The Contest

Even to the curious eye, there was nothing overly remarkable about Old Hampfordshire. Sprawling with shanties, cottages, homesteads, brambles, moors, earthen roads, and the occasional gravel road, one would not be amiss in deducing that it bore a great likeness to its six neighbouring villages. The residents strongly disagreed.

Mr. Potter’s garden has just sprouted the most beautiful orchids anyone had seen in years (he would surely be crowned Mr. Green Thumb for the seventh year in a row); gangly Riley Smith’s cow had birthed a promising calf the past winter; old Ms. McDonald was having such good luck with her hens and crops that she was looking at early retirement.

They had much to celebrate and celebrate they did, religiously, at their annual summer fête!

It was the grandest party in the region. Undoubtedly.

Each one of the town's three hundred and twenty-eight inhabitants swore by it.

So grand, in fact, was the fête, that they believed it to be the reason behind their newfound fortune. At least, that was the story they stuck by. It was a well-known secret that the recent addition of a certain contest had turned their luck and made them the go-to address for the county’s biggest festivities.

The contest was their pièce de résistance.

The competition had been fierce since its introduction a few years prior. This year’s category was–pets, second only to the most popular category–children.

They had drawn the ‘children’ card three years in a row, so this year would prove to be a good change of pace. The winning trophy had gone to either the Delacourt or Hampshire kids, a decidedly unfair advantage since both Mrs. Delacourt and Mrs. Hampshire had procreating abilities that rivalled those of old Ms. McDonald’s hens.

Of the twelve contestants this year, Riley Smith’s new calf, Martin Delacourt’s mouse, Henry Hampshire’s potentially Persian feline, that his father had graciously bestowed upon him after a work trip he had taken a few towns over (which had blatantly split the town into supporters and adversaries), little Artie Wilson’s piglet, and Cathy Byrnes’ unkempt rat were the favourites to win.

A visiting veterinarian had set up shop in the winter, and then graciously promised to stay on until the end of the contest. It was further proof of the village’s good luck. The contest was known to take a toll on its participants, so any external help was deeply appreciated.

The vet, Mr. Moulin, was visiting from France and his arrival had blessed the village with the greatest prestige and honour they had known in recent years. They were greatly surprised by his unexpected arrival in the winter, for more than one reason. A foreigner had not been spotted in these parts since Mr. Delacourt’s great-grandfather had been a wee lad, and they had never encountered an animal doctor before.

But Mr. Moulin had chosen Old Hampfordshire, and so Old Hampfordshire had chosen him. After a few days of suspiciously probing about his business and personal space, they had welcomed him with open arms!

Mr. Moulin was a rather fascinating creature. He rose before the sun and always used the same route on his walks around the curious hamlet. He gave good business to the citizens, for he had a great appetite for their fares. Come to think of it, he had a great appetite for all things Old Hampfordshire. And they had an appetite for him.

The vendors loved him; the younger women gushed and blushed something fierce when he was near, and the older women gushed and blushed even more furiously; children flocked by him when he was on his daily walks; the men grunted approvingly at his antics and attempted to emulate them. Old Mr. Smith was overheard telling some people at the local pub that there was a striking resemblance between Mr. Moulin and his younger self. Alas, he had no photographic evidence or undead peers to confirm the fact.

Of all of Mr. Moulin’s many incredible qualities, the most enthralling was his expertise in animals of all shapes, sizes, and species. He treated and dressed their wounds, gave great tips for general animal healthcare, prescribed medicines (who had ever heard of such a thing!), supplied the medicines he prescribed, and helped put down some old, suffering canines peacefully. He had also helped birth gangly Riley Smith’s promising young calf, only days after his arrival.

Yes, he was simply marvellous!

And none of that witchcraft-voodoo balderdash that the unsuspecting people of Patt’s Bottom, one village over, had fallen prey to at the hands of a devious pretender many moons ago.

No, Mr. Moulin was truly marvellous!

The village folk were now counting down mere months until the grand fête day and they could speak of nothing else. The preparations had begun in small measures and they were desperately waiting to go in full swing.

Mr. Potter had started spending not only his days but also his nights in the garden, Mrs. Brown had deployed her children to take rotational shifts in the shop and the farm, the frequency of Mr. Hampshire’s out-of-town trips had increased at an alarming rate, and the others were being just as industrious in their own fashion. But none worked as hard as the owners of the contest participants, particularly Martin Delacourt.

Tiny Martin Delacourt, who looked so very much like his pet white mouse, Harriet, had laid out a strict diet and exercise plan to help keep the little creature both mentally and physically fit for any challenge that she might be presented within the contest.

Harriet’s days began with a power walk around the village. Early birds were known to have spotted the precious rodent scampering about the odd hamlet at even odder hours with a black makeshift leash around her neck, escorted by her proud ten-year-old owner. She was then offered a hearty breakfast of the choicest grains, fruits, and seeds. A power nap was followed by the completion of a most fascinating obstacle course, designed by tiny Martin himself; Mr. Delacourt had beamed with pride and joy when he was presented with the first blueprint. This continued throughout the day, till either Martin or Harriet had grown too weary to carry on.

At the other corner of the metaphorical ring was Prince, Henry Hampshire’s potentially Persian cat, who also bore a remarkable resemblance to his pudgy, pugnacious owner of eleven. And much like Henry, Prince also spent his days lounging around the house, followed by languid strolls around the garden, frequent meals of tuna, chicken, and turkey, and long nights of sitting perched on the windowsill while gazing lazily at the mysteries of the dark hours. Mr. Hampshire invariably rewarded each of them with gifts he had procured on his trips.

As the days proceeded, the villagers noted a direct correlation between how hard Harriet the mouse toiled and how lazy Prince the cat got. The same could be said for their owners; the harder Martin worked, the lazier Henry became. When asked about their preparation methods, each believed that they had found the right one.

Only a month before the fated fête and tragedy struck the Delacourt household! Harriet, the mouse had taken ill and was in need of immediate resurrection. She had collapsed on one of her morning walks, close to Mr. Moulin’s clinic (by God’s grace!) and was immediately rushed to the emergency room, thanks to her keeper’s presence of mind.

Tiny Martin was in deep shock and sat stunned in place while the vet attempted to revive his precious rodent.

Henry Hampshire and his cat were spotted walking by the clinic on more than one occasion, looking rather smug.

After three terribly unbearable hours, Mr. Moulin came out of the operating room, looking quite sombre. He cleared his throat and as tiny Martin’s lips began to tremble with unshed tears, the vet’s handsome face cracked into a smile as he declared, “Long live petite Harriet!” and brought forth a sleepy, placid-looking Harriet, cocooned in the palm of his hands. Tiny Martin jumped with unconcealed joy and cradled his little champion.

Mr. Moulin had worked his magic once again!

A few days of rest were granted to the petite Harriet (as she was now called affectionately), and in no time she was spotted scurrying about with tiny Martin in the early morning hours with renewed fervour. Mr. Moulin had guaranteed her swift recovery, and so the matter was closed.

But over the course of the next month, Harriet had started displaying unsportsmanlike behaviour. She wouldn’t eat her meals, run the obstacle course, or go to bed on time. Whenever she started showing signs of fatigue, tiny Martin would hop, skip, and jump over to Mr. Moulin for the special tonic that would help revive her to full strength over the next few days.

Some villagers had already started discussing the unfair advantage Harriet was gaining over other participants with the help of these magical performance-enhancing drugs.

But tales of ‘petite Harriet the revenant’ had spread to neighbouring villages and she was now being hailed as a local hero. So, the good folk of Old Hampfordshire had embraced her as one of their own, flaws and all.

The day of the fête had arrived.

The village had transformed into a spectacle of colours, sights, smells, with all the villagers ready to show off their skills, crops, and legacy to their visitors. There were stalls with food, drinks, clothes, ornaments, cosmetics, sweetmeats; parades; cart races; a fortune-teller who looked rather like old Ms. McDonald, and much, much more.

Finally, it was time for the contest.

All contestants were called forth, accompanied by their owners. Two elaborate and similar-looking obstacle courses were set up with various challenges, one for the small animals and the other for the larger ones.

A deafening round of applause was sounded as Harriet was called upon as the first contestant. She was carried to the starting line by tiny Martin Delacourt.

Prince, the potentially Persian cat, was next and came forth cradled in the arms of Henry Hampshire. He was followed by Riley’s promising cow, little Artie Wilson’s piglet, and Cathy Byrnes’ unkempt rat, and seven other contenders who rounded off the line up of twelve.

The Delacourts and Hampshires could already be heard heckling at one other with increasing tempo.

Mr. Winkle, the contest administrator, waddled over to the microphone and repeated the rules with more flair than usual, owing to the presence of some guests from the villages over. Electrified silence filled the arena for a tense moment and then the crowd was buzzing with anticipation.

It was showtime!

Tiny Martin placed ‘Harriet the revenant’ gently on the ground before him and then a horn sounded for her to begin. No sooner had she taken the first few steps toward the beginning of the obstacle course than Prince the cat leapt from Henry Hampshire’s arms and landed straight on the petite mouse.

In the blink of an eye, Harriet was gone. Some scattered screams sounded across the arena and then a deafening silence fell upon the crowd. Tiny Martin and pudgy Henry stared after the cat in varying degrees of shock. As Prince lifted his head, all that could be seen was the tail end of the legendary Harriet.

Chaos erupted.

There were cries and roars, shouts and screams. A champion had fallen before the very eyes of the people who adored her. In the heat of the moment, a suggestion was made to hang both the cat and its keeper.

Prince and Henry were whisked away to safety in a matter of seconds by a very flustered Mr. Hampshire. They ran for their lives to the safety of Mr. Moulin’s clinic. It was open, thank God, as it usually was at this hour.

They could hear the crowd fast approaching, so they hid in the operating room which had repeatedly and miraculously saved the life of the fallen mouse. Mr. Hampshire hurriedly locked the door and started calling out for the only man who could save them–Mr. Moulin. As he rounded the operating table, he couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing.

A series of small cages stacked above each other lined the wall, and each held identical white mice that looked astonishingly like the beloved, petite Harriet.

Mr. Moulin had worked his magic once again.