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| A Wild Life; The story of one boy's adventures with wildlife | |
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| Topic Started: Mar 1 2016, 01:35 PM (521 Views) | |
| Beetleboy | Mar 1 2016, 01:35 PM Post #1 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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The Wild Life Oliver Brownley: naturalist, animal enthusiast, botanist, zoo keeper, 9 year old. This is the fictional story of one boy's misadventures with wildlife of all kinds, and in particular his childhood years in France. It will follow the design of his 'menagerie' and his family's somewhat varied views on his interest. ~ I am an enormous fan of Gerrald Durrel's books, in particular My Family & Other Animals. Because I enjoyed them so immensely, I decided to try writing a similar book, about a young boy's adventures with wildlife and, in particular, caring for animals in captivity (with sometimes disastrous and humorous results). Originally A Wild Life was the ongoing story of my childhood, including, among other things, my failed attempt at bringing a tadpole back to life using CPR, and the time cockroaches escaped from their tanks. However, I soon found that I was prone to unconsciously padding out my true stories with a lot of stuff which never actually happened, and otherwise they were mostly about fish, beetles, stick insects, and crabs. So I decided to make up a character called Oliver Brownley, and his somewhat more exciting adventures in the French countryside. For one thing, he keeps some far more exciting and interesting animals than I have, so the story is generally a bit more interesting. I hope you enjoy it. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Beetleboy | Mar 1 2016, 01:38 PM Post #2 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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1: The Brownley Family “A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” - Albert Einstein The Brownley family consisted of several members, which I will describe here for your benefit throughout the book. Father I did not see a great deal, perhaps once every other month, but this was exceptional, and it was a very good year indeed if he visited so often. He worked abroad in the military, sometimes in Morocco, other times in Nigeria, or some other far-flung (or at least so it seemed to me) location. However, I did not know a great deal about Father's occupation, and I remain so to this day. I had a vague idea that his occupation was somewhat dangerous at times, and consisted of guns and fighting, but other than that I knew nothing about it. The workings of the military did not concern me in the slightest, and I was not at all interested in such a subject. Therefore I apologise to those who are interested for not speaking of this to a greater extent. I had, and still do have, a very fixed mental image of Father: straight-backed, standing very tall, with a muscular yet slim frame, and a face with a small moustache and high cheek bones. I liked Father very much, despite his not taking much interest in his fatherly duties, but simply because he would bring me back interesting small animals from the countries he'd visited. I would run to the door every time I knew he was coming, eagerly anticipating a weaver bird in a rusting metal cage, or a tiny baby lizard, like a juvenile dragon which had not yet grown wings and attained fire-breathing abilities. Mother was, as far as I was concerned, the best mother one could possibly wish for. Unlike Father, I knew that she took her motherly responsibilities very seriously indeed. Bear in mind that my idea of 'motherly responsibilities' consisted of helping me capture interesting animals and cook delicious meals. She was slim and with shoulder-length blond hair with light brown streaks running through it, and shimmering green eyes, which I had inherited instead of Father's silvery light-blue ones. She liked animals more than Father (somewhat surprising, therefore, that he would put up with a scurrying, fluttering animal and its care all the way back to England when bringing me a living gift – perhaps this showed that despite neglecting fatherly duties, his love for me was rather deep), but not as much as myself. She was a very tolerant mother, I suppose, for which I am exceedingly grateful for, as she would allow me to keep a variety of fauna, and calmly assist me in recapturing them when a new acquisition of mine escaped (which was a very frequent, almost daily occurrence). However, there were times when she would draw the line. When at one point my garter snake escaped and made the colossal journey through the house, into my brother's bedroom, up into his bed, and then proceeded to wind itself through his legs, we all awoke to his deafening screams in the night. Afterwards I was severally reprimanded by Mother to keep better check of my pets. The brother whose legs were chosen as a suitable new territory by my escaped garter snake was 16 year old Tom. He was my least favourite of my brothers, for he hated animals of all kinds with a passion. I remember one moment vividly when we walked below an unusually low-down blackbird nest in a birch tree while taking a stroll in the park. Suddenly, the blackbird parents decided that we had strayed too close to their chicks, which I could hear making soft peeping noises above us, and the adults suddenly started dive-bombing us. “Good God!” shouted Tom loudly. “What the hell is that?” “Blackbirds, Tom.” I said, sheltering under one of his arms. “What?” he roared as a blackbird flew down and pecked hard on his head with a bright orange bill. “AH, get off me you blighter!” “Blackbirds.” “Blackbirds – of course, I should have known!” said Tom, a steely glint entering his silvery blue eyes, dramatically brandishing a stick that he had picked up from the ground. “I should have known. Horrible, filthy creatures with dirty habits and foul tempers. They fly down in packs and will pick your flesh clean to the bone! Not to mention the fact that they steal your valuables.” “Not blackbirds,” I said, correcting him. “They are opportunistic omnivores, that is for certain, but not active predators upon human-” “By Jove, don't you- AH, get of me you inky devil!” “Not to mention the fact that you are most likely thinking of the corvid family when you mention stealing valuables. And even then I seriously doubt that crows, magpies, and the like will really steal things. It's more likely based on folklore rather than fact, I should think. And besides, blackbirds are not members of the corvid family but of the-” “Won't you just- STOP PECKING MY HEAD!” screamed Tom as a blackbird swooped down and proceeded to tap rather hard on the top of his head with its sharp orange bill, as if hammering a nail into his skull. “Are you alright?” I asked, concerned, as I sheltered under one of Tom's rather long arms, a considerably safer and more sheltered location than my brother Tom's, out in the open. “Do I look alright?” howled Tom, waving his stick manically as the blackbirds mobbed us. “Here I am being torn-asunder by a killer flock of God-damned avians with beaks like meat cleavers while you hide safely beneath my arm, and you ask if I'm alright?” “On the contrary, a single pair of blackbirds hardly constitutes as a flock. And the beaks of Turdus sps. could hardly be described as meat cleavers, Tom-” And so it went on, and we were still arguing even as we ran as fast as we could across the park. The blackbirds gave up as soon as we were over 10 metres away from their tree, and returned to their somewhat messy nest with what I thought was a satisfied smile on their beaks. Next there was 14 year old Riley, who was nice enough but did not have a great love of nature. He liked wildlife, but to him it was sort of 'so-so'. He would help me out if I needed assistance in caring for some animal, or capturing a new acquisition to my collection, but not to the extent that the job would eat into the time for something else that he had planned. He liked animals well enough, but not enough to prompt him to go out of his way for them. One thing that Riley would never assist me on in the slightest way was anything to do with insects. Anything with what he described as 'too many legs for its own good' would leave him shaking from head to foot with terror. A particular hatred of his was any sort of winged insect, and he seemed to be under the impression that anything with more than 2 legs (in which case it would be a bird) and with wings had to have a sting of some sort, a rather naïve view I thought. I found out from Mother that this irrational fear came from when he was stung by a hornet when he was very little. Seren, my oldest sibling, was 18 years old, and I disliked even more so than Tom. Seren gave me the same treatment as I gave her: cordial dislike. She had such pale skin that when I was younger I was convinced that she was hiding the fact that she was actually a part-time vampire, and hardly ever went outdoors. She treated the world outside that of humans (and even then only what was currently fashionable and popular) with disdain, and considered me to be about as unpopular and unfashionable as it was possible to be. In the personal hierarchy of pests, I was placed below rats (“filthy little buggers”) and flies (“prophets of the Devil himself”), but above spiders, which she hated more than anything else (“too many God-damned legs!”). My favourite sibling was Isla, who was just a year younger than me, but did not look it. She was a few centimetres taller than me (much to her great pride and pompousness), and had well-muscled limbs. Her brownish hair did not come a great deal further down than the lobes of her ears, and to Mother and Seren's horror, she usually had dirt under her fingernails and unsightly scratches and bruises mottling her legs. Isla had the firm belief that if you weren't outdoors, then you couldn't possibly have fun, which I very nearly agreed with, until I thought of reading and watching my various pets indoors, and proceeded to beg to differ – but only just. Isla spent her spare time catching grasshoppers for me, climbing trees, and half-naked while splashing about in streams. I also heard from local boys that another occupation of hers was punching boys in the face (rather hard, too, one might add, most of the boys I heard this from had broken, crooked noses) who dared to comment upon her being a girl. Isla liked nature more so than everyone else, including Riley, but not to the extent as myself. Unlike Riley, she did not have the slightest fear of insects, nor anything as I have found through the years. She will climb as far as you like up a tree, and then dangle upside down 10 metres or so above the ground, and sneak across farmer's fields populated by aggressive bulls and signs saying, 'AVERTISSEMENT: tous tresspassers seront fusillés' in France (we moved there from Surrey when I was 8, more on that in the following chapter). This French sign roughly translates as: WARNING: all trespassers will be shot. Then finally there is me, Oliver. I also answer to the name of Oli, Ol, and Olive to my family, and occasionally 'that bloody boy!'. My primary interest is a sort of compulsive, obsessive thing, and is solely to do with wildlife. Nature, in all its forms, be it fauna, flora, or fungi (though I admit that perhaps the former appealed to me the most, being of course rather more lively than fungi and plants), was my passion. Mother tells me that my very first word that I could properly enunciate was 'grasshopper', but even before that I would often say 'opper (grasshopper), mof (moth), bubbleee (bumblebee), and budaby (butterfly). At the age of 5 I became obsessed with zoos. The idea to create my very own zoo was planted in my mind by a single trip to London Zoo, and since then I could not get the idea out of my head. A favourite pastime of mine would be to draw grand plans for my zoo on large pieces of paper, then pin them up on my wall. At one point, when I was 5 and a half, my whole room was covered with zoo design plans, from wall to wall. I spoke of my obsession to my family, of course. The replies I got in return where decidedly varied. “That's nice, dear.” Mother would say airily, perhaps with an additional wave of a hand. “Maybe one day you will make your own zoo. That'll be nice.” When I told Father of my ambitious zoological plans, he took me quietly to one side, set me down, and said in a very serious, strict voice, “Now get that idea out of your head immediately, son. What good would come of such a thing? Now what you really want to do is to make a difference, join the navy for example.” Realising that if Father disapproved of my ideas, perhaps he would stop bringing me back exotic animals from the countries he visited, I quickly and somewhat slyly replied, “All right, Father. Yes, Father. Perhaps this whole thing is just a passing interest. I'm sure that after a little while of you bringing me all these wonderful animals back from Africa and so one, I'll get bored of it all, won't I? Get it out of my system, as such.” Father could not argue with that, so I continued to receive exotic living gifts, much to my relief. Tom's reply when I told him of my ambitions was as follows: “A sort of menagerie, you're thinking of, eh? Yes, thought so. I don't see why not [Tom approved of any sort of construction, even if it was to house his biggest enemy: animals], as long as the animals are well-contained. I wouldn't mind visiting myself, just to see those miserable mangy abominations locked up safely.” Naturally, I did not like Tom's reply, and hoped to get better results from Riley. He seemed to like the idea, though: “. . . just don't put anything with stings in that zoo of yours, will you?” I did not tell Seren of my ideas of course, but naturally she ended up hearing about my ambitious zoological plans. She treated the idea with scorn. “Pah, what nonsense you do think up, Oliver.” she said disdainfully, picking at her breakfast of fruit salad. “If ever you managed to do such a silly thing as make a zoo, no doubt all that you'd do would be to fill it with the most unnatural little buggers.” “I wasn't asking your opinion.” I said acidly. Remembering Seren's hatred for insects, I added: “But of course, dear Seren, you may work in the insect section if you wish.” Isla was neither here nor there when it came to an opinion upon my zoo idea. She shrugged her shoulders in a 'so-so' sort of way, and said, “Well, if it's what you want to do . . .” Isla seemed to be under the impression that she would run around the countryside, getting into scraps, and climbing trees as an adult career. Anything else she treated with disdain, but as I was her favourite brother, she did her best to hide it. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Sayornis | Mar 1 2016, 02:19 PM Post #3 |
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Neotenous
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I love the blackbird scene and the line about the garter snake selecting Tom's legs as a new "territory"! Oliver reminds me a bit of myself as a kid, too-- particularly the line about him getting interested in animals before he could pronounce their names. I was like that with dinosaurs. |
The Library is open. (Now under new management!)
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| Beetleboy | Mar 1 2016, 02:22 PM Post #4 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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Thank you!
Yeah, me too. All the way up until I was about 10, I pronounced Ankylosaurus as 'Anklyosaurus' and Giganotosaurus as 'Gigantosaurus'. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Flisch | Mar 1 2016, 02:46 PM Post #5 |
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Superhuman
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My most favourite part was "I am being torn asunder"... by two blackbirds. Geeze that hyperbole went so far, it came back from the other direction. I find myself liking Tom, as a character, not as a person. He has the best lines. |
| We have a discord. If you want to join, simply message me, Icthyander or Sphenodon. | |
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| Beetleboy | Mar 1 2016, 02:48 PM Post #6 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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Thanks! Yeah, I do try to give Tom some rather dramatic lines, as he likes being the centre of attention, so he's rather a drama queen. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Flisch | Mar 1 2016, 02:50 PM Post #7 |
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Superhuman
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At least he is an entertaining drama queen and not an annoying one. Also, some of the vocabulary from Tom sounds like they have a religious background. Is that intended? |
| We have a discord. If you want to join, simply message me, Icthyander or Sphenodon. | |
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| Beetleboy | Mar 1 2016, 02:59 PM Post #8 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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Well, the sibling's parents were brought up to be religious, and they have taught their children to be so. 'Father' is rather strict about it, and wants his children to be very religious, but 'Mother', despite being Christian herself, wishes for her children to take their own views on it. Tom, Riley, and Seren are Christian, but Seren less so than her brothers. She is the sort of person who believes in something only half-heartedly, unless it is the latest fashion statement. However, Isla and Oliver are not religious. Oliver is clever enough to have read several books on the subject of evolution, and thinks it makes far more sense than Christianity, and Isla doesn't really have time to be thinking about such things, religious or otherwise - she's far too busy punching French boys and climbing trees. However, as she grows older, I think she will definitely tend to evolution rather than Christianity. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Beetleboy | Mar 2 2016, 11:36 AM Post #9 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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2: A Conversation About France “An American monkey, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus is much wiser than most men.” - Charles Darwin From the very tip of England to the very tip of France it is 20.6 miles, or 33.1 kilometres. This is the shortest distance from our island country to the mainland, as I discovered at the library in Surrey. I was very interested in France at that particular time, because we were moving there, but although I spent about half an hour looking at France in general, for the most part I just looked at the wildlife of France. I also was made to learn French by Mother, much to my horror, and I could see my impending doom approaching, for I was truly awful at languages. As well as learning some basic French words, Mother suggested that I spent the majority of time learning the French names of the native animals, which would not only make me more interested in the subject but also greatly improve my grip on the language as a whole. The reason for our going to France was somewhat varied. For my part, I was looking forward to a greater variety of wildlife, and was already getting to grips with such wonders as the vautour fauve (Eurasian griffon vulture) and much else besides. Isla wanted larger stretches of countryside to explore, and secretly, I think, French boys to have scraps with. And as for everybody else, I think they just wanted warmer and sunnier weather. It was Father's idea to go to France. On one of his visits back to England, he (and then soon after, Mother too) planted the idea of moving to the mainland rather firmly in our heads. “I briefly stopped over in France on the way here.” Father told us over a piece of Mother's fruit cake. “I liked it there, you know. I found it a most agreeable place, with its warm weather and what have you. I stopped in a very nice hotel in a village in the French countryside yesterday, and found it quite the most agreeable place I have ever visited.” This statement was treated with shock from the family, as Father very rarely liked anything at all, other than the navy, and perhaps Mother's fruit cake. “Really, dear?” said Mother, not really listening as she knitted a new woollen jumper for me. “Sounds lovely.” “Yes, it was really rather nice.” said Father. “Isn't France full of the most distasteful little peasants?” Seren asked with a face that suggested she had just spotted some dog faeces. “What a very naïve view.” Tom said. “Really, Seren, why would they all be peasants, eh? Most nonsensical.” “I hadn't realised nonsensical was a word.” I said with vague interest as I stroked the small, 5 centimetre long gecko that Father had brought back for me as a gift. “It's a jolly good word.” “What are you going on about now?” Isla said. Unlike the rest of the family, she was not overly fond of words, and was often confused by my interest in what I thought of as fun words, such as 'bamboozle' or 'nonsensical'. “I wouldn't mind living in France.” Father said suddenly. Mother looked up from her knitting so fast that her glasses slid rapidly down the bridge of her nose. She calmly put down her knitting, took off her reading glasses (which she used for a variety of things just as much as reading), and looked at Father very seriously. “Are you sure, dear?” she said. “Well, yes, but I wasn't fully considering the idea of actually moving there. I was simply stating that I think it's a very agreeable country and I wouldn't mind living there.” said Father, somewhat surprised. “It's just that there's a woman who I'm friends with there. She's called Juliet Palmer.” explained Mother. “I was good friends with her at school, and we've stayed in contact ever since then.” “I remember her.” said Father airily. “Is it that odd, hippy sort of person who you went for a meal out with that time? I remember her, because she had the silliest glasses which made her eyes look huge-” But Father did not finish his sentence, for the gecko he'd given me decided to expand his territory from the palm of my hand, and made an impressive jump onto Seren's lap. “THAT BLOODY BOY!” she screamed. “Get this scaly devil off me!” I leaned forward to grab the gecko, but with a flick of its head, its beady eyes spotted my fast approaching hand. A rapid jump from Seren's lap sent it flying onto the wooden floor, where it scurried over the ground, between Father's feet, and slithered under the sofa he was sat upon. “Really, Oliver.” said Mother, exasperated. “Can't you keep a better eye on pets?” I got down onto the floor as Father vacated his seat and went to sit beside Mother. Lying flat against the wood of the floor, I pressed my face against the ground and stuck my arm under the sofa in attempt to retrieve the runaway reptile. “What were you saying about that hippy lass, dear?” said Father, clearing his throat and giving a distasteful look towards the bottom of the sofa. “Juliet.” said Mother. “Yes, you were right, she's the one with the glasses that make her eyes look unnaturally large. Anyway, she moved to France a couple of years ago. We've remained in contact and we usually send letters to each other.” “So that's who you were always sending letters to.” said Tom triumphantly. “I assumed there were some sort of love letters to your secret second lover.” Tom was, to put it one way, something of a drama queen, and so his dramatic accusations came nearly as often as the escape of one of my pets. He was always blaming us for some outlandish crime, choosing one member of the family after another to be subject to his drama, pointing accusing, quivering fingers at us with narrowed eyes. Mother was shooting cold looks at Tom while she continued to speak. I, meanwhile, had not managed to catch the gecko, but had accumulated a large amount of dust and fluff upon my hand, making it look like I had suddenly and dramatically grown a furry glove. “She bought a very nice place, Juliet told me.” Mother continued, while Father helped himself to a second slice of fruit cake. “Lovely farmhouse in the countryside, with a road nearby to get to the village 3 miles away, where she could get her food and supplies and what have you. The house itself was very large, with 4 rooms downstairs, and 3 more floors, consisting of a total of 6 rooms upstairs. There's also an orchard, a garden, and then beyond that a large amount of land which came with the purchase of the house itself. It is simply too large for Juliet to even begin to do anything with it.” “That's all very nice, dear.” said Father. “But what has Juliet's lovely abode in France got to do with moving to France?” “She's a hippy, isn't she, Father?” said Tom. “You said so. If Mother's suggesting we go live with this mad old bat, then I refuse. I'm not living with some airy-fairy dope-head with brains full of bubbles and thoughts about spiritual nonsense.” “I'm not suggesting that at all, Tom.” said Mother somewhat acidly. “And don't you dare call her an 'airy-fairy dope-head'. And what on Earth do you mean about her brain being full of bubbles?” “Oh wonderful.” Seren said suddenly, pointing at me. I was sprawled out leaning against the sofa, panting and unsuccessful in my endeavours to recapture the escaped gecko. “Now we'll have a bloody rogue reptile running about the house. The damn thing'll creep into our beds at night and bite us to inject its venom into our veins. We'll all be dead in our beds!” “It is not a 'bloody rogue reptile', but a gecko.” I replied with a glare. “And I'll have you know that they are not the least bit venomous.” “Shame.” said Isla. “They'd be a lot more interesting if they were venomous.” “Back to my point.” said Mother with a sigh. “What I was trying to say is that Juliet simply doesn't know what to do with all the space, with it just being her and her husband and their 3 month old daughter. So she asked in a recent letter of hers if we wanted to rent it off her. She's moving some place else in France, I think to somewhere near Paris. So my point was that if you really wanted to move to France, then we could easily rent this place from Juliet, for fairly cheap too I should think.” At this point I had managed to heave the sofa out of the way to reveal a great deal of dust bunnies – and the gecko. Father's reply to Mother was completely drowned out by my cry of triumph as I threw myself down into the dust upon the gecko. It tried to run away, but it was completely covered in fluff, and a dust bunny had become caught around one of its back feet like a large glove, hindering it. I easily captured it and reprimanded the runaway reptile upon its bad behaviour. “Well thank goodness for that.” said Seren with relief. “Now we won't have that scaly devil running around biting us.” “Can they bite very hard?” asked Riley in a worried sort of voice. “Even at that size it could easily draw blood. Despite its tender age its instinct to kill is very great.” Tom said, jumping in as quickly as possible, seeing an opportunity for drama. “But they grow, don't you know, probably to several foot long, I should think. Then it could easily take one of your digits clean off it really wished.” “Really?” asked Riley worriedly. “No.” I said quickly. “Of course not. Geckos are very friendly creatures. The exception, I believe, is Gekko gecko, the Tokay gecko. But this particular species is not-” “Yes, thanks, Charles Darwin.” said Seren with barely disguised disgust. “We don't need a lecture on gecko temperament, thank you very much.” There are 2 reasons why I am reciting this conversation. The first reason is to give you an idea how the average conversation in the Brownley family would pan out – with it starting off on one subject, with everybody interrupting and giving there own opinions, and then the whole thing finishing off on something entirely different from how it started. Conversations very rarely stayed friendly, often resulting in massive arguments, which would often result in Isla punching somebody in the gut. However, the primary reason for my recounting of this conversation is to show how the idea to go to France came about. After many more arguments over France (which invariably ended on a completely different note to how they started), and a great deal of fussing throughout the family, we eventually rented Juliet Palmer's house in the rural countryside of France. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Beetleboy | Mar 3 2016, 11:22 AM Post #10 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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3: An Argument About Pheasants “See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings: Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.” - Alexander Pope I immediately fell in love with our new home in France. It was huge, compared to what we were used to (our old home in Surrey had become rapidly more cramped as more children arrived, and when I came along, my various pets), with 10 rooms. Downstairs was a spacious kitchen with a large window looking over our little garden, which Mother had filled with carrots, lettuce, garden peas, runner beans, strawberry plants, and potatoes. The living room was nothing special, being slightly smaller than the kitchen, with a window that looked over the orchard (which was full of damsons, apples, apricots, and pears). I took the additional downstairs room as my bedroom, as I liked the view out over the meadow and the orchard, and it was closer to what became known as the Menagerie Room, or alternatively, if you happened to be Seren, 'the Unspeakable Room'. It was a little bit like a garage, I suppose, with a door that opened out into the meadow, and it was here that I kept my fast increasing number of pets. Upstairs there was Father's office for when he returned home occasionally, Mother's room, and a room each for my siblings. The area around the house was simply lovely. There was our little vegetable garden, which was next to the wildflower meadow, a favourite of mine, and beyond them the small orchard. Beyond the orchard was a copse, a little wood full of cool, refreshing shade, and deer which would watch you with untrusting eyes (for good reason, as most of the wildlife had poor views of humans, as many of the local people would hunt them). There was a dusty gravel road which went past Old Peter's farm, and took the 3 mile journey up to De Coucher Bourgade, a friendly little village where we got the food that we could not get from the vegetable garden or the orchard, and anything else we might need. I quickly discovered that there was a great deal of wildlife on our land. A variety of birds of prey could be seen circling over head, and occasionally perched in a tree as they tore apart there prey: hen harriers, red kites, snake eagles, and Eleonora's falcon could all be spotted at certain times. Pheasants and a variety of partridges were common there, but were rarely seen, more often heard, occasionally a small group could be seen slinking through the undergrowth. The notable exception was a particular male pheasant which I named Stravogus, whom I will speak more of later. There was a lake at the back of our land, full of wildfowl of all kinds. It was full of amphibians, such as marbled and common newts, moor frogs, and toads. Fire salamanders could be found in the woods, as well as roe deer, beech martins, and more. ~ It was a typical sleepy French morning, and the family was late rising. I, however, had important business to attend to, having to check the live traps I had set to capture dormice (which are very common in that area of France) for my 'zoo'. I rose at 7 am and crept through the house, being careful not to wake anybody (Seren and Tom, in particular, would be very angry at being woken in what they might describe as the 'bloody-well wee hours!'. I picked up my bags for putting in anything I may have captured in, and opened the door of the Menagerie Room into the meadow. I was met with a great surprise, for stood there right in front of the door was a beautiful male pheasant. I held my breath and stood as still as I could, so as not to frighten the animal off. Game birds were a very rare sight on our land, as they were all utterly terrified, for the most part, of humans, having associated all of Homo sapiens with rifles and cooking pots. I held my breath, waiting for the pheasant to run away, or perhaps let out a throaty shriek of surprise and flap away. However, the pheasant just stood there, cocking its head slightly, and watching me with appraising amber-orange eyes. Up close, I realised what beautiful birds common pheasants are. It sported bright red patches of wrinkled skin around its eye, with dark black-blue tufts behind its head, and an iridescent blue-green neck. Below this beautiful throat was a partial white band, and beneath this was its dark red chest. The sides of its wings were dark yellow-orange with black tips to the feathers, and its back was a rusty brownish colour. Its tail was a thing to behold. Gazing upon it, I felt quite sure that it was the most splendidly long tail of any pheasant. It was light brown, and when it caught the misty morning light, it seemed to glow with purple iridescence. The whole tail was banded with darker brown, until the long tail feathers tapered off at the end. I had now been looking at the pheasant for a good five minutes, and still it hadn't moved, so cautiously I took a step forward. It did not seem to mind much, backing away only slightly, just so I could squeeze past. Still gazing over my shoulder at the pheasant, which stood by the open Menagerie Room door, like a shimmering, iridescent guard, ready to defend its master's home to the death. I went into the wood and checked the metal live traps that I had set for the dormice. I had set about 6, most wedged in the forks of trees or nestled amidst leaves, but one I had experimentally placed on the ground beside an immense oak tree, the ground around which was riddled with little tunnels and small droppings. Curious, I had set my 6th and final trap there to see what I might catch. Returning to the woods after my encounter with that bold pheasant, I checked my traps one after the other. 4 of the 5 I had set in the trees had been triggered. Checking them, I was delighted to find that several garden dormice had been unable to resist the pungent Cantal cheese I had left them. I removed them from the metal traps, which did not harm them, and held them delicately in my finger by the scruffs of their necks. They had light chestnut-brown fur on their backs, cream undersides, and black facial markings which stretched around their eyes. They had large ears and, unlike a rat or mouse, had a very furry tail, which started off thin and seemed to get wider as it came to the very tip. Their wide black eyes stared up at me in astonishment, as if they could simply not believe the giant person before them. The very first dormouse I picked up was rather vicious, as I discovered, as it rapidly sunk its large incisors into my thumb. Even as it bit down, its eyes were wide with astonishment, as if it couldn't believe its own aggressive behaviour. Sucking on my finger as it poured blood from the painful and somewhat deep cut, I unhappily dropped the dormouse into one of the 7 seven cloth bags I had brought with me. After that I treated the dormice with a great deal of care, fearing that their incisors may even be able to shear clean through my fingers. I left the trap that I had placed on the ground until last, hoping that perhaps some exciting delight may be hidden there. Even as a child, I did like to leave the best until last. Following this rule, when presented with my dinner, I would eat my least favourite foods first (broccoli and asparagus), saving my favourite things (potatoes of any sort and carrots) until last. This way, when I finished my dinner, I would be left with the flavour of my favourite foods in my mouth, rather than a disagreeable flavour. This may seem rather silly, but at that tender age of 9 I was, to say the least, a little eccentric. Of course, even in the following years I continued to be eccentric. I haven't stopped just yet. Getting back to France, unfortunately the trap on the ground had not been sprung, and was empty, except for a great deal of the Cantal cheese I was using bait. Instead of moving the trap, I decided to leave it there. After all, there was still hope, and I may yet catch something in it. The glorious male pheasant was waiting for me upon my return. At first I had thought that he had gone, much to my disappointment (images of my very own attack pheasant lingered in my mind, an avian body guard to protect me at all times), and it was only when I had gone into the Menagerie Room and closed the door behind me that I realised where he was. A flash of iridescence behind the dormouse cage, and then he came strutting out, chest puffed out proudly. He gave me a look that seemed to mockingly ask me if I really thought I'd get rid of him so easily. I decided to name him Stravogus – a name that seemed to fit him very well, I thought. It sounded like 'extravagant', which is exactly what he was. The only thing was that Stravogus sounded vaguely like 'asparagus', which was my least favourite food and I hated it with a passion. But Stravogus he became, and I was very pleased with him indeed. The first person to get up, other than me, was typically Isla, and this day was no different. She had come down the stairs, looked in my bedroom, found me absent, and walked into the Menagerie Room. “Bloody hell!” she shouted (even at her young age of 8 she had learnt several rude words from Tom, and many of them were much worse than 'bloody'). “There's a flipping pheasant strutting round bold as brass!” “Quiet.” I said. “You'll wake the family.” “Stuff the family.” said Isla with a wave of her hand. “Have you seen that pheasant?” “He's pretty hard to miss.” “Shall we get it?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “What do you think, you ninny? Kill it, of course.” said Isla, exasperated. “Good God – no!” I cried, standing in-between Isla and Stravogus. “You can't. And he's not an it, he's a he. And he's got a name, Stravogus.” “Well, the name suits it. I'll give you that.” said Isla dismissively. “But it would be a waste not to kill it.” “No!” I said. “Well, those feathers would look awfully good in a hat. And the meat would taste very nice indeed in one of those awfully good game pies, like the ones Mr Arlton brings round. Mum was just saying the other day how she'd like to try making one of 'em.” said Isla. “No, no, and no!” I shouted, angry now. “What happened to not waking the family?” “Oh, do shut up. We can't eat Stravogus.” “Why ever not? You eat pheasant all the time in Mr Arlton's game pies.” “This is different. Stravogus is my pet. It would be all kinds of wrong to eat a pet.” “How about we have its eggs? Haven't tried pheasant eggs before.” “He can't lay eggs, silly – he's a male!” Isla was silent for a moment, trying to see a way round this obstacle. Finally, she looked up, inspired: “Then we'll just have to make him lay an egg!” Isla was at the time under the belief that what ever she wanted, she would get one way or another. People generally were just too scared of Isla's infamous punches to disobey her. In the end, thankfully, we did not end up eating poor Stravogus, but he did become even more tame. He became a sort of family pet, though he was rather akin to a cat. He would roam wherever he liked, whenever he liked, but he would always come back right to the hour for his dinner. You could use him as a sort of clock to tell whether it was midday or not, by seeing if he was heading back to the house or not. And he would always be back an hour or so after dusk to nestle down in his cosy lair of grass and hay in the Menagerie Room, on top of the dormice. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Beetleboy | Mar 4 2016, 12:21 PM Post #11 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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4: La Ménagerie De France “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more” - George Gordon Byron During our stay in France, my collection in the Menagerie Room (or La Ménagerie De France as it also became known) became steadily larger. Some of my pets had been brought over from our original home in Surrey, including my 3 African fat-tailed geckos. These I were very fond of, but I discovered to be careful when handling them, for if you dealt with them too roughly, they would 'drop' their tail, as it is known. Dropping a tail, in reptilian terms, basically means to sort of shed their tail. Watching them do it, it happens very fast, the tail simply falling away. In the wild, this is very useful, for if a predator has a hold on their tail then they can simply drop it and run away. Alternatively, they can drop their tail and leave the predators preoccupied with it, for even after it has been dropped, the tail will continue to twitch and lash out as if it were still attached. Upon first holding my geckos, they must have not thought much to my handling, and quickly dropped their tails, all except one. I was utterly distraught, and did not know what to do with the wriggling, unattached tails writhing in my hands, dripping blood onto my palms. To my great relief, the tails grew back surprisingly quickly, but as I discovered, when an African fat-tailed gecko re-grows a tail, it has an oddly rounded shape. I also had my axolotl, which started off at around 8 centimetres long and gradually grow longer, till it was over 20 centimetres. It was an albino, which is very common in captivity with axolotls, with feathery bright red gills rimming its head, like a crimson halo. They are fascinating little creatures, a sort of amphibian which remain in its larval stage all of its life (except, I have later learned, if a certain chemical is supplied, in which they will turn into an adult salamander form). This axolotl was very friendly, and would bump its face against the glass of its tank if it saw me coming. If I opened the lid of the tank, it would bob to the surface, poking its snout out of the water and gaping its wide mouth at me. If I put my finger in the water it would engulf the tip of my digit with its mouth and remain like that for a few seconds, until it finally realised that with its feeble teeth it would not be able to bit off my finger. But most of the time the axolotl would just sit on the bottom of the tank, its mouth stretched out in what seemed to be a manic grin. As well as an ample collection of insects, amphibians, and reptiles, I had also caught a large number of dormice from our land around the house. I would keep the dormice for a week, then replace them with fresh specimens. There were 2 species of dormice that could be found: the garden dormouse, which was the more abundant, and had racoon-like dark facial markings, and the hazel dormouse, which I preferred. The latter was covered in the softest, light ginger-brown fur, with a snout rimmed with a halo of whiskers, and large black eyes which shared the astonished expression that the garden dormice had. As well as obvious differences in colour, the 2 species also differed enormously in behaviour. The garden dormice were vicious little things that would bare their large incisors, gnash their teeth, make low 'chuf! chuf!' noises in anger, as well as bite and scratch me. The hazel dormice, on the other hand, where much more placid and friendly, and would never bite me. When I removed them from the live traps, they would stare up at me in sleepy astonishment, perhaps have a little look around, tiny nose twitching and whiskers a-quiver, then usually curl up in a ball with its feet stuck in the air in my hand. Tom, who was a dab hand at making small structures just like what I wanted, helped to make me the dormouse cage, and since then he has helped me with many other fairly large enclosures. The cage was about a metre and a half tall, and the same wide, and made out of vertical bits of wood, with fine chicken wire nailed in place around it. It was a simple but effective enclosure, with some plastic put over the bottom of the enclosure, then covered in wood shavings. There were lots of places for the dormice to hide, for they would love to curl up in groups in hanging baskets full of soft sheep's wool and dry leaves. I also placed plenty of branches about the enclosure, because they are principally arboreal creatures. This enclosure was placed near the door, so that with a little effort I could push it outside. This I did most days, except in winter, and when the weather was bad. In this enclosure I had over 10 garden dormice, the fierce ones, and a couple of hazel dormice. But what I found was that whenever a bowl of food was put in the cage, the garden dormice would rush down and eat it all, and the hazels would get nothing. They would just sit there while the bolder species rushed past, then pathetically curl up in a ball. So in the end I was forced to move my 5 or so hazel dormice into a smaller cage, which I built by myself and looked nowhere near as neat as the one Tom had helped me build. After that the hazel dormice could get their food in peace. I was surprised at how many different things the dormice would eat. They would pretty much feast on anything that I cared to give them: cheese (Cantal was their favourite, though), crickets, nuts, seeds, finely chopped apples, pears, and plums, brambles, rowan berries, tiny snails, chocolate, and scraps from the family's dinners. Wednesday the dormice always eagerly anticipated, for it was on this night that Mr Arlton would come round and give us one of his game pies. These were slightly different each time, and would include anything from wild boar, venison, pigeon, chicken, pheasant, quail, and pretty much anything else that ran around the French countryside (providing it wasn't human, of course. However, Tom was always trying to convince me that the French are cannibals, a most silly notion, but he was only doing it to try and trick me). Non the less, these game pies were utterly delicious, and the dormice would always get the crumbs off our plates. The pastry they liked, but the little chunks of meat that may be left they simply adored. The family's views on dormice were varied. From Mother I got, “Oh, aren't they lovely. Aren't they dears.” She would then stop talking to me and proceed to have a decidedly one-sided conversation with the dormice. “Who's lovely? Who's lovely? Who is it? Who is it? Is it you? Is it you, is it? I think it is, I think it is, don't you . . .” From Isla I got just this: “Oh, they're nice. The Romans used to eat them, you know. Had them deep fried in honey, I do believe. They simply loved to eat them while watching gladiators fight, don't you know.” However, Isla's interest in them did go beyond that they were a popular Roman delicacy, because she would frequently get the friendlier hazel dormice out of their cage and play with them. Occasionally I would find her in the Menagerie Room, with a dormouse on her head, one scurrying through her sleeve, one crawling about under her shirt, and several having a well-earned sleep in her hands. When I found her doing this, she was making the oddest, girlish little giggles, most un-Isla-like. "What on Earth are you doing?" I asked, incredulous. Isla? Isla, giggling? No, it wasn't possible. "Uh - oh . . . nothing. Just playing with the stupid buggers." she said, her face gone red, making her voice unnecasarily deep in an attempt to seem less girlish. She quickly stuffed the dormice back in their cages, dropping one on the ground in the process, then ran off out of the room. I shook my head in amazement. It just went to show that even Isla, who I thought was the most ungirlish, rough-and-ready sort of girl there was, occasionally resorted to girlish giggles, which is the worst crime imaginable to me. Even Tom and Riley could not remain unmoved and cold-hearted at the sight of a small golden hazel dormouse curled up, blinking up in sleepy surprise, its whiskers twitching. In fact, the only person who disliked the dormice was Seren. The first time I introduced one of my hazel dormice to the family, I had just been called by Mother to come and get lunch. I decided that this was a most opportune moment to present the dormouse to the family. I took a particularly friendly individual with me, whom I had named Conker. I got to the lunch table and sat down, feeling Conker's warm, twitching body in my sleeve. “How's the animals, dear?” Mother asked. “Quite alright.” I said. “Only Rose is off his food.” Rose was the axolotl that I have afore mentioned. Of course Rose is more of a female name, but that didn't matter to my 7 year old mind. “What a shame.” said Seren acidly. “I'm welling up here.” said Tom, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in sorrow. He reached up and wiped the back of his hand along his face, attempting to remove non-existent tears. “Quite upsetting.” agreed Seren with a sniff. “Perhaps we should arrange a funeral? Riley can sing a hymn, and we can make a coffin out of a shoe box.” “I'm sorry, Mother.” Tom blubbered dramatically. “But may I be excused? This sad, sad news is simply too . . . too much for me . . .” “Stop it, you too.” said Mother with a glare as Seren and Tom cackled maliciously as they ended their cruel act. “And it isn't as if the poor thing's dead yet.” That was when Conker slid down my sleeve and fell onto my plate of food amidst the salad. Blinking up from among the lettuce, a bit of cress sticking up from behind one ear, Conker looked around in slight confusion at the sudden appearance of so many new faces looking down at it. That was when Tom chose his moment to speak. “Look out!” he shouted, pointing a quivering finger at the offending dormouse. “Oliver's infested with bloody rats! They're falling out of his sleeves, ears, and anus! Kill it, before it gives us all the Plague!” “Oh my!” said Seren, making a noise that was reminiscent of a police siren. “A rat! A rat! Kill it!” I quickly picked up poor Conker, which was staring around it with a sort of horrified look on its face, and returned him to his cage. This was not only the first, but also the last time, that I brought one of my animals to the dinner table. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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| Scrublord | Mar 4 2016, 08:58 PM Post #12 |
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Father Pellegrini
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Perhaps it's the excessive formality of the language, but I'm having a hard time judging the exact time period of this story. Is it supposed to be contemporary or a period piece--and if so, when? |
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My Projects: The Neozoic Redux Valhalla--Take Three! The Big One Deviantart Account: http://elsqiubbonator.deviantart.com In the end, the best advice I could give you would be to do your project in a way that feels natural to you, rather than trying to imitate some geek with a laptop in Colorado. --Heteromorph | |
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| Beetleboy | Mar 5 2016, 10:48 AM Post #13 |
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neither lizard nor boy nor beetle . . . but a little of all three
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The exact date is intended to be open for interpretation, but it is definitely a period piece. |
| ~ The Age of Forests ~ | |
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7:53 PM Jul 10