat. Of course, I didn’t yet have the name that the

  Uprights put upon me: that came later.

  ‘Well, I’ve been here for simply ages,’ said Jonah.

  ‘The Neruvians are animal traders; I’ve seen loads of

  creatures come and go. There were three equines in

  with me only a few days back, but they soon get

  snapped up. Everyone’s in the market for a good equine

  these days.’

  He snorted and shook his head to dispel a mantle

  of flies that were buzzing around him.

  ‘None of the merchants that call here seem to want

  to buy an old mule,’ he said. ‘The Neruvians keep me

  for their children to play on and, believe you me, that’s

  no picnic. The little blighters think nothing of hitting

  you with a length of stick to get you to gallop faster.

  My old flanks are riddled with scars, it’s little wonder

  nobody wants to buy me.’

  I felt like telling him that there might be other reasons for that. He was quite the ugliest-looking creature I had ever seen. As well as the buck teeth, he also had floppy, fly-eaten ears and wiry grey hair that stood in unsightly tufts all over his body. He clearly had a tactless disposition to go with it, but I was already too upset to risk

  getting into a row with him, so I held my tongue. ‘Would anyone wish to buy a pair of buffalope?’

  asked Mama.

  Jonah snorted.

  ‘It’s unlikely the same person would buy the two

  of you,’ he said. ‘But buffalope are highly prized by

  merchants on account of they’re so strong and they

  live to such a great age.’

  He looked down at me.

  ‘Not sure if anyone would want to take on a youngster like you,’ he added. ‘But you never know, it’s a

  funny old world.’

  ‘Will they give us anything to eat soon?’ I asked

  hopefully.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed dinner,’ said Jonah. ‘But

  they should be round with a bit of mulch in the

  morning. It’s not much to write home about, but it

  keeps the lupers from the gate, if you know what I

  mean.’

  ‘Where did they catch you?’ asked Mama. I could tell that she was in no mood for conversation and was just trying to be polite, but Jonah seemed oblivious to her state.

  ‘Oh, I was with my old master, crossing the plains. He was a potter and I used to carry the pots he made. We used to cross regularly from Torin to Jerebim. An arduous trip, mind, but my master could get four times the price for his work in Jerebim. He wasn’t a bad sort, old Jeremiah. He fed me well enough and, though he worked me hard, he occasionally let me have the odd bit of a rest and you have to be grateful for small mercies in this life.’

  ‘Whatever happened to him?’ I asked.

  ‘The Neruvians
happened to him. They’re a nasty bunch and no mistake. They murdered my poor master and took all of his pots and me along with them. Now what d’you think of that?’

  ‘Murdered him?’ gasped Mama. ‘But . . . why? What had he done to them?’

  ‘Nothing! They wanted the pots and the money they could make from them, simple as that. People like the Neruvians, they don’t care who gets in their way. Villains, pure and simple.’

  He glanced at Mama.

  ‘As your husband has already discovered, to his cost,’ he added. ‘They’ll doubtless be dining on him for weeks to come.’

  Mama made a desperate little sound and turned

  away. She walked off a short distance, her head hanging

  low.

  ‘Oops,’ said Jonah. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to speak out

  of turn. I was only saying . . .’

  ‘Please don’t say anything else,’ I warned him. I went to Mama, to try and comfort her. ‘Ignore him,’ I told her. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s

  talking about.’

  ‘I heard that!’ said Jonah, but I took no notice. ‘Mama,’ I said. ‘I feel terrible. If it hadn’t been for

  me, we’d still be with the herd now, and Papa would

  still be . . .’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she told me. ‘If we’d

  stayed with the herd, all three of us might well be

  dead. Papa believed that going off on our own was

  the right thing to do and so did I. It was bad luck,

  nothing more. Come along, let’s try to get some sleep.’ She led me over to one corner of the enclosure. We

  huddled down on the hard ground and snuggled into

  each other.

  ‘Well, I’ll say goodnight then, shall I?’ said Jonah,

  sounding quite put out. ‘Clearly you two are in no

  mood for conversation!’

  I felt like telling him to shut up, but Mama raised

  her head and politely bid the old mule goodnight, so I did the same. We didn’t know how long we would have to share the enclosure with him and the last thing

  we needed was another enemy.

  Exhausted as I was, I found it hard to go to sleep.

  And when I finally did, I was haunted by nightmares

  of Papa, charging towards me as the plumed sticks

  sprouted from his shaggy hide, one after the other . . .

  Chapter 5

  Sold!

  The following morning, a long-haired, bare-chested Neruvian appeared at the enclosure and threw a bundle of mulch over the partition. By the time we had struggled upright and made our way across to it, the bulk of it had been chomped up by Jonah’s massive teeth. Clearly he had been waiting for the arrival of the food and had neglected to warn us.

  ‘Lovely morning,’ he observed as we finished up the scraps he had left us, seemingly oblivious to the accusing looks we were giving him.

  ‘Nothing like a bit of mulch to start off the day. Looks like it’s going to be warm and sunny.’

  Then he seemed to quail.

  ‘Oh no,’ he muttered.

  I looked up and saw a bunch of ragged boys approaching the enclosure. A couple of them were carrying sticks. They unlatched a gate, let themselves in and made straight for Jonah, as if this was a regular pastime for them.

  After a little while of watching their antics, I almost began to feel sorry for Jonah. They clambered up onto his back, two and three at a time and forced him to gallop round and round the enclosure, beating him mercilessly with the sticks if he failed to go fast enough. They pulled at his ears; they kicked his flanks; they hung onto his tail and made him drag them along – and all the while they laughed out loud at every grunt and squeal of protest he made.

  At one point, a couple of the boys began to move towards us and Mama lowered her horns defensively, but then one of the adults in the village shouted something at the children and they turned back to Jonah and continued tormenting him. Presumably, we were deemed to be worth too much to use in such a sorry fashion.

  After a while, the boys got bored and let themselves out again. Jonah stood there, his head bowed. I could see the fresh scars on his flanks, some of them dripping blood. We approached him carefully.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Mama.

  He forced his goofy teeth into a grin.

  ‘Oh, tolerable, tolerable,’ he said, in a voice that was somehow much too jolly for his situation. ‘Those little devils like to play hard but, if you put your mind on something else, you can get through it. Hopefully, it will be the little girls next; they’re a lot more respectful.’

  And he limped away to a quiet corner of the pad - dock to be on his own for a while.

  That first day, a few prospective buyers came to look us over, but nobody seemed interested. Jonah, of course, felt duty bound to keep up a running commentary on the proceedings.

  ‘Now, this chappie here, he looks to me like a Keladonian. A lot of money in those parts. He’s probably on the lookout for a noble equine to pull a fancy carriage. I shouldn’t think a buffalope would be very high on his list! Ooh, now what about this lady? Hmm, she’s got very strong arms and big hands, probably a washerwoman. You wouldn’t want to be pulling a cartload of her stuff along, I can tell you!’

  And so it went on, until the fourth day, when I saw a short little fellow wearing a bright yellow object on his head. He had a wizened, dark-skinned face and huge tufts of grey hair sprouting out from under his nose. He was studying Mama and me with evident interest.

  ‘Aye, aye,’ said Jonah, quietly, ‘you two might have found yourselves a buyer. That fellow’s a Berundian, you can tell by the turban . . .’

  ‘The what?’ I muttered.

  ‘The yellow thing on his head! Berundians are famous for their oil and a big strong buffalope is just what they need to . . . oh, hey up! Looks like something’s happening!’

  Sure enough, the Berundian was talking eagerly with one of the Neruvians, a big bare-chested fellow with strange patterns drawn on his shoulders and arms. The two men seemed to be talking intently for a moment, waving their hands and shaking their heads.

  ‘Haggling over the price,’ said Jonah, in his by now familiar know-all manner. ‘Berundians are reputed to drive a hard bargain for whatever they buy. That’s how come they’re so prosperous. Watch for the handshake, that means they’ve made a deal.’

  Right on cue, the two men spat onto their palms, clasped hands and shook each other ’s arms vigorously.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ said Jonah. ‘Now we’ll see which one of you it is.’

  ‘Not both of us?’ asked Mama hopefully.

  ‘I very much doubt it, my dear. Most likely you; the little lad’s a bit too small for heavy work.’

  ‘It could be you,’ Mama told him.

  ‘Me? Oh, I don’t think so. What would a Berundian want with an old mule?’

  I glanced at him slyly.

  ‘Perhaps he has lots of children,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, blimey, do you think so?’ he muttered.

  But now the Neruvian had taken a coil of the stuff that Jonah had told me the Uprights called ‘rope’ and he was letting himself into the enclosure. He came slowly towards us, fashioning the rope into a noose and the three of us stood there watching him apprehensively. He lifted a hand, twirled the rope a couple of times with well-practised ease and let it fly. It dropped around my neck and he began to drag me towards the gate.

  ‘Mama!’ I gasped.

  She tried to make a move towards me, but the Neruvian was carrying the stinging thing that burned like fire and he lifted his arm and lashed Mama across her back, making her retreat. By the time she had recovered, the Neruvian had me out of the gate and was handing the rope to the Berundian.

  Mama ran to the gate and called out to me and I began to bellow back, whereupon the Berundian raised a fist and punched me full on the snout, making my head spin. Then he pulled me over to a heavy wooden
wagon pulled by a couple of equines and tied the end of the rope to the back of it. He climbed up onto the wagon, snapped the reins and the equines pulled away, dragging me behind them.

  I tried resisting but I could not withstand the power of two full-grown equines and I had no option but to stumble along after the wagon, with Mama’s lamenting cries ringing in my ears.

  ‘Mama!’ I called out.

  The rope was so tight around my neck I could not even turn my head to look back at her.

  ‘Mama, I’m frightened.’

  ‘I will find you, little one!’ she shouted after me. ‘If it takes the rest of my days, I will find you.’

  But it seemed hopeless. As I was pulled away into the vastness of the plains, I told myself that I would never see Mama again. Then the tears filled my eyes and I could no longer see where I was going.

  Chapter 6

  The Berundian Homestead

  We must have travelled for three whole days before we came to the place that was to be my new home: a lonely farm, set in a deep and fertile valley somewhere on the edge of the plains. As we crested a ridge, I could see it laid out below us. There was one large ramshackle house with smoke pouring from the chimney, some wooden cattle pens with various animals in them and, a short distance from that, a large orchard of drabnat trees, through which a wide stream flowed.

  The Berundian slapped the reins and the equines descended a winding path until we were at the entrance to the farm. We went in and rode up to the front of the house. As we pulled to a halt, several Uprights came running out of the open door: a large, rather fat female wearing a strange white bonnet and a dress down to her feet, and two plump, yelling and rather excitable children, a boy and a girl.

  They all came to the Berundian and started jabbering at him and he jabbered back; then the children noticed me, and the next thing I knew they were doing what the Neruvians had done, poking and prodding me, looking at my teeth, slapping my rump and laughing stupidly at my startled reactions. I was beginning to think that the Uprights were the stupidest and cruellest creatures in the known world and who could have blamed me?