Wychetts and the Farm of Fear

by William Holley

Edwin sat alone in a corner of the hen house. There was no straw on the floor, and the bare earth felt cold beneath him.

  The other chickens huddled together on their perches. Most ignored Edwin, but one or two took the trouble to cast him a disapproving glare every now and then. And in a way he couldn’t blame them.

  Chardonnay had been taken.

  There had been no official warning, no period of consultation, that’s what the other chickens found most disgusting. Chardonnay had worked on the farm for years, a model member of the brood who had worked her way steadily up the ranks through hard work, dedication and an unswerving obedience to the rules of the roost. True, she hadn’t been as productive of late, but a chicken shouldn’t be judged on performance targets alone.

  But it was too late now. Chardonnay had gone, snatched from the hen house by that sack faced Boglehob (part of the new administration team which the chickens deplored for its insensitive style and hard-nosed performance-driven management techniques), and that skinny little ginger chicken had been brought in to take her place.

  But they wouldn’t let that happen. Little Ginger had tried to sit on Chardonnay’s perch, but the chickens had driven the usurper away.

  So Edwin sat on the floor and shivered, his plumage ruffled against the night-time chill.

  The hen house door was bolted on the outside, so Edwin knew there was no hope of escape, at least until morning. He had no choice but to stay in here all night with the other chickens.

  At least he had company; poor Bryony was alone in her sty.

  Poor Bryony indeed. Edwin blamed himself for what had happened. All he’d wanted was for Bryony to use the magic again. Something was wrong with her. She hadn’t been herself of late, ever since they’d returned from the Island of Lost Souls. They had shared a harrowing experience on that doomed holiday, and in a way Edwin could understand why Bryony might not be too keen to get involved with magic again.

  But there was more to it than that, Edwin could tell. Bryony was a brave girl; she’d faced down giant rats and deadly fire-breathing snake monsters. So why was she so scared to use the magic?

  Resigned to the fact that he might never know, Edwin decided to get some sleep. He closed his eyes, tucked his head under his wing, and was just starting to dream chicken dreams when he heard a snuffling noise from outside. It sounded like someone, or something, was sniffing around the hen house.

  Edwin lifted his head and peered cautiously through a knothole in the wooden hen house door. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he thought he saw a shape outside. A moving, four-legged shape...

  His hopes soared. It must be Bryony. She had escaped from the sty and had come to find him!

  “I’m in here,” he clucked. “Bryony, can you hear me?”

  But there was no reply, and the shape had vanished. Moments later he heard a scratching noise behind him, and assumed the other chickens had come down from their perches to see what was happening.

  Still peering through the knothole, Edwin clucked again.

  “Bryony, is that you?” Edwin continued to peer outside, desperately trying to discern movement in the darkness. “Bryony?”

  There was no answer to his calls.

  Then something grabbed his legs.

  Before Edwin could emit a startled cluck, he was pulled backwards. Then everything went black, as though a blanket had been thrown over his head.

  “Don’t struggle,” said a smooth, posh sounding voice. “This will be over quickly if you co-operate.”

  Edwin had no intention of co-operating. There was a jolt, and then he realised he was in some sort of sack. He started pecking at the inside of the sack. The fabric was tough, but it wasn’t long before his stabbing beak made a hole large enough to poke his chicken-sized head through.

  It was then he realised he was moving. Moving fast, so fast that everything was a blur; everything except the bushy tail that betrayed the identity of his captor.

  The fox!

  Edwin usually liked foxes, but now he was a chicken, and had no reason to like foxes at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Edwin knew his only hope was to raise the alarm, so threw back his head and squawked the loudest squawk he could muster.

  He heard gruff dog barking in reply, and Edwin found himself hoping to see Blossom’s black bulk charging from the shadows. But then he remembered that Blossom was tethered in the yard, and that no one could help him.

  The fox ran on through the crumbling farm buildings. There was a rustling noise as they slipped through a hedgerow, and then they were crossing open country.

  It was a clear summer’s night, but Edwin was in no state to admire the array of twinkling stars in the dark velvet sky. He knew that he had to get out of the sack before the fox reached its lair, or his short chicken life was over.

  He flapped and struggled, trying to force his way through the tear in the sack. The cloth gave way, and he managed to force his right wing through the opening.

  But then the starry night sky was swallowed by blackness, and Edwin knew it was too late.

  The fox had gone to earth.

  Now there could be no escape.

  Chapter 10- I Thought Vegetables Were Supposed to be Good For You