The Chicken-Boy
Brendan Logan pushed Henry into the dirt and spat on him. There was no good reason for Brendan to do this. It was just a thing that made him feel good. In fact, he pushed lots of people into the dirt and spat on them. He always tried to follow up with some gross insult as well but, being not the most imaginative boy in town, he rarely managed anything wittier than what he said to Henry.
“Yer a chicken, Henry. Henry the hen, scratching in his pen. I kin lick you any day o’ the week, you weak chook.”
Then he’d go off laughing and making bawk-bawk sounds and feeling very clever indeed.
Every time it happened, Henry lay still in the dirt until Brendan was gone. Sometimes he cried softly to himself; not because the pushing hurt, which it didn’t, but because discovering yourself to be a chicken seemed a very sad thing to learn.
This day, after a time of such thoughts, Henry’s attention was caught by a small bug that was labouring along through the grass. The going was very rough for such a small creature, but it carried on resolutely, going about its small-bug-business, not even noticing the great bulk of a chicken-boy lying there in front of it. It seemed to be some kind of a beetle which never looked up and was very unperceptive. Henry was able to watch it waddle straight toward him until it bumped his nose. Even then it didn’t appear to be surprised or worried. It seemed to be travelling the world without any expectations at all. By shifting his head just a tiny bit, Henry was able to loll out his tongue, lick up the beetle and swallow it.
“There!” he thought to himself with a sense of satisfaction. “That’s what a chicken would do!”
He did, of course, feel just a twinge of curiosity as the beetle slipped down his throat. What would it be thinking? (Criminy! I’ve been licked up by a horrible great chicken-boy!)
“Well that’s what you get for not lifting your head and looking out for yourself!” thought Henry.
Henry got up then and moped along toward home. He stopped first, though, at the neighbour’s fowl-yard to peek through the mesh.
There’s nothing stupider than a chicken, he thought to himself. Clucking and scratching. Walking in circles. Running away at the slightest sound. The only way they’d ever get out would be minus their heads, feet and feathers, bound for the pot. Oddly, they didn’t seem concerned at all.
As Henry watched, a big red rooster strutted grandly through the yard, stopping occasionally to waggle its feathers and pick at a morsel on the ground. Henry looked from the proud rooster to the surrounding wire and back again to the hens. Why, he wondered, didn’t they fly away? Why did the stay in the yard? Was it because, like his beetle, they just never bothered to look up?
With his fingers and nose through the tiny hexagonal holes, Henry said softly, “There’s nothing stupider than a chicken.”
The rooster and every single hen in the yard fell quiet on the instant. As one, they raised their heads and each cocked a single, flat, green eye in his direction. If they had had eyebrows, it seemed that they might have raised them at that moment. Henry was quite taken aback.
He slipped away from the fence and ran home, where his mother shook a stern finger at him for playing in the dirt.
“Bawk-bawk-bawk,” answered Henry, cocking his head at a thoughtful angle.
Henry is having a peculiar afternoon, thought his mother, and she sent him off for his bath. That night, just before falling asleep, he fancied he could feel the beetle taking a late evening stroll in his throat. Though of course, that was quite impossible.
* * *
The next day, Brendan Logan caught up with Henry again and again pushed him in the dirt. Then he sat on Henry until he could work up a satisfactorily large dollop of spit. Henry didn’t struggle. He simply hid his face in the dirt and waited, like a chicken waiting behind the fence for a farmer with an axe.
“Boy, are you ever a chicken,” muttered Brendan with great disdain. “Henry Featherhead, the chicken. I could eat you for dinner, you dumb drumstick.”
Henry again lay still for some time after Brendan had gone. He wondered if another beetle might blunder along into him and if you could die from swallowing live creatures. If one came, perhaps he should chew it before swallowing. None did come, though, to be licked up by the monstrous chicken-boy and finally Henry dragged himself onto his claws, folded his wings neatly and started off. Bawk-bawk-bawk.
At the fowl yard, he stopped again, briefly to look left and right before scrambling over the fence. The hens, of course, ran in all directions in terror of the chicken-boy, but he meant no harm. He placed himself under a bush in the centre of the yard and squatted quietly until, before long, the hens went back to their pecking and clucking. Henry sat forlornly amongst them, making long, mournful sounds: ba-gawk . . .ba-gawk . . .ba-gawk.
When the big red rooster came from the coop to start his afternoon inspection, he noticed Henry immediately. Being a cautious fellow, however, he circled rather warily, preferring to approach from the rear. Thus it was that Henry was quite startled when a rather firm voice sounded right at his shoulder.
“Ahem!” it said.
The chicken-boy jumped in fright, spread his wings and squawked, “Baaaawwwk-bawk-bawk!”
“Now calm yourself!” said the rooster in a deep clear voice. “No one’s about to harm you!”
“Oh, wow!” gabbled Henry. “Boy did you give me a fright I didn’t see you there you shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that I could have taken a conniption fit and died, for goodness’ sake!” He was too absolutely frazzled even to spare a full stop but, as you know, chickens are very like that.
“Do accept my apology,” said the rooster kindly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I only thought that perhaps we might have a chat, you being new to the yard and all. Do you mind?”
“Heck no!” said Henry who was, in fact, very flattered. “I don’t mind at all! What’ll we talk about?”
“Well,” said the rooster, “I don’t mean to seem rude but you have rather dropped in on us! We don’t often get visitors here you see. And most new chickens who come are – well – they’re generally preceded by the arrival of an egg! I was wondering if you could possibly explain to me who you are and why you’re here! That is, of course, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Heck no!” said Henry again. “No trouble at all!”
And he launched into the sad discovery made at the hand and spit of Brendan Logan. He told the whole gruesome story, right down to the eating of the beetle and his recent suspicion that it still wandered about the byways of his insides. The rooster listened politely to the tale. Only near the end did he feel the need to stroll up and down a little, his wings folded neatly over his back and a very thoughtful expression on his face.
“I would say,” he said quietly when Henry had finished, “that you’ve had some very upsetting experiences!”
“I’ll say!” exclaimed Henry.
A number of hens had gathered around by this time and had waddled themselves into comfortable nesting positions. They clucked and tsk-tsked at the strange doings that occurred beyond their fence. For a boy to suddenly discover himself a chicken was most odd. Almost unheard of, in fact! What a strange world it was!
“You’re quite right about the beetles, of course,” the rooster explained, and the hens fell silent to listen. “Beetles seldom, if ever, look up. If they did, I suspect the great size of the world would terrify them into never leaving their holes! And there would be no life for them! No, in fact I believe beetle-courage is all about choosing to ignore the great size of the world - pretending it isn’t there, you see! Which means, of course, on the negative side, that they’re always in danger of experiencing something decidedly unpleasant! Yes, you really should have crunched him before you swallowed him!”
“Quite right!” chorused the hens. “Must crunch them! Might wander inside for days! Entirely unstoppable without a proper crunch!” And so on.
“However,” continued the rooster, “this B
rendan Logan business is very curious! He’s identified you as a chicken because . . . why? Because he’s able to push you down?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. I think it’s because I don’t fight when he pushes me down.”
“Oh, I see, yes, well! That’s certainly very chickenly! But - and I hope you don’t mind my pointing this out - it’s your choice, is it not? In which case - unless you’re like a beetle who refuses to look up - you must know you’ll run into others who choose otherwise! Isn’t that so?”
“Well . . . yes, I suppose. But I truly don’t want to fight. I don’t think I’d be very good at it - and I don’t like it!”
“Ah ha!” crowed the rooster. “Now! We can’t be critical of that, can we?” His bright red comb bobbed handsomely as he nodded. “Unsatisfactory business all ‘round, is fighting! Quite the wisest choice to avoid it!”
“Oh yes!” came the many replies, for by this time, the entire flock was gathered around the rooster and the chicken-boy. “Heavens yes! Good gracious yes! Gosh-oh-live-oh yes! Certainly much wiser!”
“I myself,” continued the rooster, “though I’m able to be quite as fierce as an eagle if provoked, like you, am not fond of fighting.”
Henry glanced at the rooster’s long sharp spurs.
“So that’s settled,” the rooster murmured. “We’re all entirely on your side. The problem remains, however, that Brendan is not! So the thing to wonder is, why? What imagining gives him his fierceness?”
“What do you mean?” asked Henry.
“I mean that you mustn’t think of fierceness as some special nugget that some get and some don’t. Oh no! Really, it’s just one of many things we might imagine about ourselves to help us face the world! We chickens, for example, imagine we’re quite safe behind our fence, and so we have no need of fierceness at all! Our friend the beetle perhaps imagines himself to be a small stone that cannot be crunched. And zip! Off he goes - full of determination but quite empty of fierceness! You see? So my question is, what is it that Brendan imagines about himself that makes him choose fierceness? It’s important to wonder, you see, because if you can understand that, you might just be able to change his thought!”
Henry shrugged his shoulders and didn’t answer. He had tried to understand, but it was very difficult. He gently extended one of his wings and ducked his head to preen and, more importantly, to hide the tears that he felt welling his eyes.
“I don’t know what Brendan imagines!”
“Well then,” said the rooster: “perhaps you could try to find out?”
The tears really did well in Henry’s eyes then and they quickly reached the stage of dripping from either side of his beak. The hens leaned forward curiously because tears are not natural to chickens and this seemed a very strange phenomenon. The rooster stepped directly in front of the chicken-boy then, and required him to look up.
“Here’s what I know,” he said kindly. “I know that every kind of choice has consequences. Sometimes good, sometimes bad! And I know that, if you try those consequences and they make you very sad, then you should try a different choice! By which I don’t mean, choose to meet Brendan on his terms! Oh no! I mean, try to see the value in your own terms! Try to believe that there are kinds of courage that do not need fierceness. Just as there are kinds of creatures that, though humble and gentle in their ways, cannot be easily stopped. You see?”
Henry did not see. Not really. But he did know, on the edges of his mind, that he did not really want to live a chicken’s life - forever behind the big fence. So, sighing deeply, he dragged himself to the wire and clambered over. Bawk-bawk-bawk, called the hens in farewell. And the rooster, standing up very tall, flapped his glorious wings, as though encouraging Henry to fly. And he crowed, quite splendidly, “Er-uh-Eerrr!”
Henry nodded in a rather disheartened fashion and turned away. Deep in his gullet, he felt a tiny scrabbling feeling.
* * *
Needless to say, the chicken-boy was entirely dispirited at this point; so sad and confused that he virtually dragged his wings as he walked. And he was face down in the dirt before he even noticed Brendan coming.
“Ha-ha, goop-head Henry! Bet that ruffled your feathers, you chicken’s neck!” crowed Brendan, though it wasn’t in any way similar to the rooster’s distinguished call. Brendan’s was a mean, snivelling little crow.
“There’s nothing stupider than a chicken,” he laughed, unwittingly echoing Henry’s own recent sentiments, and Henry felt a surge of shame. It was what the rooster had been hinting: that being a gentle creature, like a chicken, was not the same as being stupid or frightened! In fact, it could be that a bullying creature was actually the one that was a little bit stupid or frightened! And those things, Henry also realised, were what, to that point, neither he nor Brendan had managed to grasp!
He drew breath to shout something along those lines but dust went up his nose and he coughed instead. What-ho! Right under his nose was the beetle! Or at least it looked like the beetle! A glossy, damp looking little creature that paused but a moment before ploughing off through the afternoon sunlight, steady and serene and purposeful. And it did look a little like a stone! A stone with legs! A stone that simply refused to be stopped, even if swallowed up entirely.
A peculiar feeling flooded Henry’s own legs and he drew them up under him in a most un-chickenly fashion. In an instant he was back on his feet looking directly at Brendan, who was so surprised (he hadn’t even got his dollop of spit ready yet!) that he stepped two steps back!
“No, Brendan!” Henry growled. “Not wanting to fight is way different from being stupid or frightened. Try imagining something else!”
Brendan stuck his chin out but said with a little less certainty, “I don’t have to imagine something else, Henry! ‘Cause I know! You are a stupid chicken!” And he made a little movement, as though he might try pushing Henry over again, just to see if it was still true.
Henry straightened right up, bracing his little legs as he thought the beetle might do; not at all like someone expecting shortly to be on the ground. And he barked quite clearly, “Go ahead then, Brendan! Push, if that’s what you need to make you feel brave. But hurry up about it. I’ve got other stuff to be getting on with.” And he smiled.
Something in that show of teeth and in the jumpy little movement in Henry’s legs made Brendan think again. He was confused by this new ‘standing-up’ Henry. The old ‘lying-down’ Henry was much more to his taste. And so, instead of charging forward, he took a third step back.
“No!” he muttered. “I’m tired of pushing you down! Why would I want to push down a dirty dog like you?” And he turned away, toward his own home.
Henry was too flabbergasted to move at first. What had happened?
“Find out what Brendan imagines,” the rooster had said, “and change that!”
What a wise rooster he was! And it was that wisdom, Henry understood – not his great spurs or his sharp beak – that was the rooster’s greatest strength. He also thought he knew the new thing Brendan had been able to imagine. A dirty dog! That’s what Brendan had called him!
He raised his hind foot to scratch thoughtfully under his chin. Then, after a few minutes, he trotted off toward his own home, wagging his tail and barking cheerfully as he passed the fowl yard.
Mermaid
In hindsight, we should have lashed her to the side instead of bringing her aboard. That’s where we went wrong. But we had to get a better look at her; at her great tail, quivering and huge, with scales that shimmered through greens and blues and into the yellow of sea fog along her belly. Her back was ridged like the spine of a palm branch and her hair streamed, green-golden; but thick – strangely thickened – like seaweed. And she had arms. Definite arms.
The skin on her face and chest was human skin to the eye but, to the touch, it was hard, unyielding – like leather. I felt her breast, small and compact as it was, and she raked at me with quill-like nails. Pointed teeth, I remember
; the teeth of a predator. Her eyes, though, were the worst; hard and flat – pitiless; with no hint of humanity. That, despite the warm, oily blood that oozed steadily from the bullet hole at the narrow end of her tail.
That blood! Even though she’s gone, I can see it, smell it, feel it yet. It’s as though my mind has become a slaughter house and every sluice way runs full – hers and ours, mingled. Yes; bringing her aboard was where we went wrong!
* * *
“The autonomy of the sea!” I’d told them, timid landlubbers that they were. “Where else can men go and seek in every direction? Where else can men be, not what they wish they were but what they really are?”
And they’d come. My boat – my leadership – my plan. For three days we’d ambled amongst the reefs, prowled below great promontories and poked into the mouths of obscure streams. In the nights, we’d taken shelter ashore, always within the sound of the waves.
* * *
Oldest of friends is what we were; James, Randal, Gerard and I. True, we sometimes argued, but never before had we raised anything other than voices to one another. Not even on that third night, when James started us down that troublesome road.
“What the hell,” he’d challenged, gazing up at the sky, “could all that black and empty space be for?”
“Elbow room,” Randal had nodded in mock wisdom. “Claustrophobic God. Absolutely terrified of closeness.”
“Or very fond of explorers!” Gerard had laughed. “Reminds me of a huge scary closet, full of inviting pinholes! Are we the watchers or the watchees, I wonder?”
We’d gone quiet briefly then, until James suddenly shouted, “IT SEEMS VERY UNFRIENDLY!”
Immediately, off in the dark, we could hear the gurgle, groan and splash of some great creature; something that had perhaps floated silently up from the depths, also to look at the stars. And into the following silence, James had whispered, “Not that I’m criticising!”
We’d laughed brazenly then and piled more wood on the fire, to keep our fears at bay. But the night sky had remained in our eyes, tented and black, and Gerard had gone back to the thought.
“It surely has to be like that. If you made a thing like a man, you’d want to make plenty of hard places, to keep him looking and searching and wondering! Otherwise, he’d finish up totally screwed – self-obsessed and mad as a hatter!” He was quiet briefly, then he added, “I wonder what we will finish up like.”