T'S A BAD EGG,” declared Marney. “It's a blight on my henhouse.”

The egg under the old woman’s scrutiny was dark green and a good size larger than any normal henfruit. As big as Marney’s head. It rested ominously in the nest. Next to the egg lay her beloved hen, Orella of the golden feather, dead, without a clue as to why.

“You did this I’d wager my weight in gold,” she hissed with grief at the egg.

Her rooster, John, was also missing. It was the lack of his morning call that roused the old gal in the first place. She found the other hens had fled the coop and relocated to the farmhouse porch. She eyed them cowering from the coop, leading her to investigate the whereabouts of Orella and subsequently the egg’s discovery.

All the villagers knew Marney loved her chickens as her own children. Dragons and spriggans had their hordes of treasure, and Marney had her hens and their eggs, which she would paint and sell in all sorts of beautiful patterns. This allowed her a level of financial security. Her late husband had built a large hen house to facilitate her business. It was a modest farm on the edge of the village and right off the main crossroad leading to the king’s castle. It was nothing fancy but it was built sturdy and got the job done, just like Marney.

The bad egg was hot to the touch and sticky. Sucking her fingers and madly hopping, Marney resolved to move the egg. What followed was a series of spirited attempts to budge the oval oddity, wheezing, grunting, and nearly back-cracking, all ending with the old woman cursing. The egg proved to be immovable.

The old woman marched up onto her porch, took a breath, and addressed her hen’s accordingly.

“Flossie-hen, Dodie-hen, Nixie-hen, Posy-hen, Rosy-hen, Regina-hen, and Bellaflor…”

The chickens clucked and squawked.

“...your sister is dead. But don’t you fret, I’ll sort this out!”

She stormed off and came back with a large hammer from her late husband's forge (out of use these many years). She wiggled her way into the coop (just large enough for a person to crawl into) and with all the might the old woman had, brought the tool down on the egg.

With a bang and blinding flash, like a sideways bolt of purple and green lighting, the hammer burst into bits.

“A bad egg indeed!” Marney cried in frustration.

She looked at all her hens who were watching. She hung her head low in defeat.

“Sorry girls, looks like we’ll have to wait till that blasted thing hatches.”

Marney poured herself a cup of fresh warm milk and sat on the porch. The hens purred, nesting at her feet.

“Don’t worry my lovelies, I'll protect you,” she said in a defensive tone, taking a sip. She then shook her fist threateningly in the egg’s direction. “And when it's your time I’ll take care of you!”

Weeks passed and things only worsened for Marney and her girls. Marney’s modest crops began to rot, the chickens were unable to lay a single egg, and her cow Linn  produced sour milk (the kind she had to force down rather than sip with enjoyment, a morning ritual the old woman had practiced for over half a century). Marney tossed her curdled cup of milk onto the dead lawn.

“You blasted egg!”

The egg remained indifferent.

It was the end of the month, and as with the end of every month, the tax collector and his aide arrived to collect tribute, which would be taken to the king in exchange for his protection. The tax collector walked in long exaggerated strides so that his fine and lavish purple robe might flutter in the wind. His assistant, with great strain, pulled a large cart, filled with miscellaneous riches gathered from all the villages.

Marney’s farm was the very last on their route.

The tax collector was quite unsettled by the amount of mud that lay about the farm.

“Madam, we have come for your share,” he declared, gingerly crossing a particularly deep mud patch..

Marney sat on her porch in her rocking chair.

“Sorry, lads, I got nothing for you, or our blessed king.”

“But where is the king's basket?” questioned the tax collector, not used to such a response.

“No eggs, milk, or crops. Just me and my mud.”

“No eggs?” he questioned.

 “Not a single one. Save for that good-for-nothing egg in the hen house.”

“Well, madam, I must inform you that if that is all that you have, then we must take it.”

She glanced up and smiled.

“Fine by me! Take it if you can, and good riddance to it.”

The tax collector pointed to his assistant with a self important gesture. The assistant let out a sigh, set down the cart and marched to the coop. The assistant went to retrieve the aforementioned egg. He poked his head into the coop. He had just managed to get his shoulders through the frame when he noticed it.

The egg had hatched! Its sickly speckled shell littered the floor in smoldering bits that gave off an eye-watering reek.

The assistant beheld what now stood before him.

It was a heinous thing—half bird, half reptile. Its bulging red eyes fixed an evil lopsided glare at him. Just as the poor man let out a scream he was instantly turned to stone. The wretched rooster hissed and chortled as it began flapping its leather wings. It blew a burst of flame from its snout, illuminating the coop. With a whip of the cockatrice’s long serpentine tail the recently-made statue crumbled into gravel. The creature began feeding on the remains.

Marney and the tax collector witnessed the whole ordeal. The tax collector fled the farm, down the lane all the way back to the castle, his beautiful robes now quite muddied.

Marney caught a glimpse of the little beast before it sauntered back into the henhouse.

“So, it's a cockatrice is it!”

Her grandmother had told stories of such a monster, that when the world was more wild how a rancid old basilisk would breed with a hen. The cockatrice was the cursed offspring of bird and serpent. Its presence brought blight and misery, and its stare turned its prey to stone.

 ***

HE king sat in this throne aghast at the muck-matted man that stammered and screeked a story about a most heinous monster. His royal highness barely heard what the man was rambling about. Truth be told, the king was upset that he hadn’t received the usual basket of pretty eggs. He loved the patterns and to have them hard boiled and scrambled and fried. True, he could have as many or any kind of egg, but he loved Marney’s the most. It was only when the tax collector mentioned how this could mean financial hardship for the kingdom that the king sat up and took notice.

“How so?” he bellowed down at the whimpering man.

“Simple, my lord.” The tax collector spoke up. “People pay taxes because we protect them. If we can’t do that then they won’t want to pay!” 

The king rolled his eyes. “Fine.” he waved his hand dismissively. “Surely we have a knight who can handle this. Go back to the farm and have him kill the…what was it—a fire-breathing cockroach?”

“A fire breathing rooster!”

“Oh, well that’s not as bad as a cockroach. That would be much harder to kill. The little ones alone are a hassle. Well, go get a knight and kill that bird!”

The tax collector bowed and took his leave and the king called after him.

“On your way out tell the cook to make me a big omelette”

All this talk of fowl had made him hungry.

***

VENING settled in and the entrance to the coop was glowing red with rooster fire. Marney had quietly creeped over to the barn and peered round the corner, her hens cowering behind her, not once had she moved or taken her eyes away. She had been scheming and finally knew what to do.

“Well,” said Marney, storming back to the house “It's time to deal with that blasted bird. Only one way to deal with an unruly cock!”

She went into the house and got the killing axe.

“Stand back girls!” 

No sooner had the old woman returned from her shed than on a magnificent horse rode a splendid knight into her farmyard. Behind him was the tax collector and a few villagers. 

“Good evening dear lady!” the knight in full armor shouted through his closed visor.

“Not so good if you ask me, sonny,” said Marney.

“I’ve come to save you, and your farm, from the monster,” he said excitedly. 

“No need, I have everything under control, lad.”

The knight let out a loud, hearty, if not slightly exaggerated, laugh for all the onlookers.

“You are obviously hysterical— not to fear.”

He drew his mighty sword and charged off into the coop.

Moments later Marney and the gathered villagers heard a scream followed by a burst of flame. The knight’s mighty steed, having averted the bird’s glare, galloped away with its tail on fire.

“Retreat!” screamed the tax collector.

Before Marney could do anything, she was picked up by two villagers who carried her away to safety.

“MY HENS! MY HENS!” she screamed. But in the panic they paid her no mind. Leaving her beloved farm and girls in the clutches of the cockatrice.

 

 ***

hey took the old woman to the local inn and locked her in a room for her own safety, they believed. Marney made a few attempts at escape so they at last resorted to posting a guard who stood outside the door. She spent the night in a fitful sleep. Meanwhile the tax collector told the king of the evil that threatened the land and, even more important, its taxpayers.

“This is big," said the king standing up. He clapped his hands with giddy glee. “I mean this is a real threat and a real threat can earn this kingdom some real money!”

 ***

ARNEY lay in bed, her heart aching with guilt. She promised Flossie-hen, Dodie-hen, Nixie-hen, Posy-hen, Rosy-hen, Regina-hen, and Bellaflor that she would protect them.

There was a tap-tap at her window.

She shot up in surprise, for the window was on the second floor of the inn. Marney looked and her heart sang with joy, for there, on the window sill, were her hens! Instead of fleeing into the hills the hens had devised a rescue mission. They followed her into the village—a great danger to be sure, for many a pauper would be thrilled to put an unchaperoned chicken in the pot. Not only that, but with great difficulty and many a fine feather lost in the struggle, the hens had brought Marney a gift. There on the sill, its blade gleaming in the moonlight, was the killing axe.

The old woman opened the window and took them all up in her arms.

“My lovelies, my lovelies! Tomorrow I’ll get our farm back. But first a good night's rest.”

Her hens happily obliged.

Marney and the girls awoke to the sound of self-important trumpets announcing all the king’s horses and all the king's men.

She looked out and shook her head in dismay.

A large procession of knights rode down from the castle to face the foul fowl. Many a bright banner and colorful crest were displayed with ecstatic extravagance. Truth be told, it had been a very long time since any of the knights had been of use, and even longer since they had had the opportunity to flaunt all their fancy armor.

“All my taxes going to waste,” Marney grumbled. “All of ‘em fools! It's my farm, I’ll handle that little vermin my own way."

Marney had no time for the great deeds of vainglorious knights. She pulled the axe from under the bed and stormed up to the door.

“Let me out!" she cried to her guard.

There was no answer. She realized that in all the commotion her guard had joined the pageantry. Some would question the likelihood of this happening, but they were simple folk.

Marney used her axe to hack down the door.

Marney did not return straight away to her farm, but in the direction of someone who could help her. While in captivity she remembered another part of her grandmother's story. Following the old road into the forest, she arrived at a large group of mulberry bushes. 

Marney cupped her hands and called out.

“I’m looking for the weasel named Warin, the one who used to eat my chickens!”

“Who’s asking?” a squeaky voice questioned.

“The one who drove him off my farm and into the forest.”

There was a bit of silence then the bush rustled.

“Oi. What is it you want then?” said the weasel, poking his head out of the mulberry bush (which also happened to be his home). “In case you’ve forgotten, old maid, you and I ain't on the best of terms.”

“It's true, you little pest, you’ve eaten a good deal of my hens over the years.”

“Don’t you forget that you killed at least three of my cousins,” said Warin.

“They were asking for it.”

Warin wiggled his whiskers and gave a sardonic snort.

“I’m here for a truce and a business proposition,” said Marney. “You remember my girls  Flossie-hen, Dodie-hen, Nixie-hen, Posy-hen, Rosy-hen, Regina-hen, and Bellaflor.” 

The weasel licked his chops and grinned a sharp toothed grin.

“Hello ladies, I knew your sisters well. A tasty lot they were.” 

The hens fluttered and flopped behind Marney in a feathered fearful frenzy. 

“Excitable girls you got there, eh?”

Marney let the metal of her axe show.

“Enough of that! I got a problem and I need your help. My granny said a weasel is immune to the stone-turning stare of the cockatrice.”

The weasel took notice. “True, true, there’s nothing more my kind craves than the meat of a cockatrice.”

“It just so happens, little Warin, I have one to offer,” said Marney.

The weasel looked at her with suspicion. “What’s in it for you?”

“I’ll have my farm back, and things will be back to their natural order.” 

The weasel reached out his paw. “It's a deal then.”

And so the woman and weasel hatched their plan…so to speak.

***

HE cockatrice curse was spreading. Marney found her farm covered in a dense and ominous fog. And in this ominous and dense fog was a large crowd of people, unmoving and unnaturally silent. She soon saw that her farm was littered with the freshly-turned statues of all the knights and townsfolk who had so eagerly come to do battle (and watch said battle) with this creature of legend.

“All of ‘em fools,” said Marney.

The cold air made her shiver a little, but then she froze amongst the statues. Not twenty paces away she saw the foul fowl, perched atop one of the stone knights, scratching and pecking. The cockatrice had grown in size, as large as a fat goose now, its scaly tail wrapped around the statue's throat. It squeezed and the stone figure crumbled into a pile of rubble. It pecked and ate the rocks as if they were seeds.

Marney moved from petrified person to petrified person, making her way into the position she and weasel had agreed on. Marney's heart ached when she realized one statue was none other than her milking cow Linn.

“Achoo.”

Suddenly the old woman was seized by a sneeze. She muffled it best she could, but in the quiet the beast heard.

The creature let out a blood-curdling caw that echoed eerily in the evening. Its eyes glowed red in the failing light, searching for the source of the sneeze. Marney’s grip on the axe tightened. 

“If it ends like this, then I’ll hack you down to a drumstick before I go,” she thought.

But it didn’t end that way, because at that moment the bird felt something tugging its tail. It flapped its batlike wings and swiveled its head just in time to see the little weasel scurrying away, who called out in a taunting voice.

“Oi dicky-bird! You supposed to be a dragon?”

The beast swiveled his head back and forth in confusion.

“You look more like a turkey with a skin condition. Haha! Dumb old dicky-bird. Come after me you cross eyed cur.”

The cockatrice was indeed too dumb to understand the jabs, however it didn’t like the weasel’s tone and chased after him. It jumped from statue to statue, breathing fire, and screeching its ear-splitting cry.

The weasel used the nearest stone knight as cover.

“Is that the best you got? That little flame of yours wouldn't even heat up my tea kettle!" laughed the furry fellow.

Warin managed to scurry back around, flanking the beast, tossing overly ripe mulberries at the back of the bird's head. This infuriated the cockatrice further. Its blood red eyes began searching for warm flesh to turn into stone. It took a deep, deep breath and bellowed a long, long flame. Red and orange fire gushed from its jagged beak. Warin’s fur caught fire and his ears trailed smoke as he escaped under the barn door. The monster’s mighty tail smashed through the barn door with ease. It was only in the nick of time that the weasel burrowed out to the other side. He caught his breath, his little chest heaving.

The barn was engulfed in flames and the now night air was cast in smoke and embers and collapsed. Out of the rubble flew the cockatrice. The weasel felt his singed bald patches and let out a low whistle and cried up in the air shaking his little paw.

“Oi mate, this was a new coat!”

The cockatrice landed and took slow menacing steps towards its prey. It seemed proud of itself, but Warin held up a wagging finger, letting out a little laugh.

“You know I’d be impressed, scared even, if you hadn’t brought the whole bloody barn down on your own head like a proper dunce.”

He stuck out his tongue and off he ran, and the chase resumed. Round and round the farm the cockatrice chased the weasel, and finally back  into the coop.

The reptilian bird clucked in satisfaction, knowing the weasel was now trapped. It glared venomously, its eyes red and bulging, yet its prey remained flesh and blood.

The weasel smiled.

“Stare all you want, it doesn't work on me.”

The beast let out a loud “buk-buk-badaaak!” in frustrated confusion.

“Looks like dicky-bird don’t know a pence about weasels. Oh well, no need to lose your head over it.”

This baffled the bird right before its thoughts were cut short. For out popped the old woman, who had been hiding in the corner in wait, and swung her axe and cut off its head.

“Take that, you rancid rooster!”

The headless cockatrice took off running. A headless bird in the barnyard wasn’t  a new sight to farm life.

Warin let out a squeak of satisfaction, licking his chops at the sight of his well-earned meal.

“Well, if you'll excuse me,” said the weasel. “I need some protein after all that running.”

Marney nodded with approval.

With the cockatrice curse lifted the fog now dissipated, and all those who had been turned to stone returned to their natural state. The confused crowd of knights and villagers, led by the tax collector, made their way back to the castle to make up tall tales and fabrications of their valor and brave deeds (more of the people's taxes put to good use). Now, as the king had wished, a lot of money was made over the ordeal of the cockatrice, and for a time taxes were raised. But no more monsters came to cause trouble, not for a few years anyway, for  the world was indeed more tamed and far less wild, and nobody knew the truth of what had really happened or the brave deeds of the old woman for the love of her hens. But that mattered little to Marney, for her farm was saved.

Dawn crept up over the hen house and cast its warm honey-amber light.

Marney gave the monster's head a hearty kick, as if it were a rotten turnip. She saw the weasel. He now had a little pot belly. He smiled, satisfied with his meal and bowed.

“Well, ye old battle axe of a lady, I’m off back to my mulberry bush.”

Marney tapped her foot in the drying mud. “Now see here, I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you might stick around.”

Warin snorted and coughed up some feathers.

“Well that’s real sweet of ya, but, um, what about the way of things?” He glanced over to the hens with a glint of mischief.

“I’m not giving you permission to eat my hens. See, Weasel, my rooster is dead and my girls need protecting. Do that and there will be no end to the eggs. What do you think?”

Warin smiled. “I think I’m the luckiest chap in all the land.”

With all things once again right Marney walked up to her porch to find all her hens hiding, huddled together under her rocking chair.

“It's all right girls, I told you I’d handle things.”

Marney set down her axe and got herself a cup of fresh curse-free milk from a very happy Linn.

She smiled for a moment then looked at her hens.

“Flossie-hen, Dodie-hen, Nixie-hen, Posy-hen, Rosy-hen, Regina-hen, and Bellaflor. Back to laying eggs with you, girls, we got a farm to run.”

With squawking glee her hens happily obliged.