CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories J. Posthumus (ereader that reads to you TXT) 📖

Gaius gestured expansively. “It’s a chance I will have to take.”

His father watched a hopping speckled hen. The hen gave a sudden squawk and flopped over into the mud.

Farmer Valiant scowled and snatched the wand from his son’s outstretched hand. “Put this right. This is a farm, not a freak show.”

“What…? But…? My wand!”

“You can have this contraption back when school time comes. Until then, see to your chores.”

Farmer Valiant stomped back to the chicken barns. Gaius stared after his retreating back, crestfallen. Then, sighing, he performed the Word of Ending, raising one finger and moving it in a short horizontal motion as he pronounced the cantrip. Freed from the partial paralysis hex, the hens rushed away from him, back into the chicken coop, clucking scoldingly all the way.

“Dogs mauled another sheep today,” Farmer Valiant remarked, as he and his son cleaned up after lunch with the farmhands. Hannah, the farmhouse’s housekeeper, was away on her half day. “Up on Bodmin Moor.”

“This is the fifth time since I came home for winter break,” Gaius said, frowning.

“Them’s taken fifty sheep so far, altogether.”

“That’s… a lot of sheep.” Gaius blinked, shocked. “Why doesn't someone do something?”

His father shrugged. “Can’t catch 'em.”

Gaius glanced up toward the moors. If he were to take on a pack of feral dogs, even his father would not begrudge him use of his wand, right? His wand represented everything he had become since going away to school. It practically was him.

Without it, he felt empty, lost.

“Can I go take a look?” he asked casually.

His father shook his head. “Tomorrow, the trucks come.”

“So, load chickens on trucks like mad. Then, clean the barn like mad. Soon as we’re done—maybe next week?—unload chicks like mad. I understand.” Gaius sighed cheerfully.

His father gave a gruff, nigh-involuntary chuckle. “Such ’tis the lot of a farmer.”

The next day the trucks came from the distribution company. Workers jumped out and rounded up the broilers, all 96,000 of them. They corralled the chickens, picking some up by their feet and carrying them, several at a time. The company was willing to send more employees and do all this work, but Farmer Valiant chose to increase his profits by volunteering his farmhands to aid in gathering the birds.

So Gaius labored alongside the permanent farmhands, working well into the night. He did not utter a word of complaint, despite how different this backbreaking task was from his normal day during the school year. He knew how much it mattered to his father to have his son working beside him, so he gritted his teeth at the soreness of his muscles and held his tongue.

The following week was the yearly cleaning of the chicken barns. The entire farm, even Hannah and the cowhands, pitched in, removing droppings, scraping the dirt floor, laying down new wood shavings, repairing walls, roof panels, and other related tasks. The cows were left to themselves, except at milking time. They could graze on the moors or wander through the center of town as the mood took them. Either way, they would find company in the form of sheep and even ponies owned by other local farmers.

Minions was that kind of place.

If only his father would let him have his wand. It would have been so much easier to clean this barn with magic. He had a number of different spells stored in its gem that could have made this job a snap—have the whole place sparkling and smelling like flowers before his father’s workers could say backofforillsmackee.

Even if he had his wand, however, he probably could not have gotten away with using it openly in front of the entire staff. Most of the farmhands were Unwary—modern mundane folks who knew nothing of the World of the Wise.

If word were to get out that he had used magic in front of them, the Agents of the Wisecraft would come and wipe their memory. No one deserved that.

The day after they finished, in rolled the next set of new baby chicks. The chicks came off the trucks in large, brightly-colored plastic crates. So soft and pliant were the little birds at this early stage that dropping the crates caused them no harm. The crates could be tossed from one worker to another without concern.

In fact, during a water break, Gaius scooped up a handful of the little yellow fluff balls and juggled them. He managed to keep up to six at a time in the air. This was two more than he had been able to do before he went off to school. All that dueling practice must have improved his reflexes.

His new prowess impressed the farmhands, who grinned and clapped, shouting, “Add more! Add more!” until Farmer Valiant cleared his throat, and they all rapidly rushed back to work.

Half an hour later, Gaius’s father called for everyone’s attention.

Farmer Valiant spoke right to the point. “Dogs got Bessie. Wounded Clarabelle, too.”

“Not Bessie!” Gaius cried, momentarily shaken.

He recalled feeding Bessie with a bottle back when she was just a wee brown calf. He blinked hard, twice. Nor was he the only one affected; anger erupted among the men. Some called for the dogs on the moors to be poisoned.

After a time, they glumly returned to work. Gaius sidled up to his father, speaking to him in a low voice. “Father, let me have my wand. I’ll stop these dogs.”

“Giss on! You use that blasted thing too much. Can’t expect to solve all your problems that way.” His father frowned. Then he added, “I can spare you for the afternoon if you wanna take a stank up on the moor, but you’re not getting’ that blasted contraption back.”

Gauis sighed.

His father continued, “Take the binoculars and your cell. If you spot any sign of the pack, call the Council and ask them to send the dog warden. If you can’t get a signal, come right back.”

“Right. I’ll take a look around