The Golden Goose Page 3

  “Ever seen one like this before?” said Farmer Skint.

  Sir David Otterbury had, in his time, met many different sorts of geese. Aside from ordinary farmyard geese, he had seen barnacle geese, and Canada geese, and white-fronted, and pink-footed, and lots more. But never had he set eyes on such a goose as this.

  “Did I understand you to say, Mr. Skint,” he said, “that you had bred this bird?”

  “Yes, sir. From Sorrow and Misery out there in the orchard. Sorrow hatched four normal goslings and this one. Give her a stroke, Sir David. She likes that.”

  The naturalist bent down and ran the palm of his hand gently over the feathers of the golden

  goose, and as he did so, he began to smile broadly.

  “It's a funny thing, Mr. Skint,” he said, “but touching this extraordinary bird of yours has made me feel on top of the world! Do you feel she has that effect on you?”

  “I do, sir. We all do.”

  “What is she called?”

  “Joy.”

  “That,” said Sir David, “is exactly what I feel.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the weeks that followed, life went on very pleasantly at Woebegone Farm. Farmer Skint's new dairy cattle milked well, his sows gave birth to large litters of piglets, and his hens produced masses of eggs.

  However, life at Galapagos House was less serene. Not that Sir David Otterbury was unhappy—how could he be when he had touched the golden goose?—but he was in a worried state of mind. It was very hard to know that this wonderful and unique bird was within a few miles of him and not to be able to tell the world about it. But he couldn't say a word—he had promised Farmer Skint that he would not.

  Now that he had seen Joy, he began to feel sure that somewhere, in some book or other, at some time or other, he had once read something about a golden goose. It was an old story, he was sure, that he had come across. He searched through the dozens of bird books in the library of Galapagos House but could find nothing.

  Then one night he had a strange dream, and when he woke up he remembered two strange words from this dream.

  Sir David realized, first, that these two words were in Latin and, second, that what they meant in English was GOOSE OF A GOLDEN COLOR.

  The Romans! he thought excitedly. That was it, that was what I came across once! The Romans had something to do with a golden goose. And he bolted his breakfast and jumped in his car and raced off to the nearest large public library.

  After a great deal of searching through books on Roman stories and legends, he found what he had been looking for.

  The Legend of the Golden Goose

  D uring the reign of the Emperor Nero (AD 37–68) there began a belief that one day there would be hatched, from a golden egg, a golden gosling that would grow into a golden goose. This bird would be possessed of magical powers, which would bring happiness, contentment, and good fortune to anyone who touched it. As it grew older, however, the bird, though keeping its magic gifts, would gradually lose its distinctive color. Eventually it would look exactly like an ordinary farmyard goose. At no time during the period of the Roman Empire (27 BC–AD 476) was there ever any report of such a bird, and therefore the legend of the golden goose was gradually forgotten.

  “But not by me!” said Sir David to himself. “Those old Romans were right—Joy does have magic powers, I'm sure. But what if they were also right about her losing her color? Somehow I must try to persuade Farmer Skint to release me from my promise, to allow me to show his wonderful bird on television before she becomes as ordinary to look at as Misery and Sorrow. What if she's already begun to change color?”

  Hastily he jumped in his car again and whizzed off to Woebegone Farm. He found the farmer mucking out his cow-shed.

  “Good morning, Mr. Skint,” he said.

  “John's the name, Sir David,” replied Farmer Skint.

  “Right,” said the great naturalist. “John it is, and you can drop the ‘Sir.' I get enough of that. Now then, tell me, how is Joy?”

  “She's fine, sir,” said Farmer Skint.

  Sir David Otterbury held up a finger. “Now, now,” he said, “what was I just saying?”

  “Oh, sorry, er, David,” said the farmer. “She's fine.”

  “Still that glorious golden color all over, eh?”

  “Oh yes. Though there is one funny thing I noticed. Only this morning I saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  “Well,” said John Skint, “I told you, didn't I, that Joy is house-trained? She does her business in a litter tray, like a cat would. But I don't think I told you that her droppings are always gold-colored too. And this morning they weren't. They were just dirty-white, like her mum's and her dad's.”

  Oh, misery and sorrow! thought Sir David. It's started!

  Chapter Eight

  It's now or never, said Sir David to himself, and to Farmer Skint he said, “John, my friend, will you do me a great favor?”

  “Of course, sir—I mean, of course, David,” replied the farmer. “What is it?”

  “Will you release me from my promise to you to say nothing about Joy? Will you allow me to tell two other people—two people I have worked with for many years and would trust to keep the secret of your golden goose?”

  “Who are these two people?” John Skint asked.

  “One is a cameraman, the other a sound recordist. If you will allow me, I will arrange for them to come here, to Woebegone Farm, and film Joy as soon as possible.”

  “For the television?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that's the last thing I want,” said Farmer Skint. “Why, if you showed her on the television, I'd have the whole world knocking on my door. We'd never have any peace—and what's more, there'd be lots of people wanting to see her, touch her, steal her even. No, no, David, you can't do that to me, not after you promised.”

  “Hang on a minute, John,” said Sir David Otterbury. “There's something you don't know about. Hear me out while I make you another promise, which is—I will not show any film of your golden goose as long as she is still golden.”

  “Whatever do you mean? She always will be.”

  “She may not,” said Sir David, and he told the farmer about the Roman legend.

  “She may change, you see,” he said. “Today her droppings are no longer gold. Tomorrow—next week, next month, who knows—it may be her feet or her beak or her eyes that lose their color, and then her feathers, until she is a golden goose no longer. But, John, if only you will allow me to film her now, then we will have a record of her for all time. I promise not to show the film on television till she's lost all her color.”

  “And if she doesn't?”

  “Then I won't show it at all. I'll keep it as a private record of her, just for your family and for me.”

  Suppose those old Romans were right? Farmer Skint thought. Suppose that before long Joy will be golden no more? It would be dreadful not to have a picture of his beautiful golden goose.

  “All right, David,” he said at last. “You go ahead. I trust you.”

  “Thank you, John,” said Sir David Otterbury. “And just remember that if a film of Joy is ever shown on television, they'll pay a great deal of money for it and I'll make sure a large part of it comes to you.”

  Sir David worked fast. Two days later he was out in the orchard at Woebegone Farm with his cameraman and sound recordist, giving a commentary as Joy walked down to the pond between her proud white parents, and the three of them swam together in the morning sunshine.

  “Never,” he said, “has such a bird as this been seen before. Golden from top to toe—feathers, eyes, beak, feet—this goose is a creature hitherto unknown to science, and is certainly the most amazing discovery of my life as a naturalist. The only reference to it was made by the ancient Romans nearly two thousand years ago,

  some of whom believed in the magic powers of the bird they called ‘Anser Aureus,' the Golden Goose. To touch it, they said, was to experience instant hap
piness.”

  No sooner had he finished speaking into the microphone than Joy left Misery and Sorrow floating on the sunlit water. She walked up out of the pond and waddled straight toward the camera and stopped and stood, waiting. And Sir David Otterbury stepped into the shot and bent and stroked her golden back.

  Then he straightened up and turned to the camera, his face wreathed in smiles.

  “The Romans were right!” he said.

  Chapter Nine

  As they drove away from Woebegone Farm, the cameraman said to the sound recordist, “What a bird, eh?”

  “Never seen anything like it,” replied the other, “and nor has the old Otter either. Never seen him so pleased. I mean, when we were filming those mountain gorillas, years ago, remember? And they were crawling all over him and he was looking as though he loved it? But today he looked even happier.”

  “Yes,” agreed the cameraman. “I got some lovely shots.”

  “And I got some good wild track too,” said the sound recordist. “Cows mooing,birds singing, and those two old white geese honking away—to show how proud they were of their daughter, I suppose.”

  “Someone's going to pay a great deal of money to show this little bit of film we've just made.”

  “Pity it has to be a secret,” said the sound recordist, “but when the old Otter tells me to keep mum, I keep mum.”

  Sir David Otterbury, meanwhile, had gone back to Galapagos House. Before he left, he said to Farmer Skint, “Now, John, as soon as that bit of film is processed and edited, you must all come over to my place and see it.”

  “See it? On the television, you mean? But you promised you wouldn't show it while she's still golden!”

  “No, not on the television. I've got my own little projection room at Galapagos House—a kind of mini-cinema. I'll show you the film there when it's ready. Now please will you promise me something, John, before I go?”

  “What?”

  “Promise to let me know when there's any further loss of color from your wonderful golden goose.”

  “You think there's bound to be, do you, David?”

  “I've a nasty feeling that those old Romans were right. But try not to worry too much, John. They also said that such a bird would still retain its magic gifts.”

  A week later the phone rang in Galapagos House.

  “Hullo, David Otterbury here.”

  “It's John Skint.”

  “John, what news?”

  “The Romans were right. The color has nearly gone from her webs and her beak and her eyes.”

  “What about her plumage?”

  “Not as bright as it was.”

  “Thank goodness I persuaded him to let me make that film!” said Sir David to himself as he put the phone down. “Looks like we were only just in time.”

  A couple of weeks later two things happened: the film of Joy, the golden goose, arrived at Galapagos House, and at Woebegone Farm Joy was golden no longer.

  Sir David came over the next day and they all went out into the orchard together, he and John Skint and Janet Skint and Jill Skint and Jack Skint (who was toddling by now). They stood looking at not two but three ordinary white geese.

  “Which is Joy?” asked Jill.

  “Joy gone?” asked Jack.

  “No,” said Farmer Skint. “She hasn't gone. She's just changed color, that's all. She's still our lucky magic goose.” And he called, “Come, Joy!” and one of the three white geese waddled forward and stood before them, and each of them in turn stroked the feathers of her back, feathers that had been brilliant gold and were now dull white.

  But all of them, from the oldest to the youngest, felt a thrill of happiness and contentment as they stroked, and little Jack summed the whole thing up.

  “Joy not gone!” he said happily.

  That afternoon the Skints all went over to Galapagos House to see the film. The voice-over, the camera work, the sound were all perfect, and no one in the world, seeing the shots of Joy, would ever be able to doubt that there was such a bird as a golden goose.

  After tea—with hot buttered crumpets for John and Janet and chocolate-chip ice cream for Jill and Jack—Sir David Otterbury said to Farmer Skint, “Now then, John, what are we going to do? Are we going to keep this film to ourselves, or are we going to show the golden goose to the world?”

  John Skint turned to his wife. “What do you think, Janet?”

  “I think,” said Janet Skint, “that Sir David would be very disappointed if he couldn't show the film on television. And it would be lovely for other people and their children to see our Joy as she used to be. After all, no one can bother us about it—we haven't got a golden goose anymore. But just think how interested thousands of other people would be to see her.”

  “Millions,” said Sir David. “And as I told your husband, Mrs. Skint, the television companies will fight tooth and nail for the rights to screen this film. They will pay a great deal of money for it, I've no doubt, and I will pay John a very fair share of it.”

  That goose, thought Janet Skint—she always earns us money, one way or another.

  “I'm happy about it, John,” she said to her husband, “if you are.”

  “I am,” said John Skint.

  “And so am I,” said Jill Skint.

  As for Jack Skint, it was all a bit confusing for him, but he was very happy because of what he'd just seen.

  “Joy gold again!” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  When that film of the golden goose was shown on television—not just British television but all over the world—it created an enormous sensation. Sir David Otterbury received a huge amount of praise (and indeed a huge amount of money, a very fair share of which went, as had been promised, into Farmer Skint's pockets).

  The cameraman and the sound recordist did very nicely out of it too.

  “Let's just hope,” one said to the other, “that the Skints won't have to put up with masses of people coming to Woebegone Farm to have a look at the bird.”

  But he needn't have worried. True, there were newspaper reporters who snooped around a number of farms near Galapagos House, but though Farmer Skint did, they could see, have geese, they were very ordinary ones.

  One person who saw the film on TV and was puzzled was the postman.

  “Funny, you know,” he said to his wife, “but about a year ago, at Woebegone Farm, the farmer's little daughter told me they had a golden goose and I mentioned it to Sir David Otterbury and I could swear that orchard in the film was Farmer Skint's orchard. But I was there delivering mail only yesterday and his geese are ordinary white ones. I tell you what I've just realized—the whole thing was a con! They painted one of those geese with gold paint! What a spoof! I'd never have believed Otterbury was so deceitful!”

  For Farmer Skint, who had once been a poor unfortunate man, things were going swimmingly.

  True, when he cleaned out Joy's litter tray, he still nurtured a dim hope that perhaps her droppings would turn gold again, but they never did, and in time the Skints decided that, though Joy would always be welcome in the farmhouse, it was now time that she had a home of her own and, what's more, a husband.

  So with some of the money he'd got from the film, John Skint bought a brand-new wooden shed. Joy obviously thought it was beautiful, but Misery and Sorrow were too old for change and preferred their original hut.

  He then bought a handsome young gander (whom Joy also thought beautiful), a jolly sort of fellow they named Merriment. Misery was none too keen on having another gander about the place, but Merriment was polite to him and kept out of his way, and the young couple slept happily in the new shed.

  One morning the following spring, Farmer Skint finished the milking and then, before feeding his pigs and his chickens and going for his own breakfast, he went out into the orchard and opened the door of the old hut to let out Misery and Sorrow. Then he went to the new shed to let out Joy and Merriment. Then something made him look inside it.

  After he'
d had his breakfast (bacon and eggs, a good lining to the stomach), he said to his wife, “Guess what, Janet.”

  “What?”

  “Joy has laid her first egg.”

  “Oh, that's wonderful!” she cried.

  “It is indeed wonderful,” said Farmer Skint. “Guess what, Janet.”

  “What?”

  “It's a golden egg.”

  DICK KING-SMITH was born in 1922 in Gloucestershire, England. After years of farming and teaching, he turned to writing children's books. He is the beloved author of countless critically acclaimed novels for children, including Babe: The Gallant Pig, Ace: The Very Important Pig, A Mouse Called Wolf, Titus Rules!, and Funny Frank.

  Mr. King-Smith lives in a small seventeenth-century cottage near Bristol, England, three and a quarter miles from the house in which he was born. His stories have earned him praise on both sides of the Atlantic.

  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Text copyright © 2003 by Fox Busters Ltd.

  Illustrations copyright © 2003 by Ann Kronheimer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers.