moaned. He wasso terrified, he couldn’t find the hole in the hedge to get out. He stuck his tail in the air and did a huge poop right in the middle of my asparagus bed. I shook my chain and wailed, ‘Whooo-oh!’ My cowardly old bull galloped across the garden, knocked down the clothesline, and got a sheet over his head.
“It wouldn’t come off because his horns poked through it,” said Uncle Chris. “He thought the ghost had got hold of him, and took off across the paddocks. The faster he ran, the more the sheet billowed, and the more it billowed, the more he bellowed. He woke up half of Wardville, bolting straight through the hedges and fences.
“He cut across the back of Hopuruahine, and galloped bellowing through Matamata just as the pictures were coming out. People were a bit shaky because they’d been watching a silent film about a ghost. They took one look at my bull with the sheet over his head, ran back into the theatre, and wouldn’t come out till it was daylight. And then my bull turned round at Te Poi and came the other way, chasing them with the sheet still stuck on his horns. Those Matamata folk, they’re townies, you know. They were so scared, they rushed back into the theatre and wouldn’t come out till it was dark again.
“My bull galloped back across the farms, all the way home to his own paddock. He was so tired, I had to take the lawn mower and the wheelbarrow out of the back shed, make him a bed of straw, give him a bucket of cocoa, and let him sleep the rest of the day.”
“What about the sheet?” asked Jessie.
“I patched it with flour bags where he’d torn holes with his horns. It needed a good scrub, and I boiled it in the copper for half an hour, then spread it over a gooseberry bush for the frostto bleach. But I still use it. It’s on my bed at home right now. The only trouble is my toenails get caught where I sewed the patches. So I just use it as a bottom sheet.”
“Did you get into trouble with the people in Matamata?”
“Luckily my bull had the sheet over his head, so nobody recognised him. Do you think those snarlers will be done?” said Uncle Chris. The wire handles were hot, so we lifted the camp ovens out of the embers with a tea-tree stick.
“Watch out! You could burn your bare feet on these ashes.” Uncle Chris brushed them off the lids with a wet sugarbag.
“I smell snarlers!” said Lizzie.
“Snarlers smell I,” said Alwyn in a sad little voice. He was thinking of Banana Bob, but we were too hungry to worry about him.
“How about that!” Uncle Chris lifted off the lids and showed us big, juicy, shiny, brown sausages about a foot long for the big kids! Tiny, curly, crispy sausages smaller than a little finger, specially for the little ones!
We sat around the camp ovens and picked them out with our fingers, blowing on them, wrapping them in bread and butter, and dipping them in tomato sauce. They smelled even better than they looked, and they tasted even better than they smelled.
After tea, Uncle Chris had a cup of tea. “Don’t go telling your Aunt Effie I did this.” He tipped it into the saucer, just like Banana Bob, and slurped it up. “It’s supposed to be bad manners,” he said and read our hands again.
“You’ve eaten so many snarlers, your skin’s all stretched. It’s changed the lines on your hands,” he told the little ones. “And that means your future’s changed, too. You’re not going to be Prime Minister after all.” The little ones cried. “Well, justfor a day perhaps.
“But the lines on your hands all say something else – something about an island.”
“Yes?” we all said. “Yes?”
“It says on your hands that the island’s sunk,” said Uncle Chris. “Who ever heard of an island sinking?”
“We did!” said Jared. “Does it say anything about treasure?”
“Let’s have a look. I can see a shark, and a … I think it’s a crocodile. Yes, and a wrecked ship!”
“The Evil Fancy!” said
“It wouldn’t come off because his horns poked through it,” said Uncle Chris. “He thought the ghost had got hold of him, and took off across the paddocks. The faster he ran, the more the sheet billowed, and the more it billowed, the more he bellowed. He woke up half of Wardville, bolting straight through the hedges and fences.
“He cut across the back of Hopuruahine, and galloped bellowing through Matamata just as the pictures were coming out. People were a bit shaky because they’d been watching a silent film about a ghost. They took one look at my bull with the sheet over his head, ran back into the theatre, and wouldn’t come out till it was daylight. And then my bull turned round at Te Poi and came the other way, chasing them with the sheet still stuck on his horns. Those Matamata folk, they’re townies, you know. They were so scared, they rushed back into the theatre and wouldn’t come out till it was dark again.
“My bull galloped back across the farms, all the way home to his own paddock. He was so tired, I had to take the lawn mower and the wheelbarrow out of the back shed, make him a bed of straw, give him a bucket of cocoa, and let him sleep the rest of the day.”
“What about the sheet?” asked Jessie.
“I patched it with flour bags where he’d torn holes with his horns. It needed a good scrub, and I boiled it in the copper for half an hour, then spread it over a gooseberry bush for the frostto bleach. But I still use it. It’s on my bed at home right now. The only trouble is my toenails get caught where I sewed the patches. So I just use it as a bottom sheet.”
“Did you get into trouble with the people in Matamata?”
“Luckily my bull had the sheet over his head, so nobody recognised him. Do you think those snarlers will be done?” said Uncle Chris. The wire handles were hot, so we lifted the camp ovens out of the embers with a tea-tree stick.
“Watch out! You could burn your bare feet on these ashes.” Uncle Chris brushed them off the lids with a wet sugarbag.
“I smell snarlers!” said Lizzie.
“Snarlers smell I,” said Alwyn in a sad little voice. He was thinking of Banana Bob, but we were too hungry to worry about him.
“How about that!” Uncle Chris lifted off the lids and showed us big, juicy, shiny, brown sausages about a foot long for the big kids! Tiny, curly, crispy sausages smaller than a little finger, specially for the little ones!
We sat around the camp ovens and picked them out with our fingers, blowing on them, wrapping them in bread and butter, and dipping them in tomato sauce. They smelled even better than they looked, and they tasted even better than they smelled.
After tea, Uncle Chris had a cup of tea. “Don’t go telling your Aunt Effie I did this.” He tipped it into the saucer, just like Banana Bob, and slurped it up. “It’s supposed to be bad manners,” he said and read our hands again.
“You’ve eaten so many snarlers, your skin’s all stretched. It’s changed the lines on your hands,” he told the little ones. “And that means your future’s changed, too. You’re not going to be Prime Minister after all.” The little ones cried. “Well, justfor a day perhaps.
“But the lines on your hands all say something else – something about an island.”
“Yes?” we all said. “Yes?”
“It says on your hands that the island’s sunk,” said Uncle Chris. “Who ever heard of an island sinking?”
“We did!” said Jared. “Does it say anything about treasure?”
“Let’s have a look. I can see a shark, and a … I think it’s a crocodile. Yes, and a wrecked ship!”
“The Evil Fancy!” said
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