The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly (2 page)

 

S
prout like
d to stare out into the barnyard. She would much rather watch the ducks scuttle away from the dog than peck at feed. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself wandering freely about. She fantasized about sitting in a nest, on an egg, about venturing into the fields with the rooster, and about following the ducks around. She sighed. It was pointless to dream. It would never happen to her. She had not been able to lay an egg for the past few days. This was no surprise, since she could barely get to her feet.

On the fifth day without an egg, Sprout woke up from a deep sleep to hear the farmer's wife grousing, “We need to cull it. Take it out of the coop.” Sprout had never thought she would leave the coop. She didn't understand the word “cull,” but the thought of getting out of the coop gave her a burst of energy. She lifted her head with effort and sipped some water. The next day, too, she failed to lay an egg. Sprout could sense it—her body could no longer make eggs. But she still took in a bit of water and feed. She couldn't wait for her new life to begin. She would hatch an egg and raise a chick. She could do it if she could only get out into the yard. She waited, brimming with anticipation. She slept fitfully, imagining playing in the fields with the rooster and scratching at the ground.

The following day, the door to the coop opened and the farmer and his wife entered, pushing an empty wheelbarrow. Sprout was so weak she couldn't stand up straight, but mentally she was sharper than ever before. She raised her voice for the first time in a long while: “I'm flying the coop!” she clucked. The most wonderful day since she was shut in the coop had dawned. The scent of the acacias filled the air.

“We can probably get something for the meat, right?” the farmer's wife asked her husband.

“I'm not sure. It looks sickly. . . .”

Their conversation didn't register with Sprout, whose heart pounded at the thought that she would finally live in the yard. The farmer grabbed her by the wings and pulled her out of her cramped cage. Sprout landed with a thud in the wheelbarrow. She was too weak to resist or even to flap her wings. She craned her neck but for only a moment. Then other weak hens landed on top of her, smothering Sprout. In a separate wire cage, the farmer and his wife loaded up old hens whose egg-bearing years were behind them but who were otherwise healthy, then loaded them into a truck that drove off the farm. Sprout remained in the wheelbarrow, weighed down by hens on the verge of death. The last hen landed on her head. Sprout was scared. She tried not to lose consciousness, wondering what was happening. The loud clucks gradually died down, and soon she couldn't hear a thing. It was getting difficult to breathe.
Is this what it means to be culled?
Sprout's eyelids drooped
. I can't die like this.
She tried to muster up courage but grew only more frightened. Sorrow bubbled up from the bottom of her heart. She couldn't die like this, not before getting to the yard. She had to escape from the wheelbarrow. But the hens stacked on top of her were crushing her bones.

Sprout focused on the image of the acacia tree blooming with flowers, the green leaves, the wonderful scent, and the happy animals in the yard. She had only one wish, to hatch an egg and watch the birth of a chick. It was an ordinary wish, but now she was dying before she could fulfill it. As her consciousness wavered, Sprout began to see things. She saw herself sitting on an egg, warming it in a nest. The noble rooster stood guard at her side and acacia flowers fluttered down like snow.
I've always wanted to hatch an egg. Just once! One egg just for me. I've wanted to whisper, I won't ever leave you, Baby. Go on, crack the shell, I want to meet you. Don't be scared, Baby! And cuddle my baby upon birth.
Believing she was really incubating an egg, she lost consciousness, a smile on her beak.

Sprout opened her eyes. How much time had passed? It was raining, and she was soaked to the bone. She didn't know where she was.
I guess I didn't die.
She was freezing. Even after her mind cleared, she couldn't move. She would feel better if she shook her feathers out, but she didn't have the strength.

She heard something from above. Only after that noise repeated itself did she understand.

“Hey, you. Can you hear me?” the voice called.

Sprout managed to lift her head. She could smell a terrible odor but couldn't see what was around her.

“You're fine. I knew it!” The excited voice grew louder. “Get up! Take a step!”

“Take a step? I can't. It's too hard.” Sprout looked around at the trees on the dusky slope and the grass dancing in the wind on top of the dike. From somewhere over there she heard the voice again.

“You're not dead. Come on, get up!”

“Of course I'm not dead.” Sprout flexed her wings and stretched her legs and shook her neck to and fro. Everything was intact; she was just weak. “Who are you?”

“Stop talking. You need to run away. Hurry!”

Sprout staggered to her feet. It took everything she had to take a few steps toward the voice. When was the last time she'd walked? One step, two steps. She froze in place, then sat down, stunned. “Oh, my god. What is this?”

Dead hens were piled all around her. She was stepping on them. She was stuck in a large open grave.

“But I'm still alive! How can this be?” Sprout sprang up and ran around, clucking in panic. But she couldn't escape. She trod on corpses with every step she took. Her terror was bottomless. She couldn't believe her eyes.

“What in the world are you doing?” the voice asked from beyond the grave.

But Sprout was too busy running around and clucking. “Oh, no! What am I going to do?”

“Watch out, be careful!”

“I'm not dead! How can this be?”

“Look over there. You're being targeted!”

“What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

“Run away! Can't you see you're a target? You dumb hen! Those eyes are on you!” the voice hollered.

Only then did Sprout stop making a fuss. Something was slinking in the grass opposite from where the voice was coming. Two eyes were glaring at her. A chill shot down her spine.

“If you stay there you're going to get into trouble!”

Sprout didn't know who was ordering her around from outside the open grave but decided he was more trustworthy than the glinting eyes. “You must be the rooster!” she cried. Only he would have the courage to shout in the dark like this. Sprout followed the voice to the edge of the grave. The hole was shallower there, so she was able to hop out easily.

“Good job,” her new friend said in a calm, kind voice.

Sprout shuddered and took a good look at her friend. It was the mallard duck from the yard—the mallard with extraordinary green and brown feathers, the loner who always trailed the family of ducks. It began to sink in that she had indeed left the chicken coop. “Thank you for saving me!”

“No need to thank me. I couldn't let him get you. When he gets someone alive, I get so unbelievably angry.”

“Who?”

“The weasel!” The mallard shuddered, his neck feathers bristling.

Sprout trembled, too. The weasel stood proudly on the other side of the open grave. He was glaring at them, angry that his meal had escaped.

“Go back, now that you survived,” the mallard said and waddled off.

“Wait, where?” The mallard wasn't planning to take her along! She wanted to follow him into the yard. Why would she go back? “I'm not going back to the coop. I just got out! I was culled.”

“Culled? What does that mean?”

“I'm not sure, but I think it means I'm free.”

“In any case it's dangerous to stay here. Just go. I'm late. Everyone will be in bed.” The mallard waddled on, looking tired.

Sprout glanced back at the weasel and hurried after the mallard. “How did you know I was in the grave?”

“On my way back from the reservoir I saw the weasel hanging around, which meant there was still a hen alive in the Hole of Death. I know that awful creature!” The mallard shuddered again, his neck feathers trembling. “He's really something—he always hunts the living. And he's big—bigger than any of the other ones. He hunts the living to show how powerful he is. A living hen like you is good prey. He gets what he's after from time to time. You were lucky.”

“That's right, I was lucky. It's all thanks to you.” Sprout trotted right behind the mallard. Hearing that she was good prey made her feathers stand on end.

“I've never met a hen like you. It's good that you made a racket. The weasel must have been wondering how he could snatch such feisty prey.” The mallard laughed gleefully and looked back at the grave.

There was the weasel, still standing there studying them. Sprout quickly averted her eyes, but the mallard was unruffled. “I'm sure you'll meet him again. That one doesn't give up.”

“Really?” Sprout sputtered.

“I think you're the first hen to come out of there alive.”

“But I was never dead,” Sprout murmured.

The mallard continued on his way. They passed under the acacia tree. “Where will you go?” he asked.

Sprout hesitated. “Well . . . I don't have the tiniest desire to go back to the coop.”

“You already said that.”

“Riiight, I did.” Sprout hoped the mallard would help her out. “Um, couldn't you take me with you?”

“Where? Into the barn?” The mallard shook his head. Sprout had put him on the spot. But, perhaps feeling sorry for her, he didn't say no right away. “I'm not from here. But you're a hen, so maybe . . .” The mallard led her to the barn, where the animals slept at night.

 

T
he old dog was stretched out on the ground with only his rear in his house. His eyes half-closed, he was on his way to dreamland. But when he caught sight of the mallard and a scrawny, soaking-wet chicken missing all her neck feathers, his eyes grew large. “What a terrible smell!” the dog growled, stepping forward.

Sprout sidled closer to the mallard.

“No need to do that. It's just a hen,” the mallard said gently so as not to offend the dog.

The dog frowned and circled Sprout, as though waiting for a chance to snatch her up in his jaws. “I can't let just anyone by. I'm an excellent guard!” The dog bared his teeth.

Hearing the commotion, several ducks stuck their heads out of the barn. “So he didn't leave after all?” one duck groused.

“Oh, no,” another duck lamented. “What's he dragged in?”

“What a mess! A plucked chicken. It must have run away from the weasel's dinner table.”

The ducks quacked with laughter.

The mallard was quiet, but his feathers stood on end and trembled. Sprout felt sorry that he was the butt of their jokes.

“Hey, Straggler!” a duck called. “You're too much of a burden for us as it is. And now you've dragged some sick chicken along with you?”

“Shoo her away! She'll infect us all.”

In chorus, the brace of ducks agreed that Sprout should leave immediately.

The dog growled triumphantly, “Got it? Don't you even think about hanging around here.”

Sprout was cowed. But she had nowhere else to go. She remained right behind Straggler. “I won't get anyone sick. I won't bother anyone,” she said, sniffling. The yard animals weren't strangers to her—she had thought everything would work out if she just left the coop. “And I've wanted to live in the yard for a long time.”

“What? You're an egg-laying hen. You need to lay eggs in the coop!” the dog thundered.

“But I . . .” Sprout stammered, trying to stand her ground.

The dog grew more ferocious, lunging at her with his nostrils flaring until she fell on her bottom. This happened several times. The ducks laughed riotously. Sprout burst into tears.

“You're being cowards! Just leave the hen alone!” Straggler shouted at them. “I came here to ask everyone's opinion. How could you be so cruel?”

“Cruel? Does he forget who let him live in the shed?” one of the ducks grumbled.

Straggler grew even more indignant. “This hen escaped from the Hole of Death! No other hen has come out of there alive. The weasel had his eye on her, but she escaped. She's brave!”

The ducks looked surprised.

“She stood up to the weasel!” he continued. “Could any of you do that? You would have met your end as you tried to waddle away.”

The ducks grew silent in the face of Straggler's vigorous defense. The old dog stopped growling.

“What's the big deal? We can just give her a corner of the barn,” Straggler proposed.

Sprout marveled at his confidence. Because he always brought up the rear when the ducks went somewhere, she had always thought of him as a duckling.

“Be quiet!” scolded another duck, the leader of the brace, emerging from the barn. “You're an outsider. How dare you insult us? Don't forget we let you live in the barn. You should be grateful!”

The rooster came out to see what the ruckus was about. “I am the head of the barn! Straggler has no right to say this or that. I make every decision!” Everyone deferred to the rooster. His voice was commanding, just as it was when he crowed at dawn. The rooster continued: “Don't you make a fuss. It's late, so the weasel might come by. The hen can stay in the barn. But only tonight. The coop's closed anyway. She can sleep on the outer edge. And as soon as I announce the dawn, she must leave at once!”

The rooster went back into the barn. The leader of the ducks followed, as did the mallard. Cautiously Sprout went in last. The old, cantankerous dog paced the yard.

The barn was cozy. Bowls of water and feed were spread out, and a warm tangle of hay sat in one corner. There was no wire mesh like the one that had constrained Sprout each time she tried to flap her wings. The rooster and his hen fluttered up to the roost and looked down at everyone. The ducks huddled together. Straggler crouched near the door, some distance away. That seemed to be his spot. Sprout knew she had to be even farther away from the group. So she settled on the outer edge of the barn and didn't dare dream of nestling in the warm hay.

“I can't believe this has happened again,” grumbled the hen in the roost. “That hen has to leave in the morning. I'm very sensitive these days. I'm about to lay eggs. If I'm to hatch chicks, everything must be peaceful. I'm sure everyone remembers that I've lost all my chicks!”

Sprout looked up at the hen in the roost. Even in the dark she could appreciate her beauty—her voluptuous body, lustrous feathers, and neat comb. She was a lovely companion to the gallant rooster. Sprout was envious. She wondered if she had ever been that elegant.
And she's going to hatch an egg! I want to know what that's like. I wish I could be just like her.
Sprout had never paid attention to the way she looked. But she knew she was particularly unattractive right now—bedraggled and featherless. Suddenly ashamed, she huddled into herself and blinked back tears. She didn't want anyone staring at her bare neck. To console herself, she remembered that she had escaped the coop and was with the yard animals now.
Soon I'll be able to lay an egg. Soon enough!
But then she remembered her departure orders. Her future looked bleak. And she was starving.

Still, Sprout slept well for the first time in a long while. She was the first to wake, even earlier than the rooster, but she didn't move. She wanted to revel in the coziness of the barn, and she didn't want to disturb the sleeping animals. She grew hopeful.
Maybe they'll let me stay. The mallard is a straggler, and he's settled here. They'll understand if they know how much I want to live in the yard.

The rooster got up. He smoothed his feathers and stretched his wings, then lengthened his neck and shouted, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” He fluttered down from the roost near Sprout. She sprang up to let him by.

“I'll give you until I flap my wings and crow on top of the rock wall. Then you must be gone,” the rooster ordered. “We let the mallard stay because he really doesn't have a place to go. But you have your own place. The coop. It's safe there. No matter how brave a hen you are, you can't keep running from the weasel.” He puffed up with pride. “I gave you a place to sleep last night because you're our kind. But our kind can't become the laughingstock of the barn. Now you have to go back to where you belong.”

“I don't want to go back. I want to live in the yard. I won't need to worry about the weasel here,” Sprout pleaded. “I was culled.”

“Culled?” Sprout nodded, and the rooster laughed derisively. He glared at her, as though he would peck her if she responded. “Nobody wants you!”

Sprout's hopes were dashed. Humiliated, she set her beak firmly. The rooster went out. A moment later she heard his crow, her signal to leave. She glanced at the mallard, who was awake and watching her. But Straggler couldn't help—he was at the bottom of the pecking order. He gave her an apologetic look. Sprout understood. He had done all he could, helping her when she was about to be the weasel's dinner and standing up for her when the yard animals refused her. Sprout left the barn, but she didn't have anywhere to go. She crouched under the acacia tree. The farmer pushed the wheelbarrow toward the coop. When she was in the coop, Sprout would eagerly await the moment the door opened to get a glimpse of the yard she never thought she would reach. Yet here she was!
I shouldn't be sad. It's a miracle that I'm here at all!
Sprout looked up at the acacia tree, which reached toward the sky.
I'm going to lay an egg. And I'm going to hatch a chick. If I survived the weasel, then nothing can stop me!
Her stomach rumbled. Sprout salivated as she watched the farmer's wife feed the yard animals. She wanted to eat, too. She stood up and ran toward a trough. She had no idea where she got the energy. Before she could reach it, a duck bit her mercilessly on the neck. “How dare you?”

Without any feathers to protect her neck, Sprout nearly fainted from the pain.

“Get lost! Now!” snapped the duck before shoving his head in the trough. The other ducks surrounded it, their tails pointing to the sky. There was nowhere for Sprout to wedge herself in.

Sprout glanced at the rooster couple's trough. There was enough room there, but she knew she couldn't. The rooster was greedy and ferocious. And she didn't dare think about approaching the dog.

The farmer looked at Sprout as he pushed the wheelbarrow out of the coop. His wife, on her way inside to retrieve eggs, stopped next to him. “Somehow survived,” she said.

Her husband nodded. “It's a tough one.”

“Should I put it back in the coop? Oh, right, this one can't lay eggs. Should we eat it?”

Sprout was petrified. But the farmer shook his head. “It's sick anyway. It'll die eventually. Or a weasel will get to it.”

Sprout breathed a sigh of relief. But she wished she could eat something, anything. She tried swallowing air. The hens in the coop would be busy eating right now. Her empty intestines felt knotted up. Although life in the yard was more difficult than she had imagined, she didn't even glance at the coop. The compost pile! She remembered the rooster couple digging in it. Sprout headed there without a clue as to what she might find. She was pleased to see a juicy worm wriggling in the dirt. It looked perfectly delicious. The rooster's hen ran over. “Don't you eat my snack!” She gave Sprout a sharp peck on the head. Sprout screamed and backed away. Unappeased, the hen pecked Sprout all over and herded her off the yard. Sprout's entire body ached. But her hunger trumped her pain. She decided to go to the garden. She pecked bits of dewy green cabbage, a lovely relief from both hunger and thirst. Afraid the rooster and hen would run over to guard their territory, Sprout kept exploring. The garden wasn't the only source of food; vast fields surrounded her. Sprout stood tall and proud, clucking joyfully. The rooster and the hen couldn't rule over all this!