And on that night, the sky was streaked with meteors, long and noble, as if the heavens were echoing the past, or predicting the future.
Below the cosmos, Butter Blade slept with a heft in her breath, her dreams filling with the tortured sounds of animals burning, pounding her with the rocks of a martyr. She let go a sleepy torrent of salty tears, which evaporated before they had touched grass as the air was scorched from the shed fire, a fire that was decimating life, new and old, indiscriminately.
And the smart head awoke, the heat itching his skin, and viewed the blaze with a deep appreciation, though not for it’s beauty which was considerable in the autumn night, but for it pure destructiveness. “Ah, those ignorant souls will burn in Hell regardless of the cause of their death. This shall be practice for their lungs.” The evil chattering of the smart head woke the sweet cow head, who was so shocked by discovering that her nightmare had spilled over into her reality that her face was scarred for life. Long lines now run from her eyes to her jowls.
But a strength flowed through her body, which the cynical smart head ignored in favour of more pointed laughing, and the cow lifted from the grass, drifting above the field, gracefully, towards the barn, all the while doing pirouettes that would shame a Russian Ballerina. And above the raging inferno she stopped, her pelvis thrusting, sparks bouncing off her hide. With jagged hoof on slender udder, she caressed milk from her body. Milk that contained anti-fire nutrients previously unheard of, or just never thought of. And jaw clenched, head tilted back, shoulder tense, then relief, relax, a sigh and the conflagration is extinguished, with the cheers of small rodents, the only survivors, filling the dry air.
So, on that night something more extraordinary than the fire happened, represented amply by smart heads shock. Butter Blade, it was discovered, could not only talk, but also fly and quench large blazes with just a few squirts of milk. The farmer turned from crying into his hat to jumping dramatically into the air as if he were ten and had just scored a goal, realising the potential of flying, self-milking, talking, two-headed bovine with a clarity he normally reserved for picturing young girls naked. But, his sordid plans weren’t to come to fruition as in the east, missiles were being prepared for launch.