13
A Calamity of Unprecedented Proportions
Within seconds Edwin was lost in a forest of twisting black tendrils. He called out to Chardonnay, but she had vanished from sight.
He tried to stand again. His right leg hurt, but with a bit of flapping he managed to hop into a vaguely upright position before squawking for help.
“Chardonnay! Captain Rathbone! Where are you?”
The awful wailing intensified, drowning out his frantic calls. And something was happening to the harvest; as Edwin watched, beak gaping in horror, the writhing black worms sprouted crowns of hooked thorns, which snapped at the air like the jaws of some hungry beast.
A tendril lunged at Edwin, those grasping hooked claws missing his neck by millimetres.
“They’re alive!” he squawked, evading the snapping jaws of another black worm.
“They’re reacting to your fear,” cried Stubby, clinging on for dear life as Edwin dodged further attacks. “Like plants drawn to sunlight. You must try and stay calm.”
But staying calm was easier said than done. More tendrils attacked Edwin, and with his injured leg he found it increasingly difficult to avoid their snapping jaws. His anxiety increased, and the black worms seemed to grow stronger and more determined.
Then, just as it seemed the battle was lost, help came from a surprising source.
“Duck!” squealed Stubby. “Edwin, duck!”
Edwin was going to point out that he was in fact a chicken, but then heard a swishing noise close by. He turned round, and only just avoided having his head lopped off by a curved swinging blade.
He looked up to see a scarecrow wielding a scythe.
“They’re harvesting,” said Stubby. “Cutting down the crops.”
“But what crops are they?” wondered Edwin, flapping to one side as the scarecrow swung the scythe again. The blade sliced through the black tendrils, which fell to the ground in a writhing heap.
“It’s not crops,” said Stubby. “Those worms are the fruit of the Barrenrake. They’re harvesting fear itself!”
Edwin saw more scarecrows cutting their way through the forest of writhing black worms. The tendrils seemed oblivious to the sack faced harvesters, and surrendered meekly to the swishing scythes. At first Edwin wondered why the scarecrows weren’t attacked, but then he realised: they were just sacks of straw, with no brains or emotions. They knew no fear, so the Barrenrake’s crop didn’t even register their existence!
“We need to find the Captain,” said Stubby. “Do you think you can get airborne again?”
Edwin flapped his wings, and tried to launch himself off the ground using his good leg. But something was holding him down, and he realised a fallen black tendril had clamped its jaws around his legs. Edwin kicked and wriggled, but before he could break free he was being lifted off the ground.
A scarecrow had scooped up a heap of tendrils, one of which had Edwin in its grasp.
The scarecrow carried the tendrils towards the parked tractor, unaware that a skinny ginger chicken was dangling from its arms. Edwin flapped and struggled, but the scarecrow didn’t notice him as it hurled the tendrils into the trailer.
The scarecrow turned and hobbled away. Edwin poked his head up, but another scarecrow deposited an armful of tendrils on top of him.
More flapping and struggling proved fruitless. He was trapped, snared in a mass of coiling black worms.
“Well done,” said Stubby, clinging grimly to Edwin’s back. “Even by your standards, this is a calamity of unprecedented proportions.”
Edwin wasn’t sure exactly what Stubby meant, but got the general gist. “Guess the bodge up department needs another extension, huh?”
“Put it like this,” said Stubby. “If the bodge up department extended any further, it would be opening a branch on Mars.”
More loads were deposited in the trailer, but Edwin noticed the black tendrils weren’t writhing or snapping as much as before, and the awful wailing noise had diminished. Perhaps the tendrils were dying, withering like weeds shorn from their roots. His legs became free, and he managed to wriggle his way up to thrust his narrow chicken head through the top of the pile.
A line of scarecrows queued up to load more tendrils into the trailer. Jed watched over them, a blood stained handkerchief pressed to his nose.
“Keep it coming,” he bellowed, although his words were muffled because of the handkerchief. “No slacking now, you lazy straw brained dummies.”
The scarecrows didn’t seem to need any encouragement; they proved a surprisingly efficient workforce, and Edwin marvelled at how quickly the field was cleared. In a matter of minutes the last load was being thrown into the trailer.
“Good work, son.” Ma nodded approvingly at Jed, as though he had done all the harvesting himself.
“There is no time to lose,” croaked Dawes. “The harvest must be transported to the farm for immediate processing.”
Ma heaved her bulky frame into the seat of the tractor. Moments later the engine started, and a jolt shook the trailer as the tractor moved off.
“They’re taking us back to the farm,” explained Edwin, as Stubby’s whiskered snout emerged beside him from the pile of black worms. “That’s good. Means we can jump out and look for Bryony.”
“It may not be as simple as that,” said Stubby. “Have you noticed what’s happening to the crops?”
Edwin hadn’t noticed, and was surprised to see that the black tendrils were melting, their bodies dissolving together into a thick black gloop that clung to his body like glue. He tried flapping his wings, but the gloop restricted movement to a feeble twitching.
“We’re stuck,” he clucked.
Stubby nodded. “And with respect to the bodge up department’s latest extension, I propose it’s time to order some handbooks entitled ‘Useful Phrases in Martian’.”