Terin is a cow. A fine cow. Henry Shorthorn's favourite cow. It would be a terrible thing if something were to happen to such a fine and favourite cow.
The first time Henry Shorthorn held baby Terin, he knew they were going to be best of friends. As she moo’d and stumbled around his brand new stable, Henry felt sure his future was bright.
His farm was new. The land was cheap. The cows, would you believe it, had been wild! The unfortunate circumstance that caused all these events is not important to Henry, and thus not important to the reader. All anyone need concern themselves with is that Henry Shorthorn is now the proud owner of a plot of land on the outskirts of a birch forest, two beautiful cows, a proud bull, and calf Terin.
Life couldn’t be better.
Until it wasn’t.
It was a day like any other. The boy that collects the milk for the local village had been and gone, and Henry was settling as he always did at midday on a rock near the stream. Grazing in the grass nearby, now considerably older, was Terin. Despite his many years occupying the land of his now vast farm, Henry had truly never given thought to what lived here before. Or, rather, what died here. If he had, he would have perhaps anticipated the eventual return of the wolves that once ruled this land. He would not have allowed Terin to stray so far from sight.
But he did.
The cry was dreadful, and the sight too troubling for young eyes. But suffice it to say that when Henry did reclaim Terin from the beasts and return her home, Mrs Shorthorn began immediately making arrangements for a great funeral.
No, Terin had not passed on, but such a state she was in, what else was Mrs Shorthorn to think? After some careful cleaning and stitching things seemed far less scary. Terin was not out of the woods, but she was in an appropriate state to resume picturing her.
When the milk boy came the next morning, he found not a single bottle ready to be delivered. Instead, he found a sad but sweet sight; Mr Henry Shorthorn snoozing fretfully in the pen with his prized cow who looked rather worse for wear. Upon waking the farmer, whose job it was to supply the town with its milk, the boy was sent away with scorn.
Terin’s wounds had, gracefully, healed nicely in the night. Yet no other cow would go near her, and she showed no sign of rising to meet her sisters, either.
Fear gripped Henry once more. Perhaps the wounds were deeper than originally expected? Or worse, had the wolves somehow got to her spirit?
It is perhaps worth mentioning that, despite the fortuitous and seemingly random choice by Henry Shorthorn to buy this land and get into cattle farming, his path had been laid for him since he was a boy.
You see, as a boy, Henry had lived in the aforementioned town nearby. He was nothing special in his youth, and he knew it. But what he was, was curious. He’d heard tell of an abandoned Celtic village not far from his own, said to be haunted by the ghosts of a terrible battle. Well, hauntings don’t scare those with nothing to lose, so off young Henry went, and among the muddy wreckage he found a chest. Inside that chest was a book, and inside that book was something that set Henry apart from his peers for the rest of his days.
Information.
At first, he kept the information to himself. Not because he was a cruel boy, but because he couldn’t read. Many couldn’t in those days. Luckily, the books he found in the chest were also full of pictures and slowly, over many years, he decoded the information. Medicine, cures, poultices, a treasure trove of survival techniques. But, alas, the information didn’t interest him in the slightest. He did once use the knowledge to help the village crone with her tooth ache, but that only got her burned for witchcraft. So, away the book went, forgotten.
Until now.
Quick as a flash, out the book came. There must be something in here! Luckily, there were whole chapters on cattle! Unluckily, they were all regarding butchery and culinary arts. Nothing for bovine betterment. But Henry wouldn’t give up.
Again, the next day, the milk boy was turned away. Then the next, and the next. By the weeks end, Henry looked quite dishevelled and dirty. He had not looked up from his books but to scorn the milk boy. When the time came for the milk boy to arrive, he prepared his latest rebuke, but the boy was not there. Good.
Poor Terin was not faring well at all. Though she had risen to her hooves once or twice, she remained a leper among the other cows, and barely ventured more than a few paces before lying back down.
Mrs Shorthorn was growing quite concerned by this point. With no milk going out, no money was coming in, and the pantry was growing more sparce by the day. Each day she had begged the milk boy to return on the morrow, but now he had given up.
What was it with this cow? What made Terin so special? Well, she was Terin, and that is all that matters at present.
Mrs Shorthorn was a capable woman, and kind to a fault. After a week of witnessing her husband suffering, she resolved to do something. The reader will do well to remember that Mrs Shorthorn is kind, and thus ending the suffering of Terin did not once cross her mind. No, instead she opted to consult the medical experts in the nearby town. It had been quite some time since the couple moved out to the abandoned cattle yard, and Mrs Shorthorn was mesmerised by the progress the village was making. It now closer resembled a town. It even had a market!
After a long day of consulting and perusing, Mrs Shorthorn returned with everything she needed. Nobody asked a penny of her, as they did not exist yet, but also because she promised them fresh milk on the morrow, the only thing the fledgling town lacked.
Upon her return, Henry barely acknowledged her arrival. Terin had worsened. She now lay in a heap of hay, eyes closed. If she were to perish in this moment, she would look quite tranquil.
Mrs Shorthorn, whose first name had been lost in the marriage that cost her the maiden name of her own family, set to work. As she applied poultices and bound hooves, Terin made every attempt to cry in pain. Henry, who had been able to keep both his names in the marriage, urged his wife to stop. But she could not. Would not.
As night fell, Terin looked a frightful state, and Henry Shorthorn looked as pale as the moon. But the work was done.
Henry did not sleep in bed with Mrs Shorthorn that night, though she warned him against another cold night in the barn. He instead slept in the window of their house, trying to watch his beloved cow through the window before sleep inevitably took him.
When morning came, panic struck Mr and Mrs Shorthorn. Never mind Terin, there were no cows at all out the window.
Both rushed outside, desperate to see just one of their cows on the horizon, but none were to be seen. It seems Terin’s recovery was their final hope.
Nervous, terrified, and anxious, the couple approached the barn.
Pulling the door back, out trotted a cow. And another. And another. All the cows had been in the barn, which meant one of two things. Either Terin had made a full recovery, or she had perished.
As the cows trotted out, Henry’s anxieties grew. But then, as the last cow bowed out of the barn, there she stood. Stood! Henry’s whoops and hollers could be heard for miles around. In fact, the milk boy, upon hearing this commotion, took it to be his cue to start the long walk to the farm.
Of course, the promised milk! With the cows scattered to all corners of the field, they would never hit their quota for the day. But they must try.
When the milk boy arrived, he found a lot of very tired cows and two rather ragged cattle farmers, looking very proud, with four buckets of milk.
Unfortunately, Terin would not last the next perilous winter, and her death would rock the kindly farmer and his wife to their core. But that is a story for another day. For today, they are safe in knowing that, for now, they may live happily ever after.
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