Last summer, I
blogged about how Ceredwin, one of my hens, had a little brood of chicks.
Heavens, she was proud! She grew feathers on her feet to help keep them warm,
called them each time she found food. But there came a point where they didn’t
look cute and fluffy any more; they weren’t smaller than Ceredwin anymore,
either. She turned her back on them – she’d taught hem well and now she
expected them to fend for themselves.
A year later
those four chicks are part of our flock. Rhiannon bears a golden shoulder cape
and Pwyll has grown into a distinguished cockerel. Littlewings (so called
because she was the runt of the brood –when it was mini mealworm time she’d run
up and down the edge of the nesting box, trying to scale the great height of 2
inches, to join the feast, and we’d cheer her on as if we’d put money on a
hurdling competition), and, finally, there’s Redneck.
Redneck is a
Transylvanian Naked-neck cockerel. I swear there’s a bit of turkey somewhere in
this breed, because, although much smaller than Pwyll, he’s an odd contorted
shape and sometimes he sort-of…gobbles. His neck is bright red, exposed through
a ruff of white feathers. He so ugly, only his mother could love him, but his
mother doesn’t love any of her brood anymore, so there’s no hope.
We love him, of
course, because he affords us so much fun. Despite his diminutive size and
challenging appearance, he’s made of stern stuff. “Never give up, Never
surrender,” is his motto. Never give up chasing the hens, that is.
You see, Pwyll
took over the entire flock with a confidence that comes from knowing you are a
hen’s answer to Joshua Jackson – I’m sure he must have looked in a mirror at
sometime – it’s clear he knows how handsome he is. His approach to Redneck’s
advances is; “if you want these dames, you have to fight for them.”
I came out into
the yard to find them scrapping; running at each other, crowing and flapping,
flinging themselves into the air, crashing at each other a yard up from the
ground, beaks and spurs ripping and tearing. There was blood on the ground and
on the breasts of my two cocks.
And it was all
Redneck’s.
He sulked to
the end of the garden to lick his wounds. Actually, hens (all birds, I think)
have tongues, but I doubt he did much licking. I tried several times to catch
him to patch him up, but he wasn’t having any of it.
“Don’t worry,”
said my poultry-expert friend, Jane. “Cocks are hardy beasts. He’ll survive.”
Redneck wears
the scar showing prominently on his comb with pride. His life is lived on the
edge, away from Pwyll. But Pwyll has four hens to husband; he can’t be
everywhere at once, and, as soon as he takes his eye off a wife, Redneck is
there, looking for a bit of lurve. If the hen that’s getting the amorous
attention makes a fuss (anything from “I told you. I’ve got headache,” to
“Rape! RAPE!”) Pwyll will half run, half fly across our plot to the scene of
the trouble, while Redneck makes off in an opposite direction. But he never
gives up. He’s always on the lookout for nooky behind Pwyll’s back.
Keeping hens is a
clear case of character envy – Sabbie
Dare, heroine of my Shaman Mystery Series, had
hens long before me.
Sabbie is a 29 year-old shaman with a therapy business
in a sleepy town in England. She helps her shamanic clients by walking between
worlds...bringing messages for them back from the spirit world. She lives a
self-sufficient life, growing vegetables and keeping a small flock of hens.
Book one in the series, In the Moors opens with the
death of half her flock after a visit from a fox. Sabbie believes in omens and
portents, so when a cocky detective called Reynard Buckley walks into her life
that same day, it’s bound to mean trouble for Sabbie.
In book two, Unraveled Visions, Sabbie invites Mirela,
a young Buglarian Roma, to stay at her house, and in this excerpt they are searching for the
girl’s missing sister:
In the chicken coop were five eggs, two
as big as a child’s fist. Ginger and Melissa didn’t lay all that often now, but
when they did, their eggs were as full as bombs. I thought Mirela deserved an
eggie breakfast.
Mirela was a
charming combination of femme-fatal, innocent child and hoary old gypsy. She
ate both double-yolkers, giggling when I called the bread slices “soldiers”.
“Do you have anything of your sister’s I
could use? To help me find her otherworld?”
Mirela reached
for her shoulder bag and brought out a zipped, plastic makeup case, stained
with lipstick smears. From this she pulled a piece of shiny card. At first I
thought it was a large postage stamp, but when she handed it to me I could see
that it was a reproduction of an icon – the Virgin Mary in summer blue with a
golden halo. I turned it over. On the back was a scribble of biro in Cyrillic
script.
I squeezed Mirela’s arm. “Your sister has to
be somewhere. To be honest, some real world searching wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
“Where I look?”
She paused. “Where you look?”
Yep, there it
was, that sinking feeling as my stomach hit my knees. I’d offered her a bed.
I’d offered to work shamanically to find her sister. And now it looked like I
was offering some practical help…
“Exactly when
did Kizzy leave?” I asked. “Can you remember?”
“Yes, Easy.
November six. She just start pack case right then and puff! She’s gone. Like
that.” Mirela clapped her hands, once, loudly.
Suddenly, I
wanted to find Kizzy badly. I was longing to give her a good slapping down.
Having had such
fun with raising chicks myself, I was keen to let Sabbie Dare have a go, too.
But Unraveled Visions is set in the deep winter, and no self-respecting hen is
even laying eggs then let alone sitting on a clutch. But book
three, Beneath the Tor, opens on
Midsummer Eve on Glastonbury Tor, where beautiful Alys Hollingberry dies
suddenly after dancing away the night. Beneath the Tor continues the dark, atmospheric edge of
the previous two books in the series. Sabbie witnesses the tragedy, and gets
caught up in its dark aftermath. And in the middle of all this, Florence goes
missing.
Florence
was my secret favourite. She was a curious hen, bright eyed and comical. I’d
had her and her siblings for over a year; a farmer had given me one of her
recently-hatched clutches of Sussex hens and they’d been productive and so
beautiful to look at.
“Florence,”
I called, even though she had no idea that was her name, “Flo, where are you?
Chuck-chuck?”
Beneath the Tor is not due for release
until December this year, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait to find out
why Alys died on the Tor and what happened to Flo!
~~~
Nina Milton lives in west Wales with her husband and their hens, but sets her Shaman Series, out from Midnight Ink, in the mystical county of Somerset in the UK. The First in the series, In the Moors is available now and the second book in the series, Unraveled Visions is due for release soon.I also write for children; Sweet’n’Sour, (HarperCollins) and Tough Luck, (Thornberry Publishing), and love writing short stories which regularly appear in British anthologies.
Learn
more about Nina Milton at http://kitchentablewriters.blogspot.co.uk/ . You can reach her and
the hens at Kitchentablewriters@live.com
I love hearing about your chickens! What fun! And the books sound intriguing!
ReplyDeleteI would love you to read it! I got quite caught up in Flo's disappearance, while I was writing the book. But as usual, the themes are dark and dangerous.
ReplyDelete