Wychetts and the Farm of Fear

by William Holley

Bryony stared at her reflection in the water trough. Night had fallen rapidly, but the full moon cast enough light to reveal the outline of her grotesque features. Bryony shuddered, but wasn’t sure whether it was her hideous pig face or the sight of the moon that filled her with fear; she hadn’t dared to look at it since she’d found that mysterious note in Mr Cuddles.

  Beware the Moon of Magister.

  It was her mother’s handwriting, there was no doubting that. But what did it mean? Bryony had spent the last few weeks trying to work that out. And to remember where she’d heard the phrase before. And she had heard it before, she was certain.

  The Moon of Magister.

  The simplest thing would have been to ask Inglenook, who knew all there was to know about everything, but lately Bryony couldn’t bring herself to speak with the Keeper of the Ancient Wisdom.

  At first she had enjoyed being a Guardian, and thrilled at using the magic; but now Bryony knew there was more to it than playing tricks on Edwin, or getting her chores done quicker.

  Magic was serious, deadly even, and knowing her mother was involved made it seem even more so.

  And yes, Bryony knew her mother was involved. She wanted to know how, but was scared of finding out. And she’d never felt so scared of anything in her life. Except maybe getting turned into a fat ugly pig.

  Bryony sniffed back a tear, knowing it wasn’t best to dwell on such matters right now. She should be thinking of escape, of reaching Edwin and finding a way to save their parents from lives as sack faced scarecrows.

  But that plan was doomed to failure from the start. There was no way out of the sty; the metal gate was secured by a hefty padlock, and the walls were too high to climb with her short piggy legs.

  In any case, it was likely she’d be spotted before she made it very far. In pig form she wasn’t exactly built for stealth. Added to that, there seemed to be a lot of activity going on, judging by the sounds coming from the farmyard. She could hear Jed barking instructions, and lots of scarecrows shuffling about.

  Bryony withdrew her snout from the water trough, and sniffed at the mouldering pile of goo that was supposed to be her food. It smelled like a mixture of rotten cabbage and dead fish, but she suspected it was made of far worse than that. She was hungry, but not so hungry that she would dip her nose into that stinky muck. Better to starve to death, she decided, than to live as a pig.

  She lay on the ground and rolled on one side, snorting sadly to herself as she contemplated what such a life would be like.

  “Cluck,” said someone.

  Bryony stirred, her pig ears twitching as she listened.

  “Cluck,” said the voice again. It was a familiar voice. It sounded like, but it couldn’t be…

  “Edwin?” Bryony clambered to her trotters, and peered through the metal gate. There was a shape outside, but it didn’t look like Edwin.

  After a few further seconds of peering, Bryony realised it was a chicken.

  “Cluck cluck cluck,” said the chicken. “Cluck cluck.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Bryony. “It’s just clucking to me.”

  “That’s because cluck I’m talking cluck to you in cluck chicken,” said the chicken. “Listen cluck carefully, and you can cluck understand me if you cluck ignore the clucks.”

  “Who are you?” asked Bryony. “And what do you want with me?”

  “I’m cluck Edwin cluck,” said the chicken. “Don’t you remember me?”

  Bryony didn’t. “I’ve never met a chicken called Cluck Edwin Cluck.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?” asked the chicken. “I was just clucking. I told you to ignore the clucks cluck.”

  “I’m confused,” said Bryony. “Was that last ‘cluck’ a word, or just a cluck?”

  “Ignore the clucks,” repeated the chicken. “And listen to me. I’m not a chicken. Cluck. I’m Edwin, your stepbrother.”

  Bryony frowned. “You don’t look like Edwin.”

  “You don’t look like Bryony,” replied the chicken. “You’re way too pretty.”

  “It is you!” It finally dawned on Bryony that the little ginger chicken was telling the truth. “So they turned you into a chicken, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Edwin, bobbing his chicken head up and down. “It’s not much of a life. I’m way down the pecking order. And I’ve got performance targets. But I suppose it could have been worse. How’s life as a pig?”

  “Not great,” sighed Bryony, trying not to look at her reflection in the water trough. “I’m fat and stinky and ugly.”

  “No change there then,” said Edwin.

  “This isn’t funny,” grunted Bryony.

  “Just trying to lighten the mood a bit,” said Edwin, who earnestly thought Bryony might need cheering up. “Anyway, being a pig can be quite a profitable job. You’re sure to bring home the bacon. Hah!”

  “I said stop it.”

  “Sorry, that was a bit rash of me. Haha!”

  “Give it a rest, will you? We need to think of a plan.”

  “I’ll get rind to that in a minute. Hah! Cluck! Hah! Cluck cluck!” Edwin laughed so much that he started clucking again, and flapping his little wings. Then he couldn’t stop clucking and flapping. He was having some sort of clucking and flapping fit…

  Edwin felt a weird, slightly uncomfortable sensation in his lower regions. And then, as his clucking and flapping reached a frenzied climax, something popped out from between his legs.

  Something smooth, speckled and decidedly egg shaped.

  Now it was Bryony’s turn to laugh. “You laid an egg,” she squealed. “Hah! Edwin laid an egg! Priceless!”

  “Stop it,” said Edwin.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Bryony. “Haven’t you got any more yolks about me? Hah!”

  “I said stop it. This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right,” said Bryony. “Eggs-actly right. Hah!”

  Edwin wasn’t amused. “Are you going to carry on cracking stupid egg jokes all night?”

  “You’re the one doing it now,” laughed Bryony. “Crack. Egg. Geddit?”

  Edwin stared at Bryony with his chicken eyes, and she realised the time for silly jokes was over.

  “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I guess this is pretty serious.”

  “It is,” agreed Edwin. “But I’m the one who should be saying sorry. I got us into this mess.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Bryony’s fleshy jowls wobbled as she shook her fat pig head. “It was my dad. He lost the map, remember.”

  “No he didn’t.” Edwin stared down at his clawed chicken feet. “I swiped it out of his pocket, just before we left home.”

  Bryony exhaled a startled oink. “Why did you do that? You know my dad’s got less sense of direction than a blindfolded bat in a bin liner. Did you want us to get lost?”

  Edwin said nothing, and continued to stare at his feet.

  Suddenly Bryony realised. “It was your idea to go for a walk in the first place. It was all a set up!”

  “That’s right,” admitted Edwin, finally lifting his head to look at Bryony. “I wanted us to get lost, so I could use the Key to take us home. Or rather, so you could use it.”

  Bryony frowned at Edwin. “Why did you want me to use the magic?”

  “Because you haven’t used it for ages,” said Edwin.

  “So?” snapped Bryony.

  “It’s got boring lately,” said Edwin. “We used to have fun with the magic, remember?”

  Bryony snorted. “Being shrunk and nearly eaten by rats and spiders isn’t my idea of fun. Magic isn’t a game, you know.”

  “I know,” countered Edwin. “We both know that now. But we’re Guardians of Wychetts, and magic is part of our lives, part of what we are.”

  “Not my life,” grunted Bryony. “It’s not part of what I am.”

  Edwin poked his head further through the gate, his beak almost touching Bryony’s snout as he spoke. “Is something wrong with you?”


  “No,” said Bryony. “Apart from being turned into a pig, obviously.”

  Edwin cocked his head sideways. “If you’re worried about something, Inglenook could help. You haven’t spoken to him for ages.”

  “I’m not worried about anything,” insisted Bryony.

  Edwin nodded. “No, not worried. More like scared.”

  “I’m not scared,” squealed Bryony.

  Edwin sensed he’d hit a nerve. “Then why didn’t you use the Key? You had three chances before we lost it.”

  “I…” Bryony lowered her head to avoid Edwin’s chicken-eyed stare. “I can’t tell you. It’s personal.”

  Yes, it was personal. But that wasn’t why she couldn’t tell Edwin. The truth was she couldn’t put her fear into words, because to speak it would somehow make it seem more real.

  “I guess that doesn’t matter right now.” Edwin didn’t want to upset Bryony, so decided not to press the matter further. “We have to work out what’s going on here.”

  Bryony lifted her head. “It sounds busy in the farmyard. What’s going on?”

  “There are scarecrows everywhere,” revealed Edwin. “Jed is marching them about like some sort of private army. Looks like he’s getting them ready for this harvest tonight.”

  “Ma mentioned the harvest,” pondered Bryony. “But Jed said it wasn’t crops. So what could it be? And what was in that Plunge Pool? Chemicals, or something?”

  “Chemicals couldn’t do this.” Edwin glanced down at his ginger feathered body. “It’s more likely to be magic.”

  Bryony’s pig face puckered. “You think Ma and Jed are wizards?”

  “They don’t look like wizards,” said Edwin. “Maybe that Boglehob is behind it all. But who is he, and what is he doing here?”

  Bryony shrugged. “That Zach boy might know.”

  “He’ll be no help,” mused Edwin. “He’s scared stiff of Ma and Jed. And I don’t blame him. No, there’s only one person who can tell us what’s going on here.”

  Bryony knew Edwin was right. But there was a problem.

  “We need the Key to speak to Inglenook,” she pointed out. “Have you tried looking for it?”

  “It’s too dark,” said Edwin. “Chickens don’t have enhanced nocturnal vision like Stubby.”

  “What happened to him?” Bryony suddenly remembered Edwin’s rodent friend. “Did he survive the Plunge Pool?”

  “He escaped,” explained Edwin. “At least I hope he did. I thought he would have met up with us by now. Perhaps he’s decided to leave us to our fate. I can’t say I blame him. He did warn that my plan might go wrong.”

  “So there’s no one who can help us,” sighed Bryony. “Why didn’t we listen to that Captain Rathbone?”

  “The Captain!” Edwin’s head bobbed excitedly. “Of course! Captain Rathbone warned us about the farm, so he must know what’s going on here. Maybe he can help. I’ll go ask him.”

  “How?” Bryony didn’t share Edwin’s newfound optimism. “You don’t know where to find him.”

  “He told me he lived on the other side of the hill,” said Edwin. “It isn’t far from here.”

  “But how are you going to get there? Even if you make it out of the farm, it will take ages on those little chicken legs.”

  Edwin guessed Bryony was right. Then he realised there was another option.

  “I’ll fly.”

  “Really?” Bryony couldn’t hide her scepticism.

  “Why sure.” Edwin extended his wings. “Or did you think these were for conducting an orchestra?”

  “So you’ve got wings,” conceded Bryony. “But do you know how to use them? And don’t you need a licence to fly?”

  “Only airplanes, silly. Birds don’t need a licence.”

  “But you’ll never get off the ground with those,” said Bryony. “I’ve seen bigger wings on a wasp.”

  Edwin examined his wings. He had to admit that they looked a bit puny, but it was worth a try.

  “I’ll show you,” he vowed, removing his head from the gate and stepping away from the pigsty. Then he started flapping his wings. Nothing happened, so he flapped harder.

  Still nothing happened. So he flapped even harder. Then he felt that uncomfortable sensation in his lower regions, before another egg popped out from between his thin chicken legs.

  “It might help if you took a run up,” suggested Bryony, stifling a piggy giggle.

  “Good idea.” Edwin turned away from the sty, and set off in a trot whilst flapping his wings as hard as he could.

  “That’s it,” called Bryony. “Now jump.”

  Edwin jumped, but didn’t get very far off the ground. So he jumped again, higher than before, and flapped his wings so hard he feared they might fall off.

  And then, incredibly, he felt himself lifting off the ground.

  “I’ve done it,” he squawked in triumph. “I’m flying! I’m actually…”

  Then he realised he wasn’t actually flying, but had been scooped up from the ground by a hand. A hand made of twisted straw.

  Edwin turned his head and saw a face staring at him. An ugly sack face with a twisted slit of a smile…

  “Well done Mr Boglehob.” Ma came stomping into view. “Was wondering where our little Ginger had got to. Can’t have her running free of an evening with that fox on the prowl. She’ll be much safer in the henhouse. Be so kind as to lock her up, will you?”

  Mr Boglehob nodded, but Ma stopped him before he set off on his errand.

  “Oh, and another thing. I need one of ‘em for later. Not one of the good layers, mind. That old plump speckly one will do. We won’t miss her much.”

  Mr Boglehob nodded again, and then hobbled off with a squawking Edwin in his grip.

  “And what’s wrong with you?” Ma cast her ferrety gaze at Bryony. “You ain’t touched yer swill. Hope you ain’t on one of ‘em faddy diets. I like my piggies to have some meat on ‘em.”

  Then a fleshy hand grabbed the padlock. Keys jangled, the gate opened, and Ma’s bloated form came lurching into the pig sty.

  Bryony backed away, but Ma stomped past her and dipped a podgy finger into the pile of pigswill. Then, as Bryony gawped with disgust, Ma drew her finger out and licked it.

  “Hmm.” Ma closed her eyes, nodding approvingly. “That’s good quality swill that is. You shouldn’t be so fussy, madam.”

  Ma dipped her finger into the swill and took another sample, humming with pleasure as she savoured the taste.

  The gate was left ajar. So whilst Ma enjoyed the gastronomic delights of the pigsty, Bryony took her chance and made a run for it.

  But running with four legs was harder than Bryony had expected. Which leg went where, and when? She only managed a couple of stumbling strides before she fell flat on her snout. And before Bryony could get up again she was grabbed by a pair of chubby hands.

  “I ain’t letting you run off,” said Ma, hoisting Bryony off the ground. “Not when you have such an important role in tonight’s celebrations.”

  Hoisting Bryony onto her broad shoulder, Ma stomped out of the sty and into the farmyard. The place was a hive of scarecrow activity: some were clearing up the rubbish, others were busy hammering pieces of wood together, whilst the remainder had assembled by the Plunge Pool, where they filled wooden buckets with the murky green liquid.

  A grinning Jed waved at Ma as she came lumbering past. “We’re almost ready, Ma. Right on schedule.”

  “Good,” called Ma, heading towards the farmhouse. “Get ‘em down to the Cursed Field as soon as they’ve finished. I’ll join you once I’ve dealt with this one.”

  Dealt? Bryony didn’t like the sound of that. She tried wriggling out of her captor’s grip, but Ma was too strong for her.

  “See we’re all a bit busy tonight,” Ma whispered to Bryony. “Going to bring the harvest in. And when it’s safely home, we’ll have a nice hearty supper by way of celebration. And that’s where you come in, my pretty piggy.”

  Ma c
arried Bryony through the farmhouse door and into a large room. Pots and pans hung from hooks on the walls, and there was a huge oven at the far end. Bryony realised the room was a kitchen, and exactly what Ma had in mind for her.

  Bryony squirmed and squealed, but Ma slammed her down on a large wooden table.

  “Easy now,” crooned Ma. “Don’t want to be getting yourself all a fluster.”

  Ma produced a length of twine from her apron pocket, and wound it deftly around Bryony’s trotters, binding her four legs tightly together.

  “All trussed up nicely.” Ma nodded approvingly at her handiwork. “And what a pretty picture you make.”

  Bryony screamed and yelled in protest, but her words sounded like a series of angry honks to Ma.

  “Don’t fret now,” said Ma. “You should be honoured. Only the plumpest, juiciest pig will do for Ma’s cooking pot.”

  Bryony was horrified. “Are you calling me fat?” she cried.

  “You are a noisy one,” said Ma. “But I know something that will shut you up.”

  Ma reached out towards a hefty rolling pin that lay on the kitchen table. Bryony feared the worst, but Ma’s podgy hand travelled past the rolling pin to pluck an apple from a basket.

  “This’ll do.” Ma jammed the apple into Bryony’s mouth. “Won’t hear a peek from you now, will we? You just lie there and concentrate on being delicious, whilst I get the veggies done.”

  Chapter 9- Takeaway Chicken