THE PLOUGHMAN

Phil Josephs was ploughing up a potato field in the back paddock of his vegetable farm outside Daley in the Glen Hartwell to Willamby region of the Victorian countryside.

His plough was pulled by his mule, Victor named after the state of Victoria. Not because he thought Australians were victorious at anything. Although the defeat of Maddog Albanese's recent 'V for Slavery' referendum, when Albanese had tried to disenfranchise 96.6% of Australians, effectively turning them into slaves, was a victory for democracy.

"Damn Albanese's a fucking idiot," said Phil, taking to himself again. When his wife, Tyne, called him on it, he used to say, "Talking to myself's the only way to get any intelligent conversation around here." Then one day she hit him on the head with a skillet, and he never said it again in her hearing.

"Damned uppity woman," he said, remembering back to when she had done it.

He continued plough with Victor's help, when, to his amazement, he saw the Ploughman being led along by a great three-metre-tall Clydesdale. Ploughing up Phil's potato grove.

Don't mind him doing free work for me, thought Phil going over to investigate: But if he expects me to pay for it, he's got another thing coming.

"Hey, you," called Phil: "You know this is my land you're on." If Tyne had been there, he would have said 'our land' afraid of getting El Kabonged again. She watches far too many classic cartoons that woman! he thought, wishing that he had the courage to tell her not to watch them.

"Yes, I know that, I'm just lending a hand," said the Ploughman.

"Well if you expect to get paid for it, you're outta luck. My wife don't speak for me," he said, looking round to make certain that Tyne wasn't within hearing range: "So don't expect no payment."

"No payment is all I do expect," said the Ploughman.

"So whatcha digging?" asked Phil, astonished to see how deep the Ploughman had dug the furrows. "That's far too deep for spuds." He used to say tatters, but Tyne had insisted 'potatoes' so many times that they had finally hit a compromise, allowing him to say spuds.

"A grave," said the Ploughman: "That's all I ever dig."

"A what?" asked Phil, thinking he must have misheard. His ears did have to be syringed out twice a year due to over waxing making him almost deaf.

"A grave. I've been digging them for thousands of years in one country or another; one continent or another. Except the Antarctic, nothing much there worth burying."

"That so?" said Phil. He decided that the man was insane and he needed to avoid angering him: "So who's this particular grave for?"

"Why, you, of course, it cuts down on my workload, if I don't have to carry the corpses far."

Before Phil could react, the Ploughman pulled the reins of the Clydesdale so that it took a hard left and trampled Phil before he could react. Then in case he had somehow survived the great weight of the demon horse, he ploughed up the man's whole body to be certain that he was dead.

"The last thing that I want to do is bury him alive," he said to Warlord, his Clydesdale: "That would be inhumane."

So saying, he hefted the corpse into the grave, then filled it in on top of him.

"We must be respectful of the newly dead," said the Ploughman to Warlord as he piled the dirt in on top of Phil Josephs.

Warlord whinnied, alerting the Ploughman that they had company.

Walking across the field toward them was a tall, attractive, shapely fifty-something woman with long flowing auburn hair.

"Who are you?" asked Tyne Joseph as she got close.

"They call me the Ploughman. I'm here for your husband."

"Well, I hope you don't expect him to pay you anything. That cheap bugger wouldn't pay after having sex in the Free Love Sex Lounge. He's so cheap I've seen him put fifty cents into the tithe bag at church and try to take out ten dollars change, having to slap his hand to stop him."

"Really," asked the Ploughman, sizing Tyne Josephs up as his second burial.

"Yes. The only reason he became a farmer is so that he wouldn't have to pay for food at the green grocers," said Tyne. Looking around she asked: "So where is the cheap bastard? I've bought him his elevenses, a pickle and cheese sandwich, yich, which he loves and some strong coffee."

"I'm afraid he had to go."

"Go? Go where?" asked Tyne, puzzled.

"Underground. I buried him respectfully, after Warlord and I killed him."

"You killed...?" asked Tyne, dropping the elevenses just before the Ploughman reined around Warlord to trample the brunette to death, then run over her with the plough to make certain of her death.

He then carefully ploughed out a two-metre grave to place her respectfully into, before piling the earth down on top of her.

"You must always show respect for the dead when burying them," he said to Warlord, as he turned the horse to depart the Josephs's farm: "Even if you're the one who killed them."

The horse whinnied its agreement as they headed off the Josephs's farm.


Ten minutes later twelve-year-old Betty Josephs came out of the farmhouse. Betty was her full name, not a contraction. Her mother, a fan of classic animation, had named her after Betty Boop and Betty Rubble from The Flintstones.

Betty looked round the farm, then went across to the stable to saddle Small Philou, named after controversial New Zealand racehorse Big Philou - the Josephs were part Kiwi and part Aussie. She mounted the horse, which she had raised from a newborn colt, and went down to the back paddock to look for her parents.

"Mum! Dad!" she called from time to time as she rode along.

Finally, she reached the rear of the farm and found the mule, Victor, attached to the plough, left unattended. Something she knew that her father would never do for fear of Victor being stolen. He was worth a pretty penny as Phil Josephs liked to say. However, the only Penny, Betty knew, who was pretty was a school friend of hers, Penny McWilliams. So she didn't understand why Penny was worth as much as the costly mule.

Looking around there was no sign of Phil or Tyne Josephs. However, there were streaks of blood in two places. Beside where her parents had been buried.

"Mum! Dad!" Betty called again.


Over at Deidre Morton's boarding house in Rochester Road Merridale, they were just sitting down to one of her magnificent and plentiful breakfasts.

"It's simply delicious," enthused Natasha Lipzing, a tall thin grey-haired lady. Seventy years old she had lived the second half of her life at Mrs. M.s."

"Hare jate," agreed Sheila Bennett talking with a mouthful of Vegemite crumpet, her favourite breakfast. A thirty-five-year-old orange-and-black-haired Goth chick, Sheila was the second in charge of the local constabulary as Chief Constable.

"I think in English that means, 'it's great," said Terri Scott. A tall beautiful blonde also thirty-five, she was the chief cop in the area as Chief Sergeant.

"Hare hate," repeated Sheila.

"She really has invented a new language," opined Colin Klein. A redheaded crime reporter from London, he was spending his long service leave in the Victorian countryside, and was Terri's boyfriend.

"Uff ov," said Sheila taking another mouthful of Vegemite crumpet.

"I think she just told you to stuff off," said Freddy Kingston, a tall, bald, obese pensioner.

"And she used to be such a good girl," teased Deidre Morton, a short, plumpish, sixty-something brunette, who could only be called an amateur chef, since she was easily up to Michelin standards.

"Hamma ood erl," said Sheila.

"Personally I blame the bad influence of Tommy," said Mrs. M.

"Why me?" asked Tommy Turner. A short, blonde obese retiree, an enforced reformed alcoholic. Enforced by Deidre Morton confiscating his stash. "She's the one who corrupted me."

"Id ot," said Sheila. She swallowed her crumpet and then said: "I may be desperate, but I'm not desperate enough to corrupt you."

"Watch yourself, Sheils," he said standing up: "Or I'll pull your orange-and-black hair out by its..." He stopped, puzzled, then said: "What is your natural hair colour."

"Sheils?" asked Terri.

Sheila thought for a while, looking perplexed, and then finally said: "Frankly I've forgotten. I've been dying my hair in black and orange segments for twenty years since I was fifteen. So I can't recall."

"You'll just have to threaten to pull her orange-and-black hair out by its something-something roots," offered Colin Klein.

"No, that doesn't make any sense," protested Tommy.

"Cases allowing, I'm going to see Mum and Dad and my brothers this Saturday," said Sheila: "So, if I get there I'll ask if they've got a pic of me before I started dying it."

Unaware as she spoke, that she would not get up to Sale, to see her family on Saturday, just two days away, since the Ploughman had just started their next investigation for them.


Over at the Parkers Orchard outside Perry township, Peter Parker was using his fancy new apple-picking machine to remove Jonathan apples from his trees.

Hearing movement behind him, he looked around to see the Ploughman and Warlord ploughing up an area dangerously close to where his wine grapes were growing.

Stopping the apple picker, Pete went across to ask: "What ya think ya doin'?"

"My job," he said: "They call me the Ploughman. I was thinking of ploughing under your grapes."

"Darn fool," said Pete, Raised on thousands of badly-made American films, he prided himself on using American slang, and no matter how often his wife, Noel and his daughters Sissy, Sandy, and Paulina nagged at him about it, he wasn't about to start talking British English at age fifty-five. Even if British English was the national language of Australia. Although he was proud of the fact that he didn't stoop to using so-called Australian English as they did in Queensland and the Northern Territory.

"Those grapes are almost ready for picking, not for ploughing under. They're high-quality chardonnay grapes. 'Cept we ain't allowed to call it chardonnay no more 'cause we ain't in France. The Wine Police have decreed that only the frogs can call it chardonnay these days. Some fool rule called Wine Appellations. Meaning you have to be a frog or a dago to have any rights when it comes to wine growing these days."

"Quite possibly so," said the Ploughman starting to plough under Pete's prize-winning grape crop.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" demanded Pete. Dropping his apple-plucker to run after the Ploughman before he could ruin a quarter of a million dollars worth of grapes.

"Stop that, you idiot!" cried Pete, as he chased after the Ploughman.

However, the Ploughman quickly stopped, turned Warlord and at the press of a button, turned the plough into a scoop to spray up the dirt and crushed grapes and vines.

"Don't worry," he said: "We're only digging up two metres long, by two metres deep. Just enough for a grave."

"A grave in my grape vines? Whose grave?" demanded Pete Parker.

"Why yours, of course," said the Ploughman, aiming Warlord at the farmer.

However, Pete was faster to react than Phil Joseph, and not yoked to a plough himself, so he spun around and started running back to the farmhouse. Running in a serpentine manner so that the Ploughman had trouble catching up with him.

"Cunning bastard," said the Ploughman unhooking Warlord for the plough. "Warlord! Kill!"

The huge Clydesdale charged like a stampeding elephant after the fleeing orchard farmer. Instead of following Pete's European road-style path, Warlord ran straight down the centre of the serpent-shaped path, running down and trampling the farmer in less than a minute.

"Warlord!" he called. The horse raced back to him to be reattached to the plough-digger combination.

At that time Noel Parker appeared bringing her husband his lunch. Pete didn't like to waste time by going up to the farmhouse for lunch, so Noel brought it to him.

Seeing her husband's flattened corpse, she shrieked, dropped his lunch and ran across to him, kneeling on the dirt to hold his bloody corpse.

With tears streaming from her eyes, Noel asked: "What happened to him?"

"Warlord, my horse trampled him to death."

"I thought horses wouldn't trample a person?" she said quoting from True Grit.

"Most won't. It took centuries of training before I could convince Warlord to trample people to death."

"You killed my husband? Why?"

"It's what I do. What I'm been doing for Millennia. I kill people, then I bury them. You'll be my fourth for today."

"Me?" she said, trying to rise to her feet.

However, not fast enough to prevent Warlord from trampling her. Then the Ploughman ploughed first Noel, then Pete to make certain that they were dead.

"Must make certain," he repeated: "I'd never live down the shame of burying someone alive."

Warlord snorted his agreement.

Then to save time, the Ploughman placed both bodies in the same grave. Noel first, then Pete, since he believed that the man should always be on top. He then used the scoop function of the plough to fill in the hole ... just in time before their three daughters, Sissy, Sandy, and Paulina turned up.

"Hey, who are you?" asked Sissy, a sassy raven-haired fifteen-year-old.

"I'm the Ploughman," he answered.

"Why is your horsey so big?" asked Paulina. A seven-year-old blonde.

"Shoosh," said Sandy, a redhead, at twelve, taller than Sissy. Then to the Ploughman: "Our father wouldn't hire anyone to help him out."

"No he's tighter than a Nun's wad," said Sissy, making Sandy giggle and Paulina look puzzled.

"What's a numwat?" asked Paulina.

"Like a numbat, only different," said Sandy.

"No, I made a mistake, thinking he might hire me," lied the Ploughman for some reason having compunctions about killing children. Although he had had no problem making them all orphans.

"That is a mistake," said all three sisters.

"Mum said he only became a farmer so that he would have to pay for fruit and veggies," said Sissy.

"So your mother told me," said the Ploughman: "Turn, Warlord."

The horse turned round and started slowly toward the rear of the farm.

"You spoke to Mum?" asked Sandy: "Did you see where she went?"

"She's with your father," he said truthfully, without stopping.

"Boy, dat's one big horsey," said Paulina. Making her sisters laugh as they headed back to the farmhouse.

"Come on, squirt," said Sissy. Picking her up, Sissy threw Paulina up to her shoulder so that she could watch the big horsey as long as possible, saying: "That's a Clydesdale or Plough Horse. They're always gigantic."

"One big horsey," repeated Paulina, entranced by Warlord. Unaware that the massive horse had just killed her mother and father.


Intrigued, yet scared by the blood spilt on the ploughed ground, Betty Joseph had tentatively dug, at the ground with her hands. Only to discover her mother's dead eyes staring up at her.

Screaming, she ran back to the farmhouse, rang triple-zero, then shrieked into the receiver for ten minutes or more, until finally, the emergency operator was able to calm her down enough for her to sobbingly tell what she had found.

"What about your daddy, honey?"

"I think he's buried too. There's what looks like a second grave."

"Okay, hang on, honey, I'll ring through to the Glen Hartwell Hospital, then Terri Scott."


Around the same time that Warlord was chasing Peter Parker, Terri, Colin, and Sheila had pulled up at the Josephs's farm in Lenoak. Betty had already been sedated and taken to the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital."

Phil and Tyne Joseph had both been dug up and were being examined by Jesus Costello, Tilly Lombstrom, and Jerry "Elvis" Green. Jesus, pronounced 'Hee-Zeus' was the head surgeon and chief administrator at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. Tilly a tall, vivacious fifty-something brunette was his second in charge. Elvis Green was the local coroner, nicknamed due to his love of Elvis Presley and his long black sideburns.

"So any conclusions yet?" asked Terri as they walked across to the burial sites.

"They were both hacked apart by what looks like probably a plough," said Jesus.

"After they had first been stomped flat by something huge. I'm tempted to say an Elephant ... But we don't have many rogue Elephant attacks in Australia ... The last one was..." Tilly considered: "Never."

"I think it was some kind of a horse," said Elvis.

"It would have to have been a plough horse to cause this much damage," protested Tilly.

"Still, there are a lot more plough horses in Australia, than there are rogue elephants."

"True," she reluctantly conceded.

"According to John Wayne in True Grit, horses will never intentionally trample a person," said Sheila.

"Right movie, wrong cowboy," said Jesus: "It was actually Rickie Nelson who said it."

"Oh, well in that case, maybe it's wrong," said the orange-haired Goth policewoman.

"We need the opinion of an animal expert," said Tilly.

"And we know where to get it," said Terri and Sheila as one.

Terri pulled out her mobile phone and rang through to the Melbourne Wildlife Safari Park, then asked for Totty Rampling.

"Tots?" asked Terri.

"Tezza?" asked Totty.

"She called me Tezza," said Terri.

"Tell her your nickname's Tare," said Sheila.

"My nickname's Tare, according to Sheils."

"Okay, Tare, what can I do for you?"

"Will a horse intentionally trample a person lying on the ground?"

"According to John Wayne, it won't."

"No, it was Ricky Nelson," Sheila shouted into the mobile phone.

"Oh, then it's less definite. Hang on while I phone a colleague."

After ten minutes or more she returned to say: "According to Hudson, my friend, unless it suffers from foot-and-mouth disease or rabies, a horse would never stop a live human being."

"This would have to be a very big horse, like a draught horse or something."

"Well, like most animals, with the possible exception of bears, the bigger the horse, the gentler it tends to be. You're more likely to be stopped by a pigmy Shetland Pony, than by a draught horse. Although pigmy Shetland Ponies are adorably cute, so you would probably forgive it."

"Thanks, Tots," said Terri ending the call.

"She says Pigmy Shetland Ponies are more likely to stomp you than a draught horse. She also said that Pigmy Shetland Ponies are adorably cute."

"Actually, I think I like the nickname Tezza, better for you babe, than Tare," said Colin Klein.

"Me too," agreed Sheila: "Is it too late to change?"

They told the others what Totty had said, and Tilly said: "So either they were trampled by a herd of Pigmy Shetland Ponies, or we're stuck with the rogue elephant scenario?"

"What about a rogue rhino, or a rogue hippo," asked Sheila.

"I hope you're just playing Devil's Advocate?" asked Terri.

"Oh, I love the Devil's Advocates," said Sheila: "I'll have a Black, Black Christmas

"And an unhappy New Year

"How can I think of Christmas things

"With boring Germaine Greer,

"I'll have a Black, Black Christmas

"A Black, Black Christmas

"Dah dee dee dah dah dah."

"That's your fault, babe," said Colin: "You had to start her off."

Finally, Jesus, Tilly, and Elvis allowed the paramedics to take the three corpses away. Following them to the Glen Hartwell Hospital.

"So are we gonna put out pamphlets for people to watch out for rogue elephants, hippos, or rhinos?" asked Colin as they returned to the Lexus.

"And what about the potential herd of cute little Pigmy Shetland Ponies?" asked Sheila.

"Sheils, you're insane," said Terri as they started away from the farm: "And no, I don't want to panic people with the unlikely possibility of rogue pachyderms."

"Don't suppose it could be rogue cute tapirs?" asked Sheila: "They're pachyderms too, you know."

"You really are insane, Sheils," said Colin.

"But I'm smart for a crazy person," she said: "I know there's also a fifth type of pachyderm: the peccary, which is related to the boar."

"There's irony in that," said Terri.


It was close to tea time and 'Big Mac' Macintosh was milking the last of his herd when he heard the sound of grunting coming from outside.

Connecting up the last cow to the milking machine he walked out and saw the Ploughman and Warlord ploughing up a small plot outside.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?" asked Big Mac. Named not only for his favourite snack food but also because he was a huge bear of a man.

"Ploughing up some ground for you."

"Firstly, this is a cattle station, not a veggie farm. Secondly, I didn't order no ploughing, and I ain't paying you for none."

"No charge," said the Ploughman.

"It's not just about the money. I don't need no ground ploughed. I ain't a veggie farmer."

"It's only a little plot. In fact a grave plot."

"A grave plot? But I ain't even dead yet!"

"You will be soon."

"And how do you know that, mister?"

"Because Warlord and I are going to kill you. Just as soon as we finish digging out your plot."

"If that's your idea of a joke ... Let me tell you, you ain't no Jerry Lewis or Graham Kennedy."

"No, but I am the Ploughman," he said: "I've been killing people and ploughing their graves for millennia."

"Mill-whozee-whats now?" asked Big Mac.

"Thousands of years."

"You've been alive for thousands of years?" said Big Mac, laughing: "Maybe that's what's driven you insane then."

"I wouldn't say I'm insane," said the Ploughman: "But after thousands of years, any job can make you a little eccentric."

"Eccentric as a coot," said Big Mac.

"Probably," agreed the Ploughman, then to Warlord: "Kill boy!"

Warlord raced forward and trampled Big Mac who was soon cut to ribbons by the plough.

Releasing the reins of Warlord, the Ploughman strode across to grab Big Mac by the feet to pull him over to the grave and then toss him in. Thousands of years of ploughing had also made him very strong."

He had just finished when two big burly men in coveralls, leather boots and red and orange plaid shirts walked over.

"Who the hell you, Mista," said one twin, Micky.

"Just doing some ploughing for your father."

"Ploughing," said Nicky: "This ain't no dirt farm. It's a proper cattle station. We got over six hunnard head of prime Jersey stock here."

"That so?" asked the Ploughman.

"Yeah, so why'd Dad need some ploughing?"

"He ordered three graves."

"Three graves?" asked Micky and Nicky together.

"That's right. One for himself, and one for each of you two."

"One for each a us two," said Micky: "But we ain't planning on a dying for seventy years or so."

"Mayhaps eighty," said Nicky a little hopefully.

"Well, you never know," said the Ploughman: "Your father looked in prime health just before he died."

"Whatcha mean before Pa died?" they asked together.

He pointed across to the newly filled-in grave.

"What'd he die of?" asked Nicky.

"Warlord and I killed him," said the Ploughman, Then to Warlord: "Warlord, kill!"

The massive Clydesdale raced forward to trample Nicky, who was soon ploughed to death. Micky almost escaped, but the handle of the plough caught him in the ribs, shattering three ribs and bursting his left lung.

"Aaaaaaah!" cried Micky.

Then the Ploughman silenced him, by turning Warlord to trample, then plough to death the second twin.

"Three at one site, not bad Warlord," said the Ploughman as they started ploughing a double-width grave for the two burly farmers.

"That ought to fit them both," he said. He had just rolled Nicky into the grave and had started rolling Micky in, when he heard a scream.

Turning he saw a fourteen-year-old girl, Amelia Macintosh, their younger sister watching.

"Damn that tears it," he said as the girl spun around to race back to the farmhouse. They could probably have outraced her, but he had made a vow to himself to never murder anyone below the age of eighteen.

"Damn my scruples," he said. He turned Warlord, raised the plough and they headed away, forced to leave Micky and Nicky uncovered: "I'm just too damned soft-hearted, that's my trouble."

Warlord whinnied his agreement.


Forty-five minutes later Tezza, Sheils, Col and the others were enjoying one of Deidre Morton's sublime roast lambs.

"Tezza, I like that new nickname," said Tommy Tucker, grinning broadly.

"How about nutcracker, if you don't stop smirking at my expense?" asked Terri.

Before the argument could get out of hand they received two phone calls one after the other. The first was from Elvis Green from the Macintosh cattle station, the second was the three daughters of Peter Parker to tell them that their parents were missing.

"Where first?" asked Sheila as she started Terri's Lexus.

"Out to Perry, we can't leave the three girls on their own." She phoned through to Elvis Green to tell him what they were doing, and to make certain that they were taking Amelia to the hospital.

Half an hour later the three girls explained about their meeting with the Ploughman and his gigantic Clydesdale.

"Big horsey named Warlord," said Paulina.

"All she's been talking about since then is the huge Clydesdale," said Sissy.

"He said he met Mum," said Sandy: "And that she was with Dad."

"But he didn't say where," said Sissy.

The three adults exchanged worried looks, knowing that in the morning they would have to have the back area of the orchard dug up.

They went out to get into the Lexus, with Sissy in the front seat with Sheila; Sandy in the back, and Paulina who had fallen asleep being nursed by Terri.

"She's so cute," enthused Terri.

"It's past her bedtime," whispered Sandy.

"Where to, chief," asked Sheila.

"To Mrs. M.s for now. I'm sure she'll put them up for the night."

As they walked into the boarding house, with Terri carrying little Paulina, Deidre Morton said: "Oh isn't she a little angel?"

"Yes, she is," agreed Natasha Lipzing.

"A little angel who needs a bed for the night, since her parents, and Sissy and Sandy's parents have gone missing."

"And we're not off duty yet," said Sheila.

Taking Paulina from Terri, Deidre said: "Well, of course, I can put them up for as long as they need, you three get about your policing."

As she led them up the stairs Deidre asked: "Have you three had some tea."

"Yes we reheated some cold roast beef for sandwiches," said Sissy.

"Then follow me up to bed."

"That is so sad," said Terri as they started off again in the Lexus.

"Yeah, I was so hoping that it was a herd of cute little Pigmy Shetland Ponies," said Sheila.

"Sheils if I didn't know that you were joking, I would bust you all the way down to streetwalker," teased Terri.

"Is that a fair dinkum rank nowadays?"

"No, but she'd make it one just for you," warned Colin Klein.

When they reached the GH&DCH they were told that Amelia Macintosh was sleeping sedated.

"However," said Jesus: "She did mention seeing a man with a massive plough horse leaving the scene."

"So it was a plough horse that trampled them," said Colin.

To Jesus, Terri said: "Sissy, Sandy, and Paulina all saw the man and the horse, but not what happened to their parents. But we believe they're buried on the farm."

"They also said he called himself the Ploughman," said Colin Klein.

"Well, the way he kills people, that fits," said Jesus.

With them all yawning, Jesus, Terri, Sheila, and Colin all headed off home for the night.

"Wake us at first light, Mrs. M.," said Terri as they entered the boarding house. Deidre was notoriously an early riser.

"I'll have your breakfast ready by 5:30."

"No time for breakfast tomorrow, we have a field to dig up tomorrow."

"Aw, but I need a couple of vegemite crumpets to start me off in the morning," protested Sheila.

"A couple?" asked Terri: "You had five this morning!"

"Plus two bowls of porridge and treacle," added Col.

"So who's counting?" Sheila asked as they started up the stairs.

"We are!" said Terri and Colin together.

At 5:30 AM, Deidre woke them all, slipping Sheila a brown paper bag with six vegemite crumpets in it.

"Mrs. M., you're a star," said Sheila, hugging her.

"Why does she...?" began Terri; stopping as Mrs. M. gave her a bag of Cherry-jam crumpets. Then she gave Colin a bag of breakfast marmalade crumpets.

"You're a star," agreed Colin, hugging Deidre.

Forty-five minutes later they were at the Parker orchard. They watched as Paul Bell, Stanlee Dempsey, Jessie Baker, Donald Esk, and Drew Braidwood all dug up the back paddock of the farm.

"You know there's a spare shovel, Sheils," said Paul.

"Hi heatin," said Sheila.

"I think that means she's eating," said Colin.

"You've been eating for hours."

"This is only my fifth crumpet," she said: "The chief wouldn't let me eat while I was driving."

"That means you've got one crumpet to give to Paul," said Terri.

"Oh all right," said Sheila: "What about you two?"

"I've got two cherry jam crumpies if anyone wants one."

As they raced forward, Colin handed over the last of his marmalade crumpets, Sheila complained: "Now I've got no excuse for not digging."

However, she took the offered shovel and was soon digging. Sheila and Paul jointly discovered Pete Parker; Sheila his feet, Paul his head.

A short time later, the others dug up Noel Parker. Both Parkers were in a dreadful mess.

Half an hour later Jesus Costello, Tilly Lombstrom, and Elvis Green were at the farm examining the corpses while four paramedics and two ambulances stood by waiting.

"Same as the others," said Jesus, standing up again: "At this stage, I'm happy to accept that they were trampled by a Clydesdale and then run over by this Ploughman's plough.

Standing, Tilly said: "Me too."

"I second the emotion," said Elvis standing.

They signalled for the paramedics to take the corpses away.

"Strong Arm, Chezza, how're they hanging?" asked Sheila. Strong Arm was a black forty-something paramedic Derek Armstrong, like Sheila and Cheryl a part-time gym enthusiast. Chezza was Cheryl Pritchard. At sixty-two she was close to the Australian retirement age of sixty-seven, but was determined to stay working as long as possible. Partly because she would be bored at home all day, but mainly because she enjoyed helping people.

"You know how to hurt a girl, Sheils," teased Cheryl.

"Ah, I've seen you and Strong Arm at the gym on Saturdays," said Sheila: "You could easily beat Terri in an arm wrestle."

"Most school kids could beat Terri in an arm wrestle," teased Cheryl.

"I've been telling her to join us at the gym on Saturday mornings," said Sheila.

"Sounds good to me," said Derek: "Help you to get off some of that flab, Tare."

"Actually, we're calling her Tezza now."

"Hey, I like it," said Cheryl and Derek as one.

"Well, I don't," said Terri.

"You're outvoted babe, four to one," teased Colin.

Over at Pollock Station outside Perry township, Mitchell 'Mitch' Pollock was herding his sheep up to the top paddock with the help of Bomber and Boyo, his two Queensland Healers. Bomber the bitch, named after his beloved Essendon Football Club; Boyo the dog.

As they reached the paddock they saw the Ploughman and Warlord ploughing a small patch of land.

"Hey, watcha doin'?" shouted Mitch, a burly forty-something farmer.

"Helping with your ploughing," said the Ploughman.

"My ploughing? Are you soft in the head? This is a sheep station."

As he spoke, Mitch pointed back to the flock of baaing sheep and the two blue sheep dogs guarding them.

Being pointed at, Boyo raced across to see what his master wanted. Then seeing the massive plough horse, Boyo raced across to sniff at it.

Warlord, snorted at him, exhaling smoke and fire through his nostrils.

Yelping, Boyo raced back to the flock, then without stopping ran straight past them, back toward the farmhouse more than two kilometres away.

"Boyo! Boyo!" cried Mitch. Then to Bomber: "Bomber, stay girl!"

After a moment's hesitation, the bitch stayed where she was, but clearly wanted to run after her mate.

"Now see what you've done," said Mitch looking back, to see that the Ploughman was now using the scoop attachment of the plough to dig the ditch to over a metre's depth. "And if I were a planter, why would I need a ditch so deep?"

"It's not for planting vegetables," said the Ploughman noticing as Bomber finally started to creep then ran away back to the farmer's house. "It's for planting you."

"Planting me. But I ain't dead yet."

"You soon will be, though."

"And how do you know that?" demanded Mitch: "Do you have a crystal ball?"

"No, just a giant Clydesdale and a razor-sharp plough.

So saying, he pulled on the horse's reins, calling: "Warlord! Kill!"

Warlord raced forward and trampled Mitch to death before the Ploughman ran over him with the plough. Forgetting that he still had it set on scoop mode.

"Damn, that's not a respectful way to treat the dead," he chastised himself. He readjusted the plough then ran over Mitch again: "Now that's showing the proper respect for the dead."

He buried Mitch respectfully, and then the Ploughman and Warlord headed back out into the forest beyond the station, leaving the sheep herd behind, baaing.

At the farmhouse, Milly Pollock and her ten-year-old son, Mikey, were preparing a meal, when Boyo raced in the back door and ran over to hide under the kitchen table.

"How's dad gonna herd the sheep without Boyo?" asked Mikey.

"Don't worry, he's still got Bomber," said Milly: "She's afraid of nothing."

A couple of minutes later Bomber raced in through the back door and joined her mate under the table.

"You were saying?" asked Mikey. A handsome blonde boy, except for a slight turn in his right eye.

"I was saying that both of those worthless mutts are despicable cowards," said Milly, as both dogs started whining under the kitchen table.

"I think I know how to take care of the Ploughman," suddenly said Terri looking inspiration-struck.

"How?" asked Sheila.

"Well, he's supernatural, right?"

"Oh, boy, silver bullets again, right?"

"Sheils, we've spent most of our budget through to the end of next May, due to those damned silver bullets," said Terri.

"So, what then?"

"I, like Baldrick, have a cunning plan."

"Uh-oh," said Colin and Sheila together.

Ten minutes later Terri was on the telephone with Russell Street Melbourne:

"Yes sir, three hundred of them ... No, no, sir, I promise they're not just for Sheila to play with..."

After a while, she hung up and said to the amazement of Sheila and Colin: "They've agreed to send us three hundred super soaker water guns."

"It's the stress," Colin whispered to Sheila.

"Although, those super soaker water pistol guns sure are fun to play with," said Sheila.

"Now we need to go see Father Lenny."

"The exorcist priest?" asked Colin Klein.

"You want me to perform another exorcism?" asked Father Leon. Aware that the church discouraged exorcisms nowadays.

"No, Father," said Terri: "I need you to make us some holy water."

"Of course, how much do you need?"

Terri thought for a moment, then said: "About a thousand litres should do to start with."

The priest stopped and turned round: "Terri it is a sin to joke about such things!"

"I'm not joking, we need at least a thousand litres of holy water."

"That's over two hundred gallons in the old scale," said Colin Klein.

"I know how much it is..." began Father Lenny, finally agreeing to make it.

The next morning they had the thousand litres of holy water in five forty-four-gallon iron drums. They stopped at Glen Hartwell Railway Station to pick up the crates of super soaker water guns.

"Oh boy," said Sheila, grabbing one of the soakers.

"There will be no playing with them ... until we dispose of the Ploughman," said Terri.

"And how do we do that?" asked Colin Klein.

His voice was suddenly drowned out by the sound of Louie Pascall's Bell Huey helicopter, which the farmer usually used to round up his cattle, but which Terri had rented for the next few days.

"Does our budget allow for this?" shouted Sheila.

"No," shouted back Terri: "But we can't allow the bugger to keep trampling farmers to death."

Over the next couple of days, they distributed super soakers full of holy water to all of the three hundred or so farmers in the Glen Hartwell to Willamby area. Making certain that all of the farmers also had mobile phones to ring them for help if necessary.

"Now we fly round from farm to farm looking for the Ploughman, while keeping our ears open for phone calls from frantic farmers.

Two more attacks occurred on farms over the next few days, without anyone being hurt.

Finally, on the fourth day, they got word that the Ploughman and Warlord were attacking the MacKenzingtons's sheep station outside Bromby.

"Go! Go! Go!" cried Terri, as Louie Pascall turned the Huey to head in the direction of the MacKensington Station.

They could see Marty MacKensington threatening the Ploughman with his super soaker.

"What kind of childish game are you playing?" asked the Ploughman, more amused than angry.

"No game," said Marty spraying him with the holy water.

Although the holy water stung the Ploughman, it didn't do much more than make him angry.

"You're going to need a lot more than the little bit in that toy," said the Ploughman.

Warlord snorted his agreement.

As they advanced upon Marty, the Bell Huey suddenly whur-whur-whurred overhead.

"What is this?" asked the Ploughman as they released nearly a hundred gallons of holy water onto him and Warlord.

Soon the Ploughman and his Clydesdale were soaked and began to steam like a boiling kettle as white smoke roared off them. The horse started whinnying in terror and the ploughman started screaming as they both began to dissolve under the divine might of the blessed water.

Louie Pascall set the Bell Huey down not far from Marty MacKensington, and they climbed out.

"Well, I'll be damned," said the farmer: "Your damn fool plan actually worked."

Soon there was no doubt about it as Warlord and his master both dissolved into the air.

"Now can we play with the super soakers?" asked Sheila.

"I guess so," said Terri.

"Good," said Sheila, taking the super soaker from Marty, to start soaking Terri and Colin.

"You are so dead, Goth girl," said Terri running after her second in charge, both women squealing like school girls.

"Women," said Colin and Marty, as one.

THE END
© Copyright 2023 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia