The Monster Hunter

by Kit Cox

  Over time the Bogle will grow, as it is still a living thing, and bits that may have been damaged will grow back though only as quickly as the crops would grow. A Bogle can lose its heart, which will make it freeze and become nothing more than its constituent framework, but, if any part of the frame is flowering or crop-bearing, it will grow a new heart and become active again.

  These Bogle hearts are known as ‘promise fruit’ and, if eaten, will instil in the consumer the desire to fulfil the purpose of the Bogle. Eaters will thus forever guard the crop and over time even gain the attributes of the Bogle. (My tip: Never eat the promise fruit!) If you have ever entered an orchard where an angry bird refuses to let you near the trees, it is more than likely that it has consumed the promise fruit of a felled or poorly made Bogle.

  The Bogle is not human for all its human traits (if that is how it has been built); it is just a form of guard dog and can be as fast, agile, strong and vicious as any trained beast.

  Habitat

  Anywhere there are crops there can be a Bogle or even Bogles protecting them. Tell-tale signs are crops surrounded by rings of stones. In the northern parts of England this is often difficult to spot because of the popularity of dry-stone walling, but as slithers of dry stone have been found in some Bogle frames it could also be that these are used to advantage by farmers.

  Threat

  So why is the Bogle considered a monster? What is wrong with protecting your own crop? Well, in the case of the Bogle it actually comes down to their age. Bogles are designed to last far longer than a field of crops and the practice of constructing them has almost died out around the world. It does mean that there are many places where fields and more often orchards (trees have a very long life) are protected by Bogles that no longer have a living creator to warn about their presence or call them off. The bigger worry is containment, for, although the Bogle will stay around its crop to protect it, it will travel almost anywhere to carry out its simple purpose. Now in the case of stolen crops (or crops the Bogle considers stolen), the creature will simply track down the crop and return it, even if the crop has passed through a digestive tract! It is a bigger worry for the unfortunate consumer if the crop is still in the digestive tract, as the Bogle is prepared to dig it out. However, once the crops are returned the Bogle will rest.

  The bigger threat is the Bogle that has been made using blood or bone powder. In this instance, for everything that is removed from the orchard/field, be it soil, water, wood or the crop itself, the Bogle will take some of the blood of he or she who has removed it to replace the loss in the soil. This is done by a simple laying on of hands, generally while the victim is asleep; carried out too much or too often and the victim dies. The blood debt then passes to the next person who had any involvement in the handling of the stolen crop, if no other handlers the debt is paid.

  Eating a simple apple picked from a Bogle-protected orchard or a slice of bread cut from a loaf made of wheat taken from a Bogle-protected field would not be noticed by most people if a blood debt was paid as they slept; they would simply wake up feeling as if they had not slept or that the food had simply sat heavy on them or had not been agreeable to their digestion.

  Farm workers, however, who have gone into old orchards or fields to clear them for a new crop have been found drained in their beds, and bread-baking, too, is sometimes a dangerous profession if you don’t know the source of your flour.

  Finally, the Bogle has a secretion that gives their home an odourless cloud that will, over time, cause headaches and respiratory problems in any who do not drink water or wash after visiting their haunts. This is to make persistent offenders weaker and less likely to take further crops.

  Hunting

  First of all, it must be checked whether the owner of an orchard or field knows it is protected by a Bogle; if this is the case, then they can be told to shut the creature down themselves. The bigger problem occurs where land comes into new ownership and the new owner does not know the creature’s rules – they, their workforce and their customers will all too easily fall foul of the Bogle’s commands.

  A Bogle-controlled crop will be devoid of birds or animals. Wildlife learns quickly and soon birds will not fly into the orchard to eat berries or corn. An orchard is never quiet, however, so do not become complacent just because you hear the buzzing of bees. Insects flourish in these places as the Bogle frames often have the bodies of certain species placed within them to ensure pollination.

  When you find a Bogle orchard and so on, you are in no real danger unless you damage something or eat/remove the crop or other elements that keep the crop alive. The Bogles are secretive creatures that prefer to keep to the shadows. A Bogle held within a circle of stones will appear the moment you take crops outside the protective circle and will attack you if need be.

  The more sinister ‘blood debt’ type of Bogle will wait till it is overcast or dark, then track the last holder of the crop and wait until they sleep before removing its levy, returning to the crop to let its harvest seep back into the soil.

  So, as long as you do not take anything, you are safe from the Bogle both on a daytime hunt or even nighttime visit to its domain. It may take you a while to find the Bogle, which are usually superbly camouflaged and good at keeping still and silent.

  Once you have found the Bogle, you are unlikely to be faced with an immediate fight. Bogles fight hard once attacked, so take your time to study your opponent when it is still and don’t be too freaked out if it studies you back. Work out where its heart is. Often it’s not where you would expect and is hidden out of view. They are easy to recognise when you do spot them as it will look like the ripest fruit or best-quality crop you have seen.

  If you can, reach slowly in and remove it with one solid tug. If it comes free, the job is done and you need only take the frame to a fire and burn it. If, however, you do not find the heart, you will have to face the creature in a fight. (My tip: Do not be tempted to burn the creature while still active as you will do far more harm to the crop than to the creature.)

  If you do have to engage in a fight, remember the creature is mostly a frame and what looks like a head contains no brain or sensory organs; it is just for the original creator’s amusement that it even has one. The head is the least of the worries; it is the arms and legs that you should fear, for these are stout flexible spears that can easily puncture a human torso. Take as your weapon a heavy-bladed implement such as a machete or axe. Both have a good slicing side and an adequate crushing side.

  Try to remove the limbs, while keeping a constant lookout for the heart; remember, a dislodged heart will stop the creature dead. If you have removed all the limbs and still not found the heart, then you should break open the body until you do and destroy it and the frame. Remember, if you are cutting up the creature even one stray splinter, if it is of green wood, could potentially grow into a fresh Bogle with the same agenda. (My tip: Don’t be tempted to sculpt wood from a Bogle frame, for it will eventually become active again and what was once a broom beneath your stairs may become a hunter of your family.)

  Ben was surprised to find that the entry stopped there with no personal account. It could only mean that, while Major Union knew of them, he had never faced one (or perhaps just not written his account down).

  Ben’s eyes were already streaming with tears as he took a pen and began writing. He wanted to put down on paper every detail of that night on the hill in Ceylon. He wanted the great monster hunter to open the pages and find the tear-stained story of a young boy who just took a small bag of tea, unaware of the perils that awaited him, and of his mother who died trying to protect him. Now Ben had worked out exactly what had happened. His mother had crossed the circle of white stones that held the Bogle prisoner at the top of the hill. If she had only stayed outside the circle, cradling her son rather than attacking the beast, she would still be alive.

  As he finished writing, his handwriting was almost an angry scrawl but every word was crystal clear: he
wanted this monster hunter to know the victims had names and families. Had Major Jack Union become so cold after losing his own family that he didn’t care if others lost theirs? He cried so hard as he wrote, then, in a strange moment of solidarity, he felt sorrow for the lonely man who protected everyone but got nothing in return. He turned back to the notebook and tore out the pages on the Tattie Bogle, and then, as if to cover his tracks still further, he tore out those on the Psammead, too. Then he put the book back in its trunk and vowed to look at it no more.

  Moving On

  Rosalie was surprised to see Ben standing silhouetted on the rise above the camp, the morning mist circling around his feet. She put down the rope she was curling about her arms and ran up to greet him.

  ‘Running away from lobsters again, Tiger?’ she said, grinning, as she reached him. But the look on his face was determined and she suddenly wasn’t sure whether she should be scared of her friend or comforting him.

  They sat on the rise overlooking the unusually busy camp below. Everyone seemed wrapped up in their task, so not one set of eyes turned their way.

  Ben dramatically handed Rosalie a few sheets of yellow paper torn from a book and she took them from him. It was the section about the Psammead.

  ‘Ooo a gift,’ she said to her silent friend. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’ She realised from his expression that now was not a time for jokes. ‘You’re of course assuming I can read. You are aware I’m a Gypsy girl, born of Gypsies, raised by Gypsies.’

  Ben suddenly looked embarrassed and he broke his silence to stutter apology. ‘Oh! Rosalie… I’m really sorry. I’m a fool… I shouldn’t have assumed. It’s just you know so much I thought you read.’

  Rosalie was laughing. The laughter was a surprise to Ben: his world had been turned upside down and now he’d insulted his only friend. ‘Of course I can read! I’m a Gypsy not a plebeian. Father Mick taught me.’ She started reading the papers handed to her before looking coyly up at her friend. ‘Sorry, I just wanted you to stop being so theatrical. I guess something’s happened but I can’t help if you don’t talk.’ Her eyes went back down to the papers and she read while Ben sat quietly watching her facial features to gauge her reaction. He realised her lips were gently moving as she read the words and he was suddenly aware of how perfect they were shaped and pale against her dusky skin.

  He turned and watched the men moving in the camp below. Uncle Ronnie and the man with the burnt face were trying to get the two pigs into a wheeled trailer but the grumpy animals were having none of it and Ben couldn’t blame them – they had the run of the forest and now two wobbly-looking men were trying to get them to stand in a far smaller space with a rough wooden floor and no comfortable covering of straw. He wondered why Uncle David wasn’t helping. He certainly seemed to have a knack with the animals as he was backing up one of the shire horses between the shafts of one of the caravans and strapping it in place with a selection of thick leather straps. The horse didn’t protest once and Ben noticed how David often stroked softly at the beast’s thick muscled neck and made strange cooing noises Ben could hear all the way up on the ridge.

  ‘That’s amazing!’ came the voice of Rosalie. ‘I thought you had written it at first, then I got to the personal account and realised it was written by an older man. Who is it and how did you get hold of this?’

  ‘It’s the journal of Nanny Belle’s brother. He’s a major in some regiment used for hunting and killing monsters… well, dealing with animal threats to the Empire.’

  Rosalie let out a soft whistle between her teeth. ‘If only we’d known about it before; we could of been more prepared, a little less brutal… We didn’t do bad, though, making it up as we went along. See, tiger instincts.’ She had a tone of pride in her voice.

  ‘The journal is full of stuff like this. I found it the night after we killed the Psammead.’

  ‘And you only thought to tell me about it now. Ben, we’ve spoken most days since then.’ The pride in Rosalie’s voice had been replaced by a genuine moment of hurt.

  ‘It wasn’t really mine to share.’ He realised he was trying to defend his actions about keeping the book secret, but in all honesty he knew he had wanted to keep it to himself. Books were so personal to Ben – they had got him through a lot and he believed that his friendship with them was older than his friendship with Rosalie. Still, he was sorry that he had hurt her. ‘I wanted to respect his property,’ he explained feebly. ‘A book is something you care for.’

  Rosalie held up the yellow papers. ‘Respect! Care for! Ben, you’ve torn them out of his journal.’

  Ben was ready to tell Rosalie the rest. He knew his actions must seem strange but he first needed her to realise that the journal was real, that it told the truth, before he unveiled the other papers about the Tattie Bogle. After all, those papers could have just been pages from a storybook, something dreamed up by someone with a keen imagination, but these ones were linked to a creature they had seen. He needed a partner to go on his hunting expeditions with – the journal had always been clear about that: whenever possible, never go on a hunt alone. And now he knew that the breed of creature that had killed his mother was also here in the rolling hills of Kent. He had seen it with his own eyes but he didn’t know where it could be hiding. He needed Rosalie. His fingers were already wrapping around the papers, ready to be passed on as a guide to their next adventure…

  ‘ROSALIE!’ The words were practically bellowed and Rosalie stood and waved her hands down at her mother. ‘Get down here, girl!’ the women shouted, but when Ben stood up and showed himself she held up a halting hand as if to cancel her last command.

  ‘What’s going on anyway?’ Ben finally asked.

  ‘We are,’ said Rosalie quietly.

  Ben didn’t get her meaning so carried on with his questions. ‘You’re surely not taking both your pigs to market. I thought they were a breeding pair and you sold on the piglets. Selling them would be like killing the goose for its golden eggs.’

  Rosalie wondered for a second whether Ben was playing dumb on purpose. ‘We’re not selling the pigs, Ben. They’re coming with us.’

  The penny dropped for Ben and he suddenly realised all five main caravans were now harnessed to shire horses and the remaining two caravans were linked like a wagon train to a carriage in front. The camp was packing down. He had even sat there and watched it happen, oblivious to what it actually meant.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ he whispered.

  ‘We’re Travellers, Ben; we weren’t going to stay here for ever.’ She was trying to keep her voice strong. She’d moved on a lot in her life but she’d never been moving away from anything. Having something to stay for made everything a lot more difficult and she had really hoped not to have to face it.

  ‘Were you going to tell me?’ he asked, keeping his face directed towards the caravan and away from her gaze, careful to hide his already glistening eyes.

  ‘No,’ she said honestly. ‘Uncle David says goodbyes are full of woe and only bring regrets.’

  ‘But you all like it here – why are you going?’ He really had believed that the Gypsies would stay for ever in the Whitgate woods.

  ‘We hardly ever want to go, Ben; we are told to.’ She thought for a while, wondering how much information she should tell Ben. After all, he clearly kept things from her, but she realised how sad that secret had made her feel and she only knew it was a secret at all because he had now told her. ‘We were told to move because of Uncle David.’

  Ben turned to Rosalie and both of them became aware that the other’s eyes were moist and glazed. Ben defiantly wiped his on his shirt sleeve. ‘Then let Uncle David move on,’ said Ben, a note of anger moving into his voice. ‘Why should you all go? He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.’

  It was Rosalie’s turn to become angry now. ‘You stupid boy, you don’t know anything. It’s because he cares about others that we’re leaving at all.’

  Ben was taken aback. He hadn’t seen
Rosalie angry, even when she was killing the Psammead. She was always so calm, but now her eyes seemed to hide the power and fury of an unexpected summer storm.

  ‘It’s about the marks on your back, isn’t it?’ His words were as calm and understanding as they could ever have been, and in a moment the storm that was Rosalie turned into a shower of tears.

  It was now Ben’s turn to listen without interruption, and it transpired that, while he had been hunting monsters, Rosalie had already been battling monsters of her own.

  The life of a Gypsy was not an easy one and food was neither grown nor reared in great enough amounts to raise and feed a family. It was therefore the lot of the Gypsy to beg, borrow and steal to make up the difference required.

  A member of the family had to be useful, had to have a skill or a reason for being; there were no passengers and no exceptions. A young girl brought little to the Gypsy camp if she did not have the patience to sit still and sew, or the talent to cook a meal without burning it or overturning a pot into the fire. Rosalie was such a girl, a wild spirit with too much of the fox about her and not enough of the hen.

  These were the words Gramma Wild had used to describe her.

  So Rosalie became a hunter, a gatherer of rabbits and game birds for the pot. To others, to non-Gypsies, she was a poacher. She ran the gauntlet wherever they made their home. Sometimes it was a gamekeeper; sometimes the police, but in Whitgate it was Old Harry