Quiet Meadows

Hello. My name is Buttercup. And I am terrified.

I was born in the hills. I don’t remember much, except – a young girl. She was my best friend. I don’t think I have a mother: but, for a while, I had my Emmy.

My ears pricked as I heard small bare feet clatter down the stairs. I raised my head from the soft cushion of my bed and gazed at the open doorway of the living room. Here she comes! Bright blonde curls bounced on the small head and rosy cheeks glowed as she skipped into the room and straight over to me.

“Good morning, little Buttercup, dear,” she cried, falling down to her knees and throwing her arms around my neck. Her gentle hands rubbed my back and I sighed softly. My Emmy.

She planted a big kiss on my forehead and then bounced back up.

“Time for breakfast – warm milk, coming up!”

With that, she dashed out of the room. I smiled and yawned, rolling over onto my side to stretch my legs. I felt groggy but sunlight streamed in through the living room windows, and my milk was on its way. Emmy brought the milk to me every single morning, without fail. She would bring it in a soft white bottle and she would place me in her lap, wrap her arms around me, and feed me while she chatted. My Emmy was always happy.

I lay, stretched out, on my side, with the pale morning sunlight warming my stomach, waiting for Emmy to return. I listened to the dull, slow ticking of the large grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It was soothing and familiar and I felt my eyes start to close.

“Here you are, Buttercup,” Emmy padded over to me and scooped me into her arms in the soft, dark blue blanket. She sat down cross legged on the flagstone floor. “Are you comfortable, dear?”

I am comfortable.

Emmy leaned down and kissed my nose. I smiled up at her. She nudged the bottle down towards my waiting mouth. I was hungry. The milk was sweet, creamy, and wonderfully warm.

“I have something special for you today, Buttercup,” Emmy said. “I bought you a gift. Something just for you.”

Then Emmy told me all about the dreams she’d had last night: she’d dreamt of being a great owl flying over the rolling hills; and then she’d had a dream about finding the most delicious strawberries in a forest glade; and then she’d had a nightmare about being lost in a terrible labyrinth. Poor Emmy. That sounded scary.

My milk was done.

“Good girl, Buttercup,” Emmy smiled and put the bottle to the side. “You’re going to grow up to be so big and strong! Now – here is your gift.”

I watched as she reached behind her and picked something up. I heard a clink and caught a brief golden glint and then, a moment later, she held up a beautiful heart-shaped locket. She clicked it open and held it up in front of me. There were pictures inside. One was of me – the other was of her.

“It’s us, Buttercup,” she whispered.

Softly, Emmy closed the locket.

“This is for you,” she hung the locket around my neck. It dangled down between my legs – too big for me. “It’s yours forever.”

Our mornings were spent tramping around the yard, bothering the hens, chasing the cats, and I would watch Emmy anxiously as she climbed high into the gnarled fruit trees. Afternoons were spent playing with my favourite ball – of green and blue stripes – on the trimmed lawn and then, when we were both exhausted, lazing in my favourite spot. We lay side by side, cuddled beneath the shade of an old walnut tree, and we watched insects as they buzzed over the surface of the pond. It had grown quite wild here now. Sometimes, we saw dragonflies. Emmy loved those. My favourites were the little white butterflies.

Emmy often read stories to me out of books. I liked to see the colourful pictures in those – she liked stories of big adventures and lands with golden sands and palm trees. I didn’t know what palm trees were: but Emmy did and she was going to see them some day. And she would show me.

Our evenings were quiet. We would walk slowly back to the house over the fields, watching the skylarks dance and the first stars appear in the sky. But those things could not always keep my attention. For this was usually the time we would see the herd. They would also be on their way home. I would often hear them talking quietly amongst themselves as they walked. I didn’t know any of them but I would stop if I caught their gentle scent on an evening breeze.

My ears are filled with a terrible roaring noise and my nostrils are filled with the stench of fear.

One day, Emmy left. It was very early in the morning – far too early for milk: but I was hopeful. Actually, it was still dark. And Emmy wasn’t smiling. She held me very tight for a long time. There was a voice at the door and she stood slowly. She placed a kiss on my forehead, as she always did, and then left the room quietly. That was the last time I ever saw her.

The floor on which I stand rattles and makes my weak body ache. My head is filled with pain. Where is my dear Maybelle?

On that day, I was introduced to the herd. I was led into a large, echoing shed. Scores of eyes turned to look at me as I was led inside. It was cold in there – but it smelled familiar: it was the scent of the herd. I was released from my rope and given a brief pat on the flank. The doors of the shed closed behind me and we were plunged into shadow.

Very shy, I found a free space by the doors and curled up. I missed my bed in the house. Would Emmy still be here in the morning with my bottle and blanket?

She didn’t appear in the morning. Nor in the afternoon. Nor in the evening. My heart ached. Where had she gone? I hoped she was ok.

“Hello,” a shy voice piped up beside me one morning. I turned to look. It was another young member of the herd. She was a very pretty chestnut colour and had large, dark eyes.

“Hello,” I replied.

“I’m Maybelle,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Buttercup.”

“What is it you’re wearing around your neck?” Maybelle eyed my locket with curiosity.

“This is my locket. My friend Emmy gave it to me as a gift. There are pictures of us inside it.”

Maybelle adored it. “Emmy must be a great friend.”

We traipsed out into the fields together then. The morning was dull. Clouds hung heavy and low in the sky, barely leaving the tops of the rolling hills. I stopped and sniffed at the air. My ears flicked this way and that: I heard the clucking and scuffling of the hens not far off and I felt my heart sink.

Maybelle nudged me encouragingly.

Just then, a truck started up in the yard. We looked over. Members of another herd had been crammed inside and their eyes stared out, filled with terror. I caught the sound of their whimpering and heavy, panicked breathing. Their eyes begged for help with the most terrible hopelessness.

“Maybelle! What’s happening?” I galloped over to the fence and stared, eyes wide.

But it wasn’t Maybelle that replied.

“They don’t come back, little one,” said an older female as she passed me by. She trudged away without looking back. I stared. The truck rolled slowly out of the yard, trailed by a cacophony of screams for help.

That day, I lay by the fence. Maybelle stuck nearby. I watched the place where the truck had vanished and prayed, with every breath, that it would return – with all occupants safe. But it never did.

“Maybelle!” I cry. “Sweet Maybelle! Are you there?” And then, near the back of the roaring truck, close to the doors, I finally hear her voice.

I could only just see the top of our walnut tree from that spot by the fence. I often watched its leaves rustling. Maybelle didn’t understand why it was important to me – but she accepted it, and even listened to me speak of golden sands and palm trees.

Suddenly, a shriek pierced the sky. I sprang to my feet, all hairs standing on end. My heart hammered in my chest. The shriek shot through my body like a bolt of lightning and clutched my windpipe with a grip of steel.

“My baby!” I heard her howl. “Give me back my baby!”

The shrieks went on and on as the new mother called again and again for the return of her child. They had taken her baby – and that night Maybelle and I curled up together on the hard floor of the shed and pressed against each other to try to drown out her terrible, heartbroken cries. Her weeping went on for weeks.

It turned out this should have been a warning for us. It wasn’t long after we witnessed this terrible ordeal that we were taken, one at a time, to a horrible iron cage. I was forced in and the iron clamped down – hard – on my ribs and flanks and tightened around my neck. I couldn’t move. For the first time in my life, I screamed. I screamed for release, I begged: I kicked, fought, cried, and struggled with all my might… but my pain fell on deaf ears. And I could not save myself.

Weeks later – I had a baby growing inside me. My baby.

The truck has stopped – we are being allowed out. I’m shaking all over and those around me are crying; some screaming; others stare blankly. The stink of blood drifts into the truck. I retch.

Those months of pregnancy passed in a rose tinted haze. Maybelle and I spent hours chatting about our babies. I would call mine Emmy. Maybelle liked Dot. Together, we chased cats when they wandered into the fields, and laughed about it. We watched the sun set together and stars appear in the sky, and Maybelle walked with me to my favourite spot where I could watch the walnut leaves rustle.

I lay by Maybelle all day when she was sick and exhausted and she, in turn, by me.

Finally, my baby Emmy’s day came. I felt it start to happen. Soon, my baby would be with me.

I was taken from the herd – leaving my worried Maybelle behind – and, on the day my baby arrived, they took him, too. Yes, it was a boy. They dragged him away by his ankles and I screamed as I heard his small skull crack off the stone floor. I wasn’t even allowed the chance to nuzzle him, although I tried desperately to reach him.

They took my baby; they took my baby’s milk. Actually, they took all of my babies, and all of Maybelle’s babies. Eventually, I was so drowned in grief I could no longer fight for them. My joy left me but for my dear, sweet Maybelle. It was then that the truck arrived for us.

“Buttercup, I’m here, darling,” I hear Maybelle from up ahead. Those were the last words she ever spoke, and the last I ever heard. She went ahead of me. Into that dark barn.

It was the end of the work day. The barn lies still. The reek of raw flesh and blood sticks to everything. The cleaners hurry. One of them spots something glint in the muck. They stoop and pick it up. A heart-shaped locket lands in the garbage bag with a dull thud.