Blast to the Past Read online

  The Flock and Bitzer winced as he grabbed and pulled at whatever he could find.

  Shaun looked around. The rest of the sheep and Bitzer stared back at him. The young Farmer didn’t know the difference between a cow and a bull. He was terrible at farming!

  Shaking his head, Shaun pointed the way back to the barn. When the door was safely closed he began scribbling on the board again. First, he drew a picture of the old Farmer with Mossy Bottom Farm behind him. Carefully, he added smiling faces: himself, Bitzer, Shirley, Timmy’s Mum, Timmy and the rest of the sheep. The Farmer held up a big pile of money and looked happy — as he always did when he was holding a big pile of money.

  Next, Shaun erased the money and turned the Farmer’s smile to a frown. Then — one by one — he erased the animals he had drawn, and finally the farm itself. Looking around, he bleated grimly.

  They must have come back to a point in time when the Farmer was just learning to farm. If he wasn’t very good at it, he might decide to go off and do something else instead, like painting or playing trombone or being a professional balloon-model maker. And if that happened, there might be no Mossy Bottom Farm in the future for them to get back to. The old Farmer was often peculiar, but he knew how to farm. The young version would never make any money. Mossy Bottom Farm would be ruined, and if Mossy Bottom Farm was ruined, history would change. They might never exist!

  There was only one thing to do. They would have to work around the clock to mend the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER. At the same time, they would have to help the Farmer until he learned how to run Mossy Bottom Farm.

  SQUEEE!

  Shaun peeked outside the barn. Leaning against a stone wall, a row of pigs stared back at him. All of them were wearing baggy diapers that looked like badly folded old towels. One waved a rattle at him while another cuddled a battered teddy to its massive pink cheek.

  Shaun whistled under his breath. Baby pigs really were massive.

  By the following morning the Farmer’s beard had gone wild and was speckled with muck, his pants were tattered, his Wellingtons crusted with cow pies, and he was covered in bruises. He wasn’t whistling anymore. Shaun’s attempts to play had been met with muttered grumbling and a firm hand pushing him away. Shaun and Bitzer glanced at each other as he ducked into the henhouse, egg basket in hand. It was a simple job. All he had to do was pick up eggs and carry them back to the farmhouse. Surely he couldn’t mess that up.

  When the Farmer emerged from the henhouse holding a basket of eggs and punching the air in victory, Bitzer and Shaun almost clapped. But then the Farmer tripped, the egg basket flew into the air, and he fell flat on his face. Half a second later — crack, splot, crack, splot, crack, splot — the rain of falling eggs shattered all over him. Yolk dripping down his beard, the young man sat on the step of the henhouse, put his eggy face in his hands, and sobbed.

  Shaun butted the Farmer’s leg sympathetically with his head. Bitzer noticed Beryl the hen dozing on a roost nearby. Picking her up, he used her to wipe egg off the Farmer’s face and then popped her gently back on her roost. Slowly, the Farmer’s blubbering stopped. With a faint smile, he patted Bitzer on the head and gave Shaun a stroke.

  Bitzer tapped his clipboard. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and the farm’s routines were very strict.

  Eleven o’clock was sitting-in-the-deck-chair-with-a-mug-of-tea time. Pointing toward the kitchen, he woofed firmly. It was a difficult job, but the Farmer had to do it.

  While the Farmer sipped tea, his nose buried in COUNTRY LIFE, Shaun and Bitzer scattered food in the chicken run. By the time they returned to the farmhouse, the Farmer had fallen asleep in the deck chair, snoring. Shirley was standing beside him, scrawling in the Farmer’s book.

  Bitzer woofed and held out a paw. Shirley, looking sheepish, handed the book over. Flipping through the pages, Bitzer noticed that in a section called CARING FOR SHEEP she had crossed out some words and scribbled in new ones. The page now read:

  Sighing and shaking his head, Bitzer crossed Shirley’s changes out.

  Curious, Shaun took the book from his paws and turned its pages, shuddering when he spotted a chapter on sheep shearing. COUNTRY LIFE wasn’t just an instruction book, it was a complete guide to living off the land! Chuckling, he pointed to the section on finding wild food, which came with recipes for a stinging-nettle omelet, acorn cappuccino, mushroom porridge, hogweed salad, and a load of other revolting dishes. Blech. Shaun made a face.

  Bitzer grabbed the book back and riffled through the pages. He gulped. No wonder the Farmer was so useless. There was loads of stuff about farming, but nothing at all about the importance of nice, clean Wellington boots. Instead, there were lots of silly chapters with headings like GROWING GREAT PRODUCE and HARVEST TIME. The sheepdog snorted in disgust. How could anyone hope to become a good farmer without well-shined Wellingtons?

  Carefully, he placed the book in the Farmer’s lap and pulled Shaun away. While the Farmer was sleeping, the pigs needed mucking out, and the ducks would get testy if their lunch didn’t arrive on time. After that, they could weed the garden and mend the gate.

  Together, Bitzer and Shaun marched off to work. A few moments later, Bitzer returned, a sly look on his face. Picking up the Farmer’s book, he opened it to the section on looking after farm animals and found a section called CARING FOR YOUR SHEEPDOG. Underneath the heading, he quickly started scribbling a new entry:

  Clang-a-lang-a-clang. The Farmer banged on an old tin bathtub with a stick. Breakfast time!

  Shaun dragged himself out of bed. It felt like he had been asleep for only ten minutes, because he had been asleep for only ten minutes. He clutched his aching back and groaned while glancing at himself in the cracked mirror. His fleece was mucky, and he had bags under his eyes.

  Then he peered over at the shape of the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER hidden under a tarp. After yet another all-night session with welding masks and flying sparks and nuts and bolts and screws, the go-kart was almost fixed and ready to take the animals back to the future. But they couldn’t leave yet: every day brought a new farming emergency. And every day, the Farmer tried a new recipe from his COUNTRY LIFE book. The results had ranged from disastrous to catastrophic.

  The last three days had gone like this . . .

  After reading in COUNTRY LIFE that scientists thought plants grow faster to music, the Farmer played guitar and wailed in the vegetable garden until the vegetables lost the will to live.

  He wasn’t the only one wailing: the pig babies cried and squealed until food was brought out to them. The Flock spent all day ferrying food from the kitchen to the pigsty just to get some peace and quiet.

  Then the Flock spent the whole night feeding fresh manure and water to the poor, shriveled vegetables, until the withered plants decided life might be worth living after all. While the Farmer slept, Shaun sneaked into his bedroom and snipped the strings of his guitar.

  After carefully picking stinging nettles, the Farmer had tried making a stinging-nettle omelet. But the recipe had gone wrong, leaving the Farmer screaming with nettle stings until his tongue had swollen up like a balloon. The Flock hoped this meant he couldn’t sing the next day.

  The Farmer read that animals’ instincts are to forage for their own food as nature intended, so he went around the farm leaving gates open. Shirley wandered off to Mossy Bottom Village, where she foraged as nature intended — by gobbling sweet-and-sour noodles from customers’ plates in a Chinese restaurant. The chickens foraged as nature intended by descending in a flock on Old Mrs. Badlegg’s tea-and-seed-cake party. Diaper-wearing pigs waited until the Farmer went to market, then foraged as nature intended for the last of the frozen pizza in the farmhouse kitchen.

  Bitzer and Shaun rounded up most of the animals, poking, prodding, and (in Shirley’s case) rolling them back to their homes. One of the baby pigs had been so full of pizza that Bitzer had tried to put it over his shoulder and pat its back. It let out a mighty burp that shook the farmhouse windows.

&nbs
p; Soon after the Farmer returned from the market, he was visited by a stream of angry neighbors, including Mr. Gasper from down the road, who was leading the Farmer’s goat, Mower Mouth, on a piece of string. A scrap of Mr. Gasper’s hallway carpet was still caught between Mower Mouth’s teeth.

  Snail delight, which had escaped, very slowly, through an open window.

  The Farmer tried to plow the bottom field. Most farmers plow in straight lines up and down the field, but the Farmer plowed a single furrow that stretched through the front garden, up the lane, across the bottom field, through the woods on the other side, and around Soggy Moor three times before turning back toward the farm, plowing through a wall, then heading toward the sheep dip. Luckily, the tractor ran out of gas before the Farmer could try plowing the sheep dip.

  Once again, Shaun and Bitzer were up all night fixing everything while the Farmer snored. The next morning, they watched him scratch his head as he stared at the field. It now had neat, straight furrows, and a painted sign that had been planted in the mud.

  Wild garlic surprise, which had not one but two surprises. The first surprise was that it exploded in the pan, painting the kitchen ceiling in lumpy, gray goo. The second surprise was that after the Farmer scraped some off the ceiling and ate it, the wild garlic surprise did some very surprising things to his tummy. The smell had followed him around Mossy Bottom Farm all evening.

  Shaun groaned to himself as he surveyed the farm. His whole body was sore, and he felt homesick for the easy living of the future.

  The Farmer passed Shaun on his way to the barn, and he tried to start a play fight. Grumbling under his breath, Shaun pushed the Farmer away. He was too tired for fun.

  A grouchy-looking Bitzer blew his whistle and turned his STOP sign to GO. Shaun trooped across the lane with the rest of the Flock. It wasn’t all bad news, he told himself. After three days, the Farmer had finally noticed that the feed bags contained different types of food for different animals, thanks to large signs with pictures of sheep and chickens and arrows that pointed to the correct bags.

  The baby pigs still needed to be specially fed, however. They had become pickier, erupting in loud sirens of cries until fresh whipped cream was brought for their double-fudge ice-cream sundaes.

  In the distance, a familiar sound of clanking machinery started up. Chewing a mouthful of feed, Shaun groaned again. The Farmer had switched on the hay baling machine. Shaun squeezed his eyes closed, expecting the worst.

  Sure enough, after only a few seconds the baling machine began making a shuddering noise. There was a loud bang. Then a scream. The Farmer tottered out of the barn, his arms and legs poking out of a hay bale. Shaun couldn’t help noticing that his beard had been neatly baled, too.

  Yet another problem to sort out.

  Slowly but surely, the Flock’s hard work began to pay off. Yes, there were a few teeny problems: on day five the Farmer had blown up the shed, then fallen through the roof of the barn, and on day six he got his beard caught in the wheelbarrow. But after only a week the farm was running like clockwork. All the plants were alive, and the Farmer had just finished plowing the top field in almost straight lines. While Shaun and Bitzer watched, he parked by the farmhouse door by pulling a lever on the tractor controls where the word BRAYKE had mysteriously appeared in chalk. Behind him was only one broken fence, which a team of exhausted sheep quickly mended. The Farmer gave the tractor a quick polish and wandered into the kitchen.

  Shaun gave a tired but happy bleat. The future was safe. It was time for them all to go home. Someday soon, once the Farmer shaved his silly beard off, he would buy a flock of lambs and a puppy named Bitzer.

  Shirley nudged him, rubbing her tummy. Could they hold off leaving until the Farmer had fed them? They might travel to the future and find themselves hours away from the next meal.

  The rest of the sheep bleated in agreement. They didn’t want to miss breakfast.

  Bitzer stood by the kitchen door next to a pair of freshly cleaned Wellington boots and saluted. The door flew open. The sheepdog was flattened against the wall. Looking green in the face, the Farmer rubbed his gurgling tummy and heaved a bag of sheep feed over his shoulder.

  Hungrily, the Flock trooped across the lane for breakfast.

  A few minutes later, Shaun heard a horribly familiar sound. A horribly familiar sound that hadn’t been caused by the Wild Garlic Surprise. He looked up from the trough. Food fell from his mouth. With a gulp, he backed away from the nightmare in front of him.

  The Farmer had found the shearing clippers. Waving them in one hand, he strolled across the meadow with a grin on his face and COUNTRY LIFE open in his spare hand.

  He was going to try shearing!

  There was only one thing Shaun could do. With a bleat of terror, he jumped behind the massive bulk of Shirley.

  So did the rest of the Flock.

  As strong hands reached out and grabbed him, Shaun’s bleating laughter was cut off with a gurgle.

  “Oorgo,” chuckled the Farmer.

  Shaun struggled, the hideous buzzing of the clippers filling his ears.

  He clenched his teeth, waiting. . . .

  In the distance, Shaun heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. “Oioioi!” shouted the Farmer. Hardly daring to hope, Shaun opened one eye. A second later, with a tiny pop, the other opened.

  Jolting along the lane was the DAVEY MOSSIDGE grocery cart. The Farmer waved. Dropping the clippers, he jogged away, shearing forgotten.

  Shaun bleated urgently: the Flock couldn’t stay in the past a second longer. They had to get to the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER!

  The Flock didn’t need telling. Shaun was almost trampled in the stampede for the gate.

  Seconds later, Shaun peered around the barn door. The Farmer had disappeared around the other side of the house. Shaun heard voices. A frown crossed his face: one of them sounded familiar. For a moment he thought he had already returned to the future. But it couldn’t be. . . . Shaun shook his head. The important thing was that the coast was clear.

  With a squeaking of rusty wheels, the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER was pushed out into the yard. Shaun’s heart leapt at the sight. The go-kart was almost as good as new. Except for the patches and rusty nails holding it together, the string tying the broomstick together, a large rip in Timmy’s kite, the bent-out-of-shape handlebars, and the springs poking through the driver’s seat, he could hardly tell that it had been in a crash.

  A wheel fell off. Hazel fixed it back in place with a couple of thwacks from her wrench.

  As the sheep and Bitzer pushed the vehicle toward the meadow, Shaun heard a squeee behind him. He turned to see a row of baby pigs leaning against the wall, all wearing little bonnets and grinning grins that looked much too wicked to belong to piglets. One of them blew a raspberry at him.

  Shaun stopped. He frowned. Now that he came to think about it, the baby pigs really were enormous. And they didn’t really act like babies. There was something not quite right —

  Bitzer grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him toward Roly-Poly Hill.

  The MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER was ready for its journey through time. The Flock was going home.

  At the top of Roly-Poly Hill, Shaun shielded his eyes against the sunshine with a hoof and peered at the farmhouse. The horse and cart were still parked on the far side. The Farmer was out of sight and the coast was clear. He lifted his hoof and gave a thumbs-up. Pulling on his goggles, he tied the colander helmet beneath his chin and turned to face the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER.

  The go-kart was packed with sheep. The Flock had formed a pyramid that sprouted arms and legs and faces — a pyramid that swayed dangerously in the breeze.

  Shaun scrambled to the top. Timmy’s Mum protested as his hoof squashed her curlers. Making himself comfortable on the Twins, Shaun looked around and bleated. From up here he could see all the way to the Big City.

  Reaching for the handlebars, he bleated again. Uh-oh, his arms were too short! He couldn’t steer!

  Belo
w him another pair of hooves stretched out. Nuts grinned up at Shaun. Everything was all right. He — Nuts — was in control.

  Shaun’s bleat of protest was cut off as the MOSSY BOTTOM FLYER began to move.

  Shaun sat up. Tweeting happily, birds circled around his head. Annoyed, he flapped them away and bleated: didn’t they have anything better to do?

  The birds flew to the nearest tree, fluffed out their feathers, and glared at him.

  The rest of the Flock staggered to their feet, groaning, as a grin broke out on Shaun’s face. At last! The space-time vortex had brought them home, and dear old Mossy Bottom Farm was exactly as they’d left it!

  Bitzer frowned and woofed. He pointed. Mossy Bottom Farm was exactly the same as they’d left it in the past. The tractor was shiny and polished, the vegetable patch freshly weeded, and the fields plowed in slightly wavy lines. With a clopping of hooves, a horse pulled the old-fashioned grocery cart advertising MOSSIDGE’S SAUSAGES down the lane. A small chick climbed on the gatepost, puffed its chest out, and cheeped.

  Shaun’s mouth fell open. They were stuck in the past!

  Then he remembered the voice he had heard from behind the farmhouse, and the pigs . . .

  The pigs.

  Shaun glanced toward the pigsty, where the pigs were leaning against one another, laughing and pointing at the Flock. One spat out its pacifier, clutching its sides laughing. The lace bonnet slipped askew on the head of another.

  Shaun blinked. Without their pacifiers, the pigs didn’t look much like babies at all. In fact, they looked just like pigs who had been wearing disguises.