The Boy at the Top of the Mountain by John Boyne Page B

morning – a mixture of eggs and sugar and all types of fruit – and looked eagerly at the table, where teacloths were spread over the plates concealing all their treasures.
    ‘Eyes and hands off,’ said Emma, pointing at him. ‘If I come back in here and find anything missing, I’ll know who to blame. I have everything counted, Pieter, and don’t forget it.’ They stepped out into the back yard and Pierrot looked around. ‘See them over there?’ she asked, pointing at the chickens in the coop.
    ‘Yes,’ said Pierrot.
    ‘Have a look and tell me which two you think are the fattest.’
    Pierrot walked over and examined them carefully. There were more than a dozen gathered together; some standing still, some hiding behind others and some pecking at the ground. ‘That one,’ he said, nodding at a chicken that was sitting down and looking about as unenthusiastic about life as a chicken possibly can. ‘And that one,’ he added, pointing at another, which was running around causing a great commotion.
    ‘Right then,’ said Emma, elbowing him out of the way and reaching forward to undo the lid of the coop. The chickens all started to squawk, but she reached in quickly and pulled out the two that Pierrot had chosen by their legs, standing up and holding them upside down, one in each hand.
    ‘Close that,’ she said, nodding at the coop.
    Pierrot did as he was told.
    ‘Right. Now follow me over here. The rest of them don’t need to see what happens next.’
    Pierrot skipped round the corner after her, wondering what on earth she was going to do. This was quite easily the most interesting thing that had taken place in days. Perhaps they were going to play a game with the chickens or put them in a race to see which was the fastest.
    ‘Hold this one,’ said Emma, handing the more subdued one to Pierrot, who took it reluctantly and held it by its feet as far away from his body as possible. It kept trying to turn its head to look at him, but he twisted and turned so it couldn’t peck him.
    ‘What happens now?’ he asked, watching as Emma placed her chicken sideways on a sawn-off tree stump that came up to her waist, and held it firmly by the body.
    ‘This,’ she said, reaching down with her other hand and picking up a hatchet, which she slammed down in a quick, efficient movement, slicing the chicken’s head off before letting it fall to the ground. Decapitated, the body began running around in a frenzy, before slowing down and finally collapsing, dead, on the ground.
    Pierrot stared in horror and felt the world begin to spin. He reached out to steady himself against the stump, but his hand landed in a pool of the dead chicken’s blood and he screamed, falling over and letting go of his own chicken – which, having witnessed its friend’s unexpected end, made the sensible decision to run back towards the chicken coop as quickly as it could.
    ‘Get up, Pieter,’ said Emma, marching past him. ‘If the master comes back and finds you lying out here like this, he’ll have your guts for garters.’
    There was now an almighty cacophony coming from the coop, and the bird that was shut outside was panicking as it tried to get back in. The other chickens were looking at it and screeching, but of course there was nothing they could do. Before it knew what was happening, Emma was upon it, picking it up by the legs and carrying it over to the stump where, within an instant, it met the same grisly fate. Unable to look away, Pierrot felt his stomach begin to turn.
    ‘If you throw up on that bird and ruin it,’ said Emma, waving the axe in the air, ‘you’ll be next. Do you hear me?’
    Pierrot stumbled to his feet and looked at the carnage around him – the two chicken heads lying in the grass, the spattered blood on Emma’s apron – and ran back into the house, slamming the door shut. Even as he ran out of the kitchen and back to his room, he could hear Emma’s laughter mixing with the noise of the birds until