A Chicken on Trial: Chapter Three, The Fowl Witch

They entered Claude’s ramshackle estate, it’s ceiling sunken, and the swamp-smell all the more profuse. It was one room, Claude’s bed was pressed against the far corner, and a small fire huffed and puffed in the confines of a crumbling chimney. Henrietta would call it cozy.

Claude sat her on the table, then rummaged through the uneven cupboards for chickenfeed. Bernadette paced the rooms perimeter, shrewd eyes picking up details and swallowing them whole. Henrietta, at last, felt content enough to preen herself, a small aura of dust clouding her as she shed anxiety from her feathers.

“Would you like tea?” called Claude, once Henrietta was provided for.

“I’d love some,” Bernadette replied.

Shortly, the two humans were sat at the table with steaming cups of tea in their hands, a sated Henrietta between them.

“I have to ask,” Claude said, uneasy, “why take Henrietta’s case? When I can’t even pay you.”

Bernadette smiled through paper-thin lips. “The challenge, of course. And the renown, for winning. Which I will. Win, that is.” She raised the tea in cheers, then took a long swig. “I’m the best lawyer I know,” she said, setting it back down on the wooden table with a clank, “it’s only the matter of proving it. Next week, Henrietta will be put before the council and tried for witchcraft. The prosecution will argue that she has cavorted with the devil and invited an untold amount of evil into the community.”

“So, what do we do?” asked Claude, exasperated.

“We cannot deny that Henrietta was roosting a basilisk. We might be able to deny her malicious intent, but that ground is shaky. However, chickens, specifically hens, are inclined to care for eggs. So, if a snake did find her way into the coop, and Henrietta obeyed her natural intuition, it would not be her fault, but Mr. Huber’s, who failed to protect his chickens.”

Claude recoiled, face flushing a vibrant fuchsia. “My uncle hadn’t been out to the coop in months. The chickens were my responsibility, not his. It’s all my fault.”

“Incompetency is not a crime; you won’t be burned for it.” said Bernadette. Claude crumpled like tea leaves in hot water.

“Bok bok!” Henrietta cried, mortified. Of course, neither paid her any heed.

“My uncle fired me this morning,” Claude confided, “a death sentence like any other.”

Bernadette sucked in a breath and stared into the basin of her mug. It seemed, at last, she didn’t have anything to say. This was a relief to Henrietta. Now that her belly was full, she felt the pull of a fuzzy slumber. She fluffed up her feathers, then laid her head on her cloud-like bosom, and dozed.

-

She woke to weeping.

Bernadette was gone, and the fire burned low. The sun outside had just set, and the world was cast in a hazy, purple glow, like a dream. Henrietta stretched, extending her neck and wings as far as they could go, then swiveled her head around to trace the sound. Claude was knelt to the floor before the fireplace, hands clasped above her head, body wracked with sobs.

There was a pang in Henrietta’s tiny chicken heart, and though her tiny chicken brain could not understand why Claude despaired, (the two of them were together again, after all, and they were safe!) she knew the girl was in desperate need of comfort.

Henrietta leapt from the perch with a cats grace, and waddled beside Claude, clucking to her comfortingly. A jolt ran through Claude, like she was struck by lightning, and she shot upward. Her hazel eyes, like quiet creeks, were bloodshot, and tears carved rivers into her cheeks. But when she saw Henrietta, she laughed and smiled. “Your hungry again, aren’t you? I’ll betcha the constable fed you next to nothing. Let me get you something to eat.”

She rose to her feet and moved toward the kitchen, where she leafed through the cupboards. A steady stream of cursing stemmed from her, as she realized there was no more chickenfeed to be had.

Henrietta was left puzzled before the fireplace. She cocked her head at it, curious about the heat that brushed against her feathers. It reminded her of that gap between the paneling, a portal to another space. She shuffled closer, letting the warmth envelop her a little more. And when that wasn’t enough, she moved closer still. If she ate the embers, would the warmth transfer to her belly? Henrietta was about to find out; her head was almost in the chimney.

“No, Henrietta!” yelled Claude, scooping her from the ground, soiling Henrietta’s fun. “Naughty chicken. You’ve got a real knack for almost killing yourself, you know? And a real knack for hurting my heart.” She brought Henrietta to the table, setting her next to the empty bag of chickenfeed, and then replaced the fireplace’s grate. She was more frazzled than before, which had not been Henrietta’s intent.

Claude continued rambling to herself. “That Bernadette lass is a real piece of work, eh? You think if I socked her in the face she’d learn not to talk so much? I’ll show her incompetency.”

“Bok,” tsked Henrietta, who wished to remind Claude to behave more ladylike.

She dropped to the floor and pried at a loose floorboard, pulling it away to reveal a rectangular abyss. From it, she drew a book. More of a tome, really, as tall and wide as Henrietta was. Golden letters gleamed in the dim firelight, written in a strange and jagged alphabet. It creaked as it opened.

“Alright, Claude,” said Claude, to herself. Her breath came in short bursts, and her fraying braid was coming apart, hair falling across her face as she fixated on the books pages. “You’ve got this.”

She closed her eyes. It was almost completely dark, the light from the fire caressing one side of Claude as her hands rose into the air. She spoke in a voice Henrietta did not know, thrusting a spike of fear into the hen, rippling from her wings to her talons, as though an ice-hand strung her nerves like a lute. She shrank backward, clucking quietly in fright.

Then, the bag of chickenfeed swelled. The smell of grain crashed over Henrietta, sudden and disorienting. The seams of the burlap sack strained, then snapped, and it’s inside guts spilled across the table and onto the floor, the sound a hailstorm of corn.

When Claude’s eyes opened, they were not their usual hue, but pools of ink that stared, unseeing. She scrunched her face up in annoyance and swiped at them with her hands, picking out the darkness like one would an eye boogie. She blinked a few times for good measure, then smiled, sly, at the full bag of chickenfeed. Then, as though nothing happened, she fetched a broom and swept the spillage into a pan, humming a jolly old tune. She paused, only a moment, as a wave of nausea seemed to crash over her. She leaned against the broom, wavering like a mirage. But it passed quickly, and she returned to the task at hand.

Once she’d put the broom away, she returned to Henrietta, and cooed softly, “I’m sorry, old girl. I hadn’t meant to scare you.” Claude extended a hand toward her. Henrietta hesitated only a moment, before allowing her to scratch her head.

“I’m going to tell you a secret,” Claude said, voice barely above a whisper. She grinned, teeth jagged in the darkness, “You and I are going to survive. I’m going to make sure of it.”