Big deal.” I took a sip of coffee and returned to the sports page before me. “I wouldn’t call it news exactly.”
“You don’t know what an aurochs is, do you?” he accused. “You haven’t a clue.”
“A beast of some sort—you said so yourself just now,” I protested.
“Really, Simon, the papers you read—” I flicked his upraised tabloid with a disdainful finger. “Look at these so-called headlines: ‘Princess Linked to Alien Sex Scheme!’ and ‘Shock Horror Weekend for Bishop with Massage Parlor Turk!’ Honestly, you only read those rags to fuel your pessimism.”
He was not moved. “You haven’t the slightest notion what an aurochs is. Go on, Lewis, admit it.”
I took a wild stab. “It’s a breed of pig.”
“Nice try!” Simon tossed his head back and laughed. He had a nasty little fox-bark that he used when he wanted to deride someone’s ignorance. Simon was extremely adept at derision—a master of disdain, mockery, and ridicule in general.
I refused to be drawn. I returned to my paper and stuffed the toast into my mouth.
“A pig? Is that what you said?” He laughed again.
“Okay, okay! What, pray tell, is an aurochs, Professor Rawnson?”
Simon folded the paper in half and then in quarters. He creased it and held it before me. “An aurochs is a sort of ox.”
“Why, think of that,” I gasped in feigned astonishment. “An ox, you say? It fell down? Oh my, what won’t they think of next?” I yawned. “Give me a break.”
“Put like that it doesn’t sound like much,” Simon allowed. Then he added, “Only it just so happens that this particular ox is an ice-age creature which has been extinct for the last two thousand years.”
“Extinct.” I shook my head slowly. “Where do they get this malarkey? If you ask me, the only thing that’s extinct around here is your native skepticism.”
“It seems the last aurochs died out in Britain sometime before the Romans landed—although a few may have survived on the continent into the sixth century or so.”
“Fascinating,” I replied.
Simon shoved the folded paper under my nose. I saw a grainy, badly printed photo of a huge black mound that might or might not have been mammalian in nature. Standing next to this ill-defined mass was a grimlooking middle-aged man holding a very long, curved object in his hands, roughly the size and shape of an old-fashioned scythe. The object appeared to be attached in some way to the black bulk beside him.
“How bucolic! A man standing next to a manure heap with a farm implement in his hands. How utterly homespun,” I scoffed in a fair imitation of Simon himself.
“That manure heap, as you call it, is the aurochs, and the implement in the farmer’s hands is one of the animal’s horns.”
I looked at the photo again and could almost make out the animal’s head below the great slope of its shoulders. Judging by the size of the horn, the animal would have been enormous—easily three or four times the size of a normal cow. “Trick photography,” I declared.
Simon clucked his tongue. “I am disappointed in you, Lewis. So cynical for one so young.”
“You don’t actually believe this”—I jabbed the paper with my fin-ger—“this trumped-up tripe, do you? They make it up by the yard—manufacture it by the carload!”
“Well,” Simon admitted, picking up his teacup and gazing into it, “you’re probably right.”
“You bet I’m right,” I crowed. Prematurely, as it turned out. I should have known better.
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.” He lifted the cup, swirled the tea, and drained it. Then, as if his mind were made up, he placed both hands flat on the tabletop and stood.
I saw the sly set of his eyes. It was a look I knew well and dreaded. “You can’t be serious.”
“But I am perfectly serious.”
“Forget it.”
“Come on. It will be an adventure.”
“I’ve got a meeting with my adviser this afternoon. That’s more than enough adventure for me.”
“I want you with me,” Simon insisted.
“What about Susannah?” I countered. “I thought you were supposed to meet her for lunch.”
“Susannah will understand.” He turned abruptly. “We’ll take my car.”
“No. Really. Listen, Simon, we can’t go chasing after this ox thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s nothing. It’s like those fairy rings in the cornfields that had everybody all worked up last year. It’s a hoax. Besides, I can’t go—I’ve got work to do, and so have you.”
“A drive in the country will do you a world of good. Fresh air. Clear the cobwebs. Nourish the inner man.” He walked briskly