It Must Be a Full Moon

By Brockton Moutray

Would you be totally thunderstruck, slap your forehead, shake your head and stare with eyes as big as frying pans if you found a chubby mouse with floppy ears and a drooping, rumbling tummy tucked under the blankets of your warm cozy bed?  Would you scratch your head and mutter, “This just can’t be possible! It must be a full moon… it simply must be! There’s absolutely no other logical explanation!” if you found a furry, black cat dressed in overalls curled up atop your bed speaking with the mouse about the circumstances that landed them into the bedroom in the first place?  If you think this could never happen, think again! This is exactly what happened to a 10-year-old boy named Joseph and his grandpa named Grandpa… and this is just the beginning of an absolutely madcap adventure filled with the wackiest, zaniest characters you’ll ever meet.

From a cozy bedroom, to a magical cave, to a buried treasure chest and down what seems to be a never-ending tunnel Joseph, Grandpa, Pip the Mouse, Diddles the cat together with a young girl named Emma who Joseph thinks is a pretty as a button, find themselves dangling perilously over a deep, rocky gorge. Countless characters offer to help the group out of the gorge, but the unthinkable happens.

Will unshakeable friendship, infinite patience and unrelenting teamwork be enough to get the group back to Grandpa’s Farm safe and sound?  

This story promises to knock your socks off!    

           

It Must Be a Full Moon is the last book in the trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398474796

Brockton Moutray

Brockton lives with his wife, Sonia; and their three children, Alyssa, Adrienne and Joseph, in beautiful Vaughan, Ontario, Canada. Brockton dreams his stories and writes his dreams. He enjoys crafting magical, adventurous tales that transport readers into magical lands and introduce them to wacky and zany characters that remain with us forever and ever and ever. His wish is that his writing puts a smile on every reader’s face while teaching valuable lessons about life and the importance of friendship. Brockton loves to travel and has a weakness for different foods. He claims to stop eating only when his arms get tired. When he’s not writing, teaching or eating, he loves spending time in the great outdoors.

Book preview

About the Author

Brockton lives with his wife, Sonia; and their three children, Alyssa, Adrienne and Joseph, in beautiful Vaughan, Ontario, Canada. Brockton dreams his stories and writes his dreams. He enjoys crafting magical, adventurous tales that transport readers into magical lands and introduce them to wacky and zany characters that remain with us forever and ever and ever. His wish is that his writing puts a smile on every reader’s face while teaching valuable lessons about life and the importance of friendship. Brockton loves to travel and has a weakness for different foods. He claims to stop eating only when his arms get tired. When he’s not writing, teaching or eating, he loves spending time in the great outdoors.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all peoples of the world who understand that friendship, honesty and teamwork are the pillars of universal success.

Copyright Information ©

Brockton Moutray 2023

The right of Brockton Moutray to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398474789 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398474796 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Chapter 1

Rise and Shine

A calm autumn breeze rustled the dense autumn canopy of Juniper County. The surrounding mountains and valleys sparkled with brilliant oranges and pale yellows. Hints of vibrant reds shimmering in the early morning light spotted the valleys. The fallen yellow leaves of the rigid hickory trees and fallen brown leaves of the gnarled oak trees swirled in the early morning breeze and collected in the corners of the lattice-porch. A wind chime hanging lazily from a cedar beam jangled and jingled on Grandpa’s porch. Early morning sunshine crawled over the front stoop, swept over the huge clay jar, blanketed the lonely rocking chair and edged up the aromatic red cedar siding of Grandpa’s farm. A soft, blue-white hazy light slowly filtered through young Joseph’s bedroom window, emptying onto the red oak floorboards, and engulfing the bedroom.

After fussing with the tablecloth, the dishes and the cutlery, Ma sat down at the breakfast table.

I don’t know where it could be. I left it right here last evening to cool, whispered Ma, untying her apron and tossing it on the back of her chair.

Don’t worry, Mayella, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. It’ll turn up, muttered Pa, scooping a spoonful of warm porridge sprinkled with brown sugar in his mouth. I hope today will be a better day at the auction. Last week was largely a waste of time, added Pa, preparing to leave, uncertain of what to say to his wife.

The barnyard animals stirred restlessly in the early morning light. A fine trickle of smoke filtered from the smoke house adjacent to the barn. The smoke rose high above the chimneystack and was gently nudged towards the southern boundary of the meadow by an early morning breeze. It drifted high above the stone wall that marked the beginning of the apple orchard.

Is Grandpa still sleeping in that big old rocking chair? asked Pa, scooping up the last of the delicious porridge and placing the empty bowl into the sink.

Willy dear, Grandpa’s been in there all night long watching over our little Joseph, Ma replied in a worried tone. She spoke to Pa but stared at Joseph’s bedroom door. She got to her feet and began searching every inch of the kitchen. I’m sure I… I thought I… it was there last night before I… I’m almost certain that… she mumbled like she always did when she was worried or thinking about more than one thing at the same time. Ma fixed her eyes on the window sill and scratched her chin.

The donkey brayed hee-haw-hee-haw under the almond tree by the shed, the pot-bellied pig grunted oink-oink-grunt, grunt-oink-oink in the pen beside the big old willow tree and the rooster crowed cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo in the coop next to the haystack.

Morning sunlight engulfed the chicken coop, painting the chicken wire a hazy yellow. The pit-sputter-pop, pop-sputter-spit of burning maple logs and the sputter-crackle-pop, pop-crackle-sputter of hickory sticks in the open-hearth mixed with the drip-drizzle-drip, drip-drizzle-drip, sizzle-drizzle-drip, sizzle-drizzle-drip of the slow-roasting pork belly. Mourning doves lined Ma’s clothes line and cooed coo-coo-coo-coo while Joseph muttered and snored and sputtered, sputtered and snored and muttered under his warm blanket.

I hope little Joseph feels better soon. I hate seeing him lying in bed feeling miserable. I really hope he’s out and about real soon, whispered Ma, accompanying Pa through the kitchen doorway, her eyes still scanning every inch of kitchen table, shelf, pantry and windowsill.

As they passed the stairwell leading up to the boys’ bedrooms, Ma cupped her hands around her mouth and announced, Rise and shine, boys, rise and shine! loud enough for the boys to hear, but not so loud as to wake up Grandpa and her little Joseph.

Pa stared out the front window and spotted a swallow taking to the air over the garden path, sweeping over the fire pit, dipping lower to the ground where the brook bent by the pomegranate tree and gliding above the sugar-cane patch before disappearing beyond the majestic maple trees that lined the babbling brook.

Has anyone seen my magazine? asked a young, robust teenage voice coming from the upstairs landing.

Just beyond the row of planted onions, Pa watched a hired fieldworker busily re-positioning linen tarps under the fruit trees to capture the falling ripened fruit. In the northern corner of Grandpa’s farm, past the row of taters and next to the old sycamore tree, another worker was spotted gently tapping on the wooden frames of the beehives, collecting fresh honey. White-winged doves cuddled and cooed along the wooden fence that bordered the meadow and brightly coloured orioles swayed happily atop the rows of drooping sunflowers. Ma was still thinking and questioning and scratching her chin while scanning every inch of the kitchen.

Hey Jacob, that’s not your cap, silly! That’s Jeremiah’s cap. I thought you hated the Tigers? chuckled Seth, quickly slipping into his denim overalls, eager to join his brothers for breakfast.

Fox River quietly snaked through the limestone bluffs and the rolling hills of Juniper County, and winded leisurely through Grandpa’s farm. Mighty Fox River Falls, a few stone throws downstream, rumbled and roared. Its foggy mist slowly drifted along the river’s bank, blanketing the valley with dampness. Early morning dew rose from the winding red gravel road that disappeared beyond the gate of the farmhouse. The road dipped down into a little hollow that was fringed with sopping white and pink wild orchids that the locals called lady’s slippers. Ma was still thinking and questioning and scratching her chin, and scanning the kitchen.

I hate the Tigers… yuk! What a terrible football team, shouted Jacob, standing in the upstairs corridor. He tossed the cap to his older brother Jeremiah and asked, Has anyone seen my Cornhuskers cap?

Pa listened to the squabbling boys as they prepared to come down for breakfast. A proud rafter of wild turkeys gobbled and screeched, screeched and gobbled in the nearby woods, adding to the early morning symphony on Grandpa’s farm. Pa caught a glimpse of the turkeys as they strutted along the wood line by the pigpen before disappearing into the brambly ditch beyond. He thought of Grandpa sleeping in the rocking chair next to muttering and snoring and sputtering and grumbling and murmuring Joseph who he always called Sprout on account of his size. Ma was still thinking and questioning and scratching her chin and scanning the kitchen.

Come on, Ollie, you old stinker! It’s time for breakfast and for some of Ma’s apple pie, chuckled Seth, scurrying down the stairs into the kitchen with his pet possum Ollie resting on his right shoulder.

Pa stood quietly in front of Joseph’s bedroom door and hurriedly kissed his wife Mayella on the cheek. You have a great day, Mayella, and don’t hesitate to call Doctor Tate if our Sprout’s not feeling any better by afternoon… and please remind the boys to keep an eye on the pork belly. It should be ready by the time I get back, he instructed, peeking his head into Joseph’s bedroom.

Before heading off to the Sunday Cattle Auction in neighbouring Rolling Hills County, Pa waved goodbye to the older boys who were now noisily trooping down the stairs, hankering for Ma’s delicious breakfast. Ma was still thinking and questioning and scratching her chin, and scanning the kitchen.

But after I finished I… I’m sure it was there before I… I specifically remember cracking the window open… yes, I do remember that, mumbled Ma.

Bacon sizzled in the frying pan. A copper kettle whistled on the wood-burning stove. Warm biscuits cooled in a wicker basket. Homemade raspberry jelly jiggled in a wide-mouthed glass jar beside a small wooden bucket of freshly churned butter.

Fourteen-year-old Jeremiah scurried down the stairs, holding a folded magazine in his left hand and a pencil in the other. His twelve-year-old brother Jacob, who was shouting something about loving Sundays and hating Mondays and hating homework as much as he hated school and going to the dentist, followed closely behind.

Eleven-year-old Seth and his pet possum Ollie followed Jacob. The boys wore faded blue jean-overalls over white t-shirts.

Jeremiah turned his Tigers football cap on his head so that the visor pointed backwards. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and shouted, Morning, Ma… what’s for breakfast?

Jacob lifted his Cornhuskers cap off his head and threw it up in the air. Hurrah, I just love Sundays! Good morning, everyone! he shouted.

Seth, the last to reach the bottom landing, rubbed his eyes, yawned, tapping his straw hat firmly on his head. Morning, Pa! Morning, Ma! What’s for breakfast? Me and this here possum are simply famished! announced Seth, stopping and giving Ma two thumbs up. By the way, Ma, I love your new Sunday apron—very colourful, he added.

Pa stepped off the front stoop and shouted, I’ll be back in the late afternoon, boys. Everyone have a good Sunday. Don’t get into any mischief and stay out of your mother’s way, you hear? I want all of you outside doing the chores… and don’t forget the roasting pork belly.

Slim, 53-year-old Pa adjusted his iron-rimmed spectacles, rolled up the sleeves of his checkered shirt and tucked his thermos full of home-made iced-tea under his arm. He sauntered down the path past the front gate, swinging his shiny metal lunchbox in his right hand. Only his whistling could be heard as he disappeared under the sugar maples.

Jacob turned to his older brother Jeremiah. I’d give up my marble collection and my new fishing pole to be able to stay in bed like Joseph and skip school for a few days, he whispered.

Goodbye, Pa. Hope you get lucky at the cattle auction today, shouted Seth through the open window.

Ma was still thinking and questioning and scratching her chin, and scanning the kitchen.

See you later, Pa. I’ll see to it that everyone gets their chores done, shouted Jeremiah, his mouth full of biscuits.

"Yah, later, Pa. I’ll make sure your youngest son Tadpole doesn’t decide