Life as a shepherd was dull. Dull, dull, dull. Or rather, 99% dull and 1% terrifying, The occasional lion or bear did liven things up, or the odd band of sheep rustlers, but these were scarcely common events. Mostly it was just plain booooooooooring.
Sometimes, in addition to being boring, it was cold. Tonight was freezing cold.
Sometimes, in addition to being boring and cold, it was dark. Tonight there was no moon, and it was very dark.
Monty Crusto trudged back towards the dim light of the camp fire after having checked on a lame ewe. Twonines looked up, and yawned.
“I’m sorry for keeping you up,” scowled Monty. “Have you left me some broth I can sup? So often I’ve told – I don’t like it cold! So come on, and pass me that cup!”
“All right! Please don’t lose your hair! Stop moaning, just sit over there. Of course it is hot, it’s been in that pot. In fact, I don’t really much care!”
Life as a shepherd was so unbelievably dull that Monty and Twonines had contrived this slightly odd way of communicating. Did it matter? Not really. The sheep thought they were barking mad anyway, an opinion shared by their boss, Master Loxuru.
Monty sipped his broth. It was indeed hot, and really rather tasty. Secretly, Monty rather appreciated Twonine’s skills as a cook. But it would never do to admit it.
“Well, hot it undoubtedly is, as gruel it may be the bizz, but good though it smacks some sparkle it lacks. Some chili would give it some whizz!”
“Some chili? You’re having a joke! I get my veg from some bloke on Bethlehem mart, who won’t give a fart unless it’s a plain artichoke!”
“I think I know what that means. He’s not the greengrocer he seems! The veg with the status to give you such flatus is not artichoke but runner beans!”
And so it went on, as it did night after night. Tonight it was vegetables, last night they’d argued throughout the night about who had the tightest little ass in Judea, and all in this peculiar form of verse which had no name, for that part of the Island of Hibernia upon which the little town of Limerick would one day be built was still just a bog. Who knows? It could have been called TwoCrusto verse, or Montynines rhymes.
The argument hadn’t progressed much after two hours.
“Oh come on, Twonines, you can’t fail to appreciate fine curly kale! It’s dark curly…
“Gloria in excelsis Deo!”
“That doesn’t rhyme, Monty…”
“It wasn’t me… it was those….”
“Angels!” shrieked Twonines, shielding his eyes against the light. “Lo! I am sore afraid!”
“Et in terra pax homnibus! What do you mean, you are sore afraid? You’re not the one hovering fifty feet in the sky!” The angel on the right was indeed looking a bit green.
“And you’re not floating above the earth in the nude!” The angel on the left, on the other hand, was a sight for sore eyes.
“Shut up, you two!” The larger, important looking angel in the middle was looking cross. “Start Again! Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in Terra pax homnibus, bonae volun….”
“Er, excuse me!” Monty looked as white as a ghost. He knelt down. That big angel looked ferocious. “Isn’t that Latin?”
“Of course it’s Latin! How else did you expect us to proclaim the good news?”
“But, we don’t speak Latin! How are we supposed to know if it’s good news or not?”
“You see, Jollyrei! We told you not to sing in Latin! But would you listen? Oh, no, you knew best.” This angel was the most unbelievably beautiful angel that Monty had ever seen. Mind you, he’d actually only ever seen these three angels, so saying she was more beautiful than either Wragg or Jollyrei wasn’t saying much. But she was certainly more beautiful than any human woman that he’d ever beheld.
And one thing was beyond any doubt.
She’d got the tightest little ass in Judea!
To be continued