Consequences Unforeseen

Starry Midnight Is Ayrshire

STARRY MIDNIGHT IN AYRSHIRE

A Fox Comes Calling in Dalrymple, April 1956

It was a cold night in Hell…

The fox was confused. His eyes had not as yet become accustomed to the lights of the henhouse, so as usual in the first few minutes of entry, he was looking and seeing with his nose. He could not for the life of him figure out what was so damn confusing.

His good old experienced nose never lied, and here he was in the place he had come to love at least twice a week every week. The source of the fresh meat to take back to his bitch and brood was here for the taking. The stink confirmed it! So what was wrong?

His pupils dilated as normal, and then as his eyes and vision clarified, he had it! There were no hens in the place. “Ah” he thought “that’s it”, there was no noise, not even a cluck or shriek”. As this thought registered in his subconscious mind, the knife struck from below, up into his upper belly, dissecting his ribcage and slicing his heart in two.

Bill Douglas exploded from beneath the straw and muck of the floor, found his feet and ran half blinded with blood and shit in his eyes. He plunged belly first into the horse trough of cold water like he was possessed. Naked as a jaybird for the second time in those 24 hours, all he wanted to do was wash the incredible stench from his body, his hair and mostly from his nose!

When he surfaced, all the outer lights in the yard had been turned on and he was faced with the entire family standing there gawking at him. His Great Aunt Maggie, his Uncle Arthur and Aunt Jenny, his Grand Uncle John, but there looking straight at him and his nakedness was Janice, and she had a grin on her like nothing he wanted to see.

“Jesus” he yelped, “can ye no give a boy some peace? An as fur you, Janice, yer in for a slap the minute ah git ye on yer oan.”

The reality of the situation was that he was far from bothered by his nakedness, but the fact that they were all there to witness the aftermath of his success bothered him greatly.

“Uncle John, will ye no get them away back indoors. They’ll catch their deaths out here, and we’ve still tae deal with the fox lyin’ there in the ‘coop.”

His Uncle John let out a loud cackle and the rest soon followed with laughter, and they threw him the big tartan blanket from the basket they were carrying. For the second time that day, he was in heaven. He had killed the fox and saved the farm hundreds of chickens going forward.

One rabbit, one fox, both killed for different reasons, but deeper yet were the lessons taught and the lessons well learned.

Two kills in one day. He was glowing. The cold couldn’t touch him and he sprinted away from them all into the farm house, dressed in jeans and his favorite jersey and was back outside to finish the work in but a few moments

He grabbed his Uncle John by the hand and pulled him to the ‘coop door and said, “right then, let’s get this damn thing oota here and the chickens back in pronto eh?”

The boy dragged the fox outside by the hind legs and further down into the meadow below the farm yard. He took it a good 500 yards away from the main fence and turned yelling “this away far enough, uncle John?” knowing full well it was. The spot had been marked specifically as the perfect place to let the corpse rot and send its scent down into the valley and the bitch the message was intended for. No other foxes would come calling on this farm for a wee while anyway!

When the idea of killing the fox had first been raised,

Bill Douglas had been less than enthusiastic. His concern over two or even three dead chickens a week concerned him not one bit! He was more interested in fine tuning the marksman in him and the thought of using a knife struck him as barbaric, risky and downright daft.

A fox was a fox was a fox was a dog. Teeth, rabies, survival instinct and stealth.

When his Uncle began to explain exactly how he would accomplish this remarkable feat, he screwed his face up in disgust and said “yer jokin’, there’s nae way I’ll be doin’ that!”

Now, as big John came down and slit the fox further from sternum to groin the boy just smiled at the precision of not only this final act, but at the weeks of planning and preparation that had preceded this night of nights

“How will I git wi’in a hundred yards of the bloody thing?” he’d asked his Uncle John. “An then, its jist goanie staun there and let me stab it – right? Yer aff yer heid” and he was sure he was right. “An’ the damn chickens are goannie just sit there an’ watch it aw – aye right they wull”

But the big man had just smiled and had begun the short but arduous training required. The knife had already been learned and the boy’s handling of the well used commando dagger had become impeccable. As far as Bill Douglas was concerned, “If Zorro can do it then so can I” and he worked hard every day to keep the smile on Big Bad John’s craggy face.

The rest of it still brought an even bigger smile to John’s face every time he thought of the fist time he took the boy down into the glen by the burn and had him pick up fox shit in his wee hands. “Ye want me tae dae what? Ye want me tae pick up that shit wi ma hands? – yer jokin’ right?

He had not been joking at all, and after three weeks of doing just that – collecting the fox dung, they had a whole drum of the stuff up by the cow barn.

The walks had done their job too, giving the big man time to explain the process – for that was what it was – to the ever eager ears of the boy.

As was the way between them, the total trust and love was uppermost in everything they did, and the boy listened and absorbed every piece of the jigsaw puzzle involved. It had gone like this:

“Look laddie, the way we’re going to git this beast is by confusing his subconscious and then surprising his eyes.” Big John raised a hand to stop the inevitable question “whit’s sub, subcons, subconscious?”

Now ye were right, he’s no goannie jist wait fur ye to stab him, if yur standin’ there lookin at him, so yer goannie be doon under the groon’ in the coop, covered in fox shit and chicken shit as weil! On top o’that will be the normal muck that’s inside the coop.

There are easier ways to kill the fox, but none will be as much fun an’ teach so much as this will!

So this furst bit is all about confusing the bit in his heid that thinks but he disnae know that its thinking – that’s the subconscious - and now fur the best bit. Once he gets used tae the idea that everything is normal, we’ll gie him something to stan’ still and think aboot”

“Whit dae ye say tae that ma wee man?”

Bill Douglas had looked at him with a cheeky wee grin and said – “Ah jist knew it – yer as daft as a brush,” but big John just smiled back, gave him a bear hug and said “the best bit is -

there’ll no be any chickens in the bloody coop!

Ah wish ah could be ther tae see the look on its bloody face when it notices that, but if ye’ve done whit yer supposed tae dae there will be nae look on its face ‘cause it’ll be DEAD!”

With that John had slapped him on the back and the lesson was over for this particular day. It would be repeated every day for several days and weeks. Not that the boy was slow at all. It was just the need for no conscious thought to enter the equation.

After the celebration breakfast for the dead rabbit, John had given the boy the morning off, but immediately after lunch he had taken him to the ‘coop, helped him dig the pit in the floor where he’d hide for an hour or more before midnight and for as long as it took for the fox to appear.

Naked, and coated as he had been for a couple of hours. in the heady mix of fox and chicken excrement, Big John had looked down at the boy before covering him in the final straw and softened at the last minute, and gave him two tightly rolled wads of toilet tissue to stick up his nostrils.

“Always the considerate one, ma Uncle John” thought the wee fella. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

No more than two hours later the mission had been a complete success. The lessons deep routed and never to be forgotten