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The year was 1666—September 4th, to be precise. London had been on fire for two days straight, but that was no concern to you since you were safely tucked away on your farm in Penistone, South Yorkshire.
It was the end of the courgette season on your farm, which happened to be the only farm growing courgettes. Your family’s farm was known as Courgette Corner by the villagers, despite your best efforts to make people believe it was a serious business, and it was offensive that it was reduced to such childish descriptions.
You were lying on your straw bed, ignoring how the dried grass was stabbing into your thighs and making you itch. You knew you had to get up soon but were desperately trying to ignore how the early autumn light was coming through the cracks of your wooden shack, making it impossible to go back to sleep. Maybe if you closed your eyes tightly, you could ignore the work you had to do today. The courgettes could wait, you thought to yourself. They were vegetables. Where could they go? What was one extra day still attached to the plant? It could make them larger and more profitable at market, you rationalised to yourself as you dragged your threadbare sheet over your eyes, hoping it would block out enough light.
Just as you felt yourself start to drift off again, you heard a familiar voice from the other side of your one-room home.
“Y/N!” your mother shouted, shocking you out of your semi-conscious state. “Get up! There are some people I want you to meet.”
You groaned to yourself, rolling onto the floor with a soft thud, followed by a cloud of dust that made you cough violently.
Getting to your feet unsteadily, you brush the dirt off your clothes and search for twine to tame your hair. Fortunately, you had left some beside the oil lantern on the floor. You quickly looped your mousey brown hair into a messy bun and reasoned it looked presentable enough since you didn’t own a mirror. You scoffed at this—only the rich possessed such things, and even though you were the crème de la crème of courgette farmers, they didn’t earn as much as those wealthy folk who were busy dying of plague the year before and were now probably watching their opulent houses burn to the ground.
You wandered over to the door, where your mother stands in her apron, arms crossed over her chest, as she gazes down at the six men on your porch.
It was clear these people were not from your village. Interlopers, you thought to yourself as you narrowed your eyes at the man standing before the younger-looking group. He looked odd, black hair slicked down with some unknown substance, trousers far too high on his waist that you began to wonder if they reached his nipples, and a crisp white shirt that looked painfully out of place on your muddy farm.
“Who are you?” you asked, without bothering to be kind to these strangers.
“Good morning,” the man said, clearing his throat. When neither you nor your mother spoke, he continued. “I have spent too much on opioids and need to find someone to buy these men off me so I can pay back my debts. I can offer them for cheap.”
To your shock, the men didn’t seem alarmed by the fact that they were about to be sold off by this strange individual. Perhaps they had been through this before? You wondered whether you should contact the authorities about the matter. It was only then that you remembered the nearest police station was four hours away on horseback, and you had recently run your horse into the back of a stagecoach, accidentally killing it.
As you were contemplating the fate of your noble steed, he continued speaking as if it were a common occurrence and nothing particularly unusual. You glance around your home, aware that there wouldn’t be space for these new members, no matter how reasonable the price was. You knew you had to interrupt this before it was too late, but you noticed your mother was seriously considering the offer.
“Why would we want these scoundrels?” your mother questioned.
“They can work for you,” the man replied, smiling now.
You eye the others up. They didn’t look like they could work on the intense courgette farm. They seemed a little fragile, almost as if they’d come from larger towns and hadn’t touched soil in ages. You began to wonder whether they’d be a help or a hindrance. Your farm was no small matter; a lot of time and effort went into your produce, and you couldn’t risk it being ruined by a group of city slickers who happened to be in this unfortunate situation due to the habits of their ring master.
“What do you think, Y/N?”
You couldn’t believe you were being asked this! It was far too early, and you had too much to do to dwell on it longer than necessary. You let out a long, pained sigh and shifted slightly to check on the five men. Maybe they could be useful for carrying things; you were sure they could hold some woven baskets as you harvested your courgettes. This might make the final few weeks a bit easier on your back. Plus, they could do the legwork and take the produce into town to sell, sparing you the two-mile trip and the snide remarks from other farmers. You were certain you’d do something you’d regret if you heard another word from Luke Hemmings of the Five Summers estate about how their tomatoes were the best of the season. Why would you care about tomatoes? As far as you were concerned, they were a waste of space, and you didn’t understand why he and his family kept pestering you about it. Courgettes and tomatoes weren’t even—
“Y/N!” your mother snapped, seeming furious that you hadn’t replied yet.
“Uh,” you managed to say, rather stupidly. “How much you wanting for them, then?”
The strange man counted on his fingers, seemed to be pondering something deep before looking back at you. “Two pence each, or you can have all five for eight pence.”
“Eight pence!” your mother said, louder than you or the man anticipated.
It seemed suspiciously cheap, making you narrow your eyes even more. What did this trespasser really want? Maybe this whole debt shtick was a ploy to get rid of the others. For all you knew, they could be criminals, and the odd man was trying to get them out of his hair before the chief arrived to whisk them away right before your eyes!
He seemed deflated at this. “You drive a hard bargain, madame,” he said after a beat. “The lowest I can go is a penny each—five pence for all.”
"Deal!" your mother said, leaning over the doorway to shake the man's hand.
You were aghast at this. Your mother was not the type to make snap decisions about money, especially since your father left to join the circus half a decade ago, leaving you with the rights to the farm and a handful of loose coins at the bottom of a drawer. Oh, that spineless man, you seethed for a second, wishing he’d at least run off somewhere cooler than the circus! He could have joined a freak show—in your opinion, that was much more trendy and upcoming. He could be out there swallowing swords and hanging out with bearded ladies, but no, he was in cahoots with the local clowns instead. The embarrassment almost killed you when you first read the note he’d left behind.
“Mother!” you ended up complaining after getting over yourself for the millionth time. “Where will we keep them? We only have one room.”
“We can sleep outside,” piped up the one with burlap-coloured hair. “Lord Cowell doesn’t let us sleep indo—” Before he could finish his sentence, he was hushed by the man who had eyes the colour of a cross between robin egg shells and a morpho butterfly.
“Don’t mind my boyfriend’s husband,” he said, pushing the yapper out of the way.
You pause for a moment, trying to understand the relationship in front of you. You had assumed they were a group of friends, but it seemed that you and your mother were now the proud owners of a gay polygamous quintet of unknown physical ability.
“Uh, sure. Whatever,” you replied, going back to face the man whom you assumed was Lord Cowell. “Got us a contract to sign or something? I don’t want you coming back later demanding these lot to return to you after we have parted with legal tender.”
The Lord nodded, pulling a sheet of parchment from his bag, along with a fancy feather quill and ink pot. You huff; the upper classes are outrageous, but you still accepted it and went back inside to scribble what looked like a signature on the dotted line. You would have read it, but you were essentially illiterate—courgette farming did not require such menial skills as reading or writing anything other than a handful of numbers that you’d managed to learn by the time you were twenty-five.
You let your mother deal with the rest of it, busying yourself with tidying up from the night before and wondering whether you could morally leave the new members of your household outside. The temperature had been pretty warm lately, so you were confident they wouldn’t freeze to death in the middle of the night, but it wasn’t the elements you were worried about. No, the sleepy town of Penistone had an issue that no one wanted to discuss. Farmers had lost flocks of sheep, mothers had lost their infants to it and, worst of all, it had ransacked your storage boxes of produce. There had been rumours going around about it being a wolf or a fox, but you knew the truth.
Big Foot.
Yes, Big Foot. You daren’t speak the name aloud lest it come and get more of your hard work. A shiver jolted down your spine at the thought.
“Right then,” you announced, deciding that putting one box under the table was more than enough organising and if the group had an issue with it, then they could deal with it themselves. “Come in before you let the heat out.” You watched as they trailed in, all holding hands like children and lined themselves neatly against the back wall. Even close up, you knew they weren’t going to be much help on the farm. This annoyed you a lot, to the point where you must’ve looked genuinely angry that one of the men spoke up.
“We should introduce ourselves,” said the one with the eyes the colour of sea sponges and basil. “My name’s Louis and this is my husband Harry.” He pointed to the one that looked a little confused, but in a cute puppy-like way. “That’s Niall.” The one who had spoken before gave a slight wave.
You did not reciprocate the wave.
Your lack of interest didn’t seem to bother Louis as he continued, gesturing to the one with hair artfully placed in front of his eye. “That’s Zayn.”
“Ey up, love,” Zayn said, brushing some of his clarinet coloured hair from his orbs. You had no idea what ey up, love meant, so you decided to ignore that and silently hope it wasn’t wildly offensive.
“And who is that one, then?” you asked, turning to face the man who had not been introduced.
The four of them looked at each other for a couple of seconds before nominating the confused one to speak. “That’s Liam, but he won’t be staying.” He spoke so meekly that you almost didn’t hear what he said.
You narrowed your eyes at this. You feared that Lord Cowell guy had scammed you. If only you could read the contract to double-check whether all of them were included in the deal. Judging by the way they were acting, you assumed something was in the paper you signed and decided not to make a fuss about it. Besides, it was far too early in the morning to start shouting over this, and you knew time was a-wasting that you would never get back.
“Fine,” you concluded. “If Liam isn’t staying with us, then I want him gone. We don’t have enough capacity for someone who isn’t bound to stay with us.”
And, with that, Liam bid the remaining four goodbye before rushing out of the house, following Lord Cowell’s dust as he ran away from his responsibilities.
One of the men—Niall—cleared his throat. “Now you know us, we’d like to know your name!”
His cheery disposition was almost alarming, considering his and his friends’ current predicament. You debated whether you could lie and give him an alias, say that you were called something so insane that, even if they didn’t believe you, they’d have to call you it. It could be hilarious, you thought. Ah, the possibilities were endless, but despite wanting to mess with the people in front of you, you knew it would only make your mother question your mental stability again. You didn’t have it in you to deal with the leeches for the second time.
“My name is Y/N.”
“Interesting,” Louis pondered. “I’ve never heard that one before. How do you spell that?”
Luckily, you had learned to spell your name. You knew it was unique; not many people were familiar with it, and it saved you hours upon hours when you were able to write it down for people. “You spell it like why-en,” you said, really putting effort into pronouncing the two letters.
“Wow, is that from Arabic?” Harry asked, seeming to be very interested in the origin.
You stall for a second. You had no idea what he meant about that, but you weren’t going to make yourself look a fool in front of them. “It’s from my mother.” The reply seemed to be enough because Harry nodded thoughtfully at it before smiling again. It was best to move on now; you had too much to be doing rather than spending your precious minute entertaining these people. You needed to know how they could help you, now that you owned them. “Have you worked on a farm before?”
“You could say we worked on a farm,” Louis muttered under his breath, but was shoved by Harry before he could say anything more.
You chose to ignore this, knowing it was a deep trauma you were not qualified to deal with. Instead, you kept on speaking. “Well, we are really serious here at Penistone and—”
All four of them let out a loud and simultaneous laugh at something that you didn’t understand. Your farm was no laughing matter! You needed to get that fact drilled into their skulls before you could get any further.
“I’m sorry,” Niall managed to gasp through fits of laughter. “We’re in Pe– Peni– I can’t even say it.”
The joke missed you entirely. What was so funny about this? You didn’t know and, frankly, you didn’t want to know.
“Ha?” you ended up saying, hoping it was enough. “Anyway, we are serious here, and we need you all to work on our farm. No slacking! We have crops to get, courgettes to pick and money to make. Do you understand?”
At your militant tone, they shut up. Harry looked scared, Louis looked confused, Niall looked Irish, and Zayn looked mysterious.
“We understand, Y/N,” Zayn said, taking the speaking role for all of them. “We can definitely do things, that is for sure, duck.”
As they were speaking, you had gathered some cotton shirts for them to change into. Their weirdly formal clothes would not do, and it would look bizarre when they were out on the dirt with you. The last thing you wanted was to look underdressed on your own godforsaken farm. “Wear these and meet me outside in five minutes.”
When the boys looked like they were about to complain about something as trivial as privacy, you raised an eyebrow, and they instantly shut their mouths. You turned on your heels and marched outside to join your mother, who was still jumping for joy about her new investments. You longed to be as excited as she was. Perhaps that time would come, but you doubted it.
***
It was a hot September morning. Probably not as hot as London was, as that was still on fire, but it was warmer than you wanted it to be. The sun beat down onto the soil, reflecting up onto your face and making you sweat. You knew this was going to be a long and taxing day; you had already told Zayn that no, he could not snack on the produce before dropping it off and had broken up two fights between the husband/boyfriend trio that you still didn’t fully understand how they came together as they spent most of their time arguing rather than helping.
You worked by yourself for an hour before someone called for you.
“Y/N!” Louis shouted, holding up four courgettes in one hand. How he managed to do that, you had no idea, but you weren’t about to question it. “I think I saw something in that hedge.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you yelled back, going back to your patch of veg.
Louis made a nervous noise, making you look back up. “Y/N, it looked scary,” he called back. “Zayn said his hair strand shook at it, and that’s when you know it’s serious.”
“Zayn’s hair did wh— you know what, never mind. It was probably a, uh, a rat. They’re running away from the fire in London.”
“There’s a fire in London?!” Niall shouted, stricken. “That’s where Lord Cowell resides!”
“Well, Niall, I think he’s about to also be on fire when he gets back.” The lack of compassion in Harry’s voice nearly alarmed you, but then you remembered that they were currently in a fight about something you didn’t care about, so you thought it was best to ignore the sneaking suspicion that he was a sociopath.
You went back to your picking, but the second you turned your back, you heard blood-curdling screams. You paused at this, hands resting on the green flesh of the courgette. You knew what was happening; it was apparent. You had to lie to the boys because if you told them the truth, you knew they would run for the hills like any sane person would do. Why would you stay around with such a threat in your vicinity? You knew for sure that you wouldn’t.
You took one steadying breath before closing your eyes and turning to face where the screams had come from. In the distance, you saw it.
Big Foot.
And in its massive, white, fluffy arms were four men, yelling at the top of their lungs. You watched helplessly as the beast ran off through the gorse and nettles, its newly obtained companions unable to do anything about their fate.
“Aw, damn!” your mother shouts from the farmhouse, noticing the creature running away with the boys. “What a waste of money!”
You had a feeling that the contract didn't account for your new purchases being snatched by a mythological monster. Your money was gone along with your workers. You felt tears welling in your eyes, but managed to wipe them away as your mother made it to your side.
“Don’t be sad, Y/N,” she said, her voice quiet and compassionate. “They’re in a better place now.”
At that, the dam burst, and tears poured down your face. You couldn’t believe this! How was this happening to you?!
Your mother pulled you into a tight hug, patting your back carefully.
“Big Foot took my courgettes!” you wailed. “My beautiful courgettes!”
Your mother let you mourn your precious crop, knowing that you would eventually learn to live with the loss, no matter how harrowing it was for you. You’d recovered from worse, and she knew you’d bounce back from this in no time. She knew, deep down, that once you stopped sobbing, you’d get right back on your tasks and act as if nothing had happened. All you needed to do was control your emotions, and then the day could continue.
With a shaky inhale, you took a step away from your mother's embrace and blinked the remaining tears away from your eyes. You had a job to be done, and that wasn’t happening when you were wallowing in self-pity.
Far too much had happened before the sun was high enough in the sky to indicate that it was midday.
As you returned to your harvesting, the thought that Niall was, in fact, not okay continued to weigh on your mind.