It was dusk, and the receding sun cast long shadows across the junk strewn farmyard. Blossom had settled down for the evening, and lay sprawled in front of his wooden kennel. The chickens had gathered on a small patch of clear ground, and clucked expectantly as Zach heaved a bucket towards them through the maze of rubbish.
Zach stopped in the clearing, and plonked the bucket down. “Tea time, girls.” He scooped a handful of grain from the bucket and scattered it on the ground. “Enjoy.”
The clucking reached an excited crescendo as the chickens surged forwards, pecking ravenously at the fallen grains.
Edwin was starving (he hadn’t eaten a thing since lunchtime) and so entered the fray without hesitation; but he only managed to snatch a couple of grains before he was barged aside by a plump, speckled hen.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” squawked the plump speckled hen. “Don’t you know there is a pecking order on this farm?”
“No I didn’t,” said Edwin, bobbing his head in apology.
“Thought this was a free for all, eh?’ The plump speckled hen clucked disdainfully. “Standards may have slipped in other departments, but as far as us chickens are concerned, we still run a professional, well ordered brood.”
“Chardonnay!” Zach shook his head at the plump speckled hen. “Don’t be too hard on that one, you know it’s little Ginger’s first day.”
“All the more reason to put little Ginger in her place,” clucked Chardonnay. “The last thing this brood needs is an ill disciplined bird upsetting the order.”
Edwin wondered how the chickens could talk to Zach, and how he could talk to them, but he didn’t get a chance to ask.
“We have strict performance targets,” Chardonnay told Edwin. “You will produce between six and eight units per shift whilst on your training period, rising to eight to twelve units on completion of your training period. Targets thereafter will be adjusted as agreed by the management and myself as Mother Hen of the brood.”
“Excuse me,” said Edwin, who was more than a little confused. “But what’s a unit?”
Chardonnay cocked her head sideways. Edwin heard the other chickens clucking in amusement.
“A unit is an egg,” said Zach, a little awkwardly.
Edwin’s beak fell open. “I can’t lay eggs.”
“But you must,” clucked Chardonnay. “That’s why you’re here.”
“You don’t get it,” protested Edwin. “I can’t lay eggs.”
Chardonnay bobbed her head forcefully. “Of course you can lay eggs. You’re a chicken. It’s what us chickens do.”
I’m a chicken, thought Edwin, and his beak fell even wider open.
I’m a chicken.
Until now, it hadn’t sunk in.
He was a chicken: a small, ginger chicken. That liquid in the Plunge Pool had turned him into a bird!
“You must lay eggs,” insisted Chardonnay. “If you don’t meet your performance targets, you are no use to the brood.”
“That reminds me.” Zach squatted next to Chardonnay, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Of course,” clucked Chardonnay. “I am always willing to hold discussions with the management, provided that such discussions are formally minuted, and any suggested changes to the brood’s contract and/or working conditions is/are not implemented without formal ratification from the brood.”
“It’s about your productivity,” said Zach, before making an uncomfortable coughing sound. “It ain’t been so good of late.”
“I beg to disagree,” said Chardonnay. “My brood has exceeded all production targets.”
“I ain’t talking about the brood,” whispered Zach. “I’m talking about you, Chardonnay. Lately you ain’t been laying as many eggs as the other birds.”
Chardonnay clucked huffily. “As Mother Hen I am not obliged to personally meet the performance targets set for the main workforce. My role is to ensure the team as a whole performs to the required standards in terms of quantity and quality.”
“I know,” said Zach. “But Ma don’t see it like that. If she spots one of the brood is past her laying days, she don’t take too kindly to it.”
Chardonnay emitted a squawk of displeasure. “I am not past my laying days!”
Edwin noticed the other chickens had stopped eating, and were listening intently to the conversation.
“I ain’t saying that,” said Zach, very diplomatically. “But we all know you haven’t popped one out all summer. And Ma knows that too. You’ve got to start laying again, or she’ll want you out.”
“I see!” Chardonnay flapped her wings and puffed out her speckled chest. “So this is why you brought in little Ginger, is it? To replace me with a younger and more productive model?”
“It ain’t like that,” said Zach. “I didn’t have nothing to do with how little Ginger got ‘ere. If I’d had my way little Ginger wouldn’t be here at all.”
“And little Ginger doesn’t want to be here either,” said Edwin, staring at Zach. “Can’t you turn me back into a human?”
“You may not converse directly with the management,” Chardonnay snapped at Edwin. “All dialogue with the management must be conducted through myself as Mother Hen.”
“It’s OK,” said Zach. “Ginger isn’t really a chicken.”
“Not really a chicken?” Chardonnay squawked with outrage. “Then what is she? If she’s a duck, there are laws against ducks taking chickens’ jobs.”
“Ginger ain’t no duck,” said Zach. “Now run along back to the henhouse, Chardonnay. I need to speak to Ginger about something.”
“This is most irregular,” clucked Chardonnay. “You are undermining my authority as spokeshen for the brood.”
“It’s a private matter,” insisted Zach. “We’re not going to discuss performance targets, working conditions, or annual leave. You take the brood back to the hen house. It’s getting dark, and you know that fox has been seen sniffing around the place of late.”
That news set off a chorus of nervous clucking, and Chardonnay led the brood out of the farmyard. She wasn’t happy though, and Edwin heard her mention something about an ‘industrial tribunal’.
“Sorry about that,” said Zach, once all the chickens were out of earshot. “But you shouldn’t mind Chardonnay. She’s only looking after the interests of the brood. And I’ll make sure she goes easy on your performance targets, at least to start with.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about,” said Edwin. “I don’t want to be a chicken. There must be some way you can turn me back into a human?”
Zach shook his head. “There ain’t no way to reverse the process. At least none I seen, anyhow.”
“Then I’m stuck like this forever.” Edwin clucked resignedly.
“Could have been worse,” mused Zach. “You could have ended up like them lot.”
Edwin heard creaking, and turned to see a line of scarecrows hobbling into the yard. He counted more than thirty, and watched in horrified fascination as they assembled in front of the barn like a bizarre sack faced army on parade.
“Where did they all come from?” he asked, spotting the raggedy forms of Bill and his mother within the ranks.
“Local villagers,” said Zach. “Passing hikers. Folks out for an afternoon drive who got lost. They’ve been building up a workforce all summer. A workforce to bring the harvest home.”
“So I heard Ma say,” mused Edwin. “But what are they going to harvest?”
“I don’t know for sure,” said Zach. “But they’ve been building something in that barn for the last three months.”
Edwin was intrigued. “Have you seen what it is?”
Zach shook his tufty head. “I don’t go nowhere near the barn. There’d be hell to pay if I was caught snooping around.”
Edwin saw the fear in Zach’s eyes, and knew he wouldn’t get any further information out of him.
“I’m sorry,” continued Zach. “But there ain’t much I
can do to help you.”
“There might be one thing,” said Edwin, as Zach turned to leave. “When we were attacked by the scarecrows, I lost something. A key.”
Zach stopped, and frowned at Edwin. “What use is a key to you now?”
“This is a very special key,” said Edwin. “A key that could turn me back into a human, and sort out whatever’s going on with those scarecrows.”
Zach looked interested. “Is it magic?”
Edwin was surprised by the question. “You believe in magic?”
“I didn’t,” admitted Zach, “until all sorts of weird things started happening ‘ere.”
“Yes, it’s magic.” Edwin nodded his chicken head. “You see I’m a Guardian, Bryony too, and we can use the magic power stored in the Key.”
Zach stepped back, an uneasy look in his eyes. “You mean you’re witches?”
“Not really,” said Edwin hurriedly. “Our magic is the magic of the Wise Ones. Good magic.”
Zach nodded. Edwin’s hopes grew.
“So could you find the Key for me? It dropped out of my hat when we escaped from the scarecrows. Think it must be in that pile of straw outside the tool shed.”
Zach hesitated, then shook his head. “I ain’t got time to go looking for your key. Too many chores to do.”
Edwin was amazed. “This is important, Zach. My life could depend on it.”
“Aye,” said Zach. “And my life depends on getting my chores done. There’s two cartloads of dung I gotta shovel up before supper.”
“Why do you have to do that?” asked Edwin.
“Cos Uncle Jed says so. And I have to do what Uncle Jed says, or…”
Zach’s voice trailed off, but the fearful look in his eyes was enough to tell Edwin what he meant.
“You shouldn’t be scared of Jed,” said Edwin. “He’s nothing but a bully. And my mum says bullies are really cowards.”
“I ain’t scared of him.” Zach scowled at Edwin. “I ain’t scared of no one.”
But Zach flinched as a gruff voice shouted, and the burly form of Jed came marching out of the farmhouse.
“Right you ‘orrible lot!” Jed bellowed at the standing scarecrows. “Call that a parade? You’re a disgrace to your commanding officer! Let’s have those backs straight. No slouching, you’re in my regiment now. That man, your collar’s open. You lad, you’re leaking straw. And you at the back, put your head on straight.”
Jed walked along the line of scarecrows, like a sergeant major inspecting his troops. “That’s better. Now you know why you’re here, don’t you?”
The scarecrows didn’t react.
“Oh no, I forgot you got nothing but straw in them sack heads of yours.” Jed chuckled to himself. “So I’ll remind you. You’re here to take orders from me. You will obey without question. Disobedience will not be tolerated. Any scarecrow found shirking his duties will be mulched up and thrown on the compost heap.”
“Your uncle Jed likes the sound of his own voice,” observed Edwin.
“He used to be in the army,” explained Zach. “But he didn’t make the grade. To be honest, I don’t mind him shouting at them scarecrows, as it stops him yelling at me all day. Still, he’s a pussy cat compared to Ma.”
As if on cue, Edwin heard a rasping screech from across the farmyard. “Zach, you lazy good for nothing brat!” Ma came stomping towards them, her chubby face set in a wrinkly frown. “Stop gassing to them chickens, and go fetch some firewood. The oven needs lighting. I want it good and hot for tonight’s harvest supper.”
Zach frowned. “But Uncle Jed told me I gotta shovel the dung.”
“The oven is more important,” snarled Ma, raising a podgy hand at Zach. “You’ll have to shovel the dung afterwards. Now get to it, afore I bounce yer brains across the farmyard.”
“Yes Ma.” Zach’s shoulders slumped, and he cast Edwin a pitiful look before slouching off to the log shed.
Ma turned her ferrety gaze to Jed and his line of sack-faced troops. “It’s nearly time. Are you sure that lot is ready?”
“I’ve drilled ‘em proper,” said Jed. “They won’t let us down.”
“They’d better not,” muttered Ma. “I don’t think the Ministry will take kindly to failure.”
The Ministry? Edwin remembered what Ma had said about the Ministry of Agriculture being involved in the harvest. But that couldn’t be right. The Ministry of Agriculture was a government department; surely they wouldn’t have anything to do with walking scarecrows or dips that turned humans into livestock?
Suddenly Blossom sprang up and started barking.
“What’s with you?” asked Ma. “Caught a scent of summat? It’ll be that wily fox again, no doubt.”
Blossom strained at his leash, which Edwin noted was now only a few feet long and tethered to a post inside the kennel.
“Sorry,” said Ma, giving the dog an apologetic smile. “But I got to keep you on a short lead tonight, seeing as we’re expecting visitors. Still, suppose I’d better see all our chicks are locked up safely. Now where has that little Ginger gone?”
But the little ginger chicken was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 8- Bringing Home the Bacon