For Their Own Good
My chickens are naughty and cruel but they love me so. I can hear their wicked cackling out in the hen house before dawn. The bullies tear feathers from the weaklings and the weaklings cry in terror. But when I step out in my nightgown and open the hatch door, they press against my legs with affection. I toss the corn widely, so no one goes hungry. Then I call the children with the old school bell that hangs in front of our home. The oldest two, Eli and Sarah, are already at the table with their workbooks. Noah puts wood in the stove like a good helper. Mary sings hymns while she fills the kettle. And Rebecca, my youngest, dear angel is still in bed with her rabbit. But when the bell rings, they come running to clean the filthy straw while the naughty birds eat. And when morning chores are done, we have prayers and breakfast and then, only then, may the children take their phones from the basket by my bed.
One day soon, when this trouble is settled, when Caleb gets home, we’ll return to our routine. Oh! On those mornings, after breakfast, I would read one of the great novels--something 19th century and British, maybe, or perhaps some stories about life on the American prairie. One’s morning is enriched by literature. And even the most tormented heroines never ask for help—they just ask to be heard.
But I was talking about the chickens! Well. I’m grateful to those hens for more than their eggs and their love. They sense when there’s a threat, and if you watch them closely, you’ll be forewarned. That’s how it started…
A week ago, on a cold spring night, I was in the yard closing things up. Rebecca was with me, clinging to my skirt, dragging her rabbit, staring up at the moon with eyes of wonder. We noticed that the chickens were silent. There’s not much spookier than a silent hen house, and I’m not superstitious. When we shone the flashlight in through the doorway, we saw all the birds up on the roosts, pressed against the wall as high as they could be. Their eyes didn’t blink, and their beaks hung open, like an actor faking astonishment. All the straw was pushed back along the corners of the house, and in the center, the floorboards were swept clean.
Must have been a fox, I said.
Rebecca motioned for me to lean down and whispered in my year, Foxes don’t do sweeping, mama. It was invaders.
I shushed her then and said no such thing, but now of course I know better.
[End of excerpt]
This story is part of the collection Under the Moon in Illinois, which will be released soon in print, ebook, and audiobook. To learn more (and read the rest of this story), sign up for my newsletter. Just use the form at the bottom of this page. Thanks!
