The Cackling Hen

 

Old Jim O'Donnell was no mean farmer. Back in Sligo, County Sligo, Ireland, he was – o' course – one of the most prominent landowners, sheep and cow herder around. None of us would disagree 'bout that. Some people said that he had a whole pot o' gold hidden in the trough of a river, guarded by a fierce leprechaun. Not only that, he had fields goin' way further that the eye could see, barns aplenty, rabbits and chicken by the thousands. Indeed, it would ha' been hard ta find a family who hadn't a lad or two warkin' fer him.

Old Jim O'Donnell was rooted ta the land. He was born on the farm he was now warkin' and livin' in, inherited from his ma and pa. His ma deliver'd standin' not three feet away from the pig-sty. Couldna go any further, what with her arms full of chopp'd wood, and the pain. His pa was built like the door ta the house: stocky and knotty. Sometimes, the sottish folks jok'd that he could ha' been carv'd outa this door. A two pound, hefty pat on the back would suddenly sober 'em up. His pa lik'd his joke too.

Even as an urchin Old Jim O'Donnell was big and burly. He lik'd ta hunt the boar in the wild all right. Rain or shine, in the corn or in the brine, he always walk'd barelegg'd, the long, curly red bristle on his legs wavin' under the breeze. He reminded us of those Vikings of yore, with their big, briary beard and their colossal, gnarl'd arms. Specially when he wielded that double-edge axe of his ta chop down some yew ta build a shed.

Old Jim O'Donnell, when he heard early one mornin' from one the laddies that there was some commotion in the hen house, he made one of 'em gestures that none of us in their right mind would care ta contradick, even though we saw in the lad's eyes somethin' akin ta fear. But the ol' farmer couldn't be ars'd, he had other fish ta fry, like a farrowing sow squealin' like someone was slittin' her throat. We remember it took the best o' the mornin' to get 'em all piglets out.

That very same day, for lunch, Old Jim O'Donnell had smok'd herring, mutton stew and bread and butter. He didna touch the boil'd egg his wife never fail'd to cook for him. Didn't ha' time ta, poor old farmer, for he was call'd by his best mate Patrick: the brand new combine harvester he'd purchas'd not two days ago was stuck in that field yonder. None of us could make it wark. So he trudg'd toward the field, grumblin' that if anyone had marr'd it, he'd crease the ears of the culprit. And we knew he meant it, literally.

Old Jim O'Donnell lik'd his swearin'. Gosh he did. The priest us'd ta say that the ol' farmer could set your ears a-bleeding just by swearin'. Some would make us chuckle, some others would make us cringe. But none of us could outswear him, that's for sure. His imagination was runnin' wild, we tell ye. Anyway, he did manage ta fix the monster of metal, just in time ta hurl one last swear that the day was almost done while the field wasn't even half-way. None had his ears creas'd, that we can remember.

Old Jim O'Donnell hadn't pass'd the gate that the carpenter's apprentice was runnin' ta him, all sweaty and shaky in his boots: the roof of the barn was collapsin'.

'Twas a bad day indeed for the ol' farmer o' Sligo, even though they shor'd up the barn in time with the bustlin' help of all the farm hands. Even though they could re-pen all the sheep that had gone through a great gap in the fence. Even though only one of 'em hay balls got burnt in a roarin' fire. So when Old Jim O'Donnell trugd'd the path back ta his cottage, as the sun set behind him, he knew that the day couldna end like this. Somethin' was gnawin' at him, since early in the mornin'.

Because Old Jim O'Donnell could smell a rat a mile away. Literally. He hated the blighters so much he'd skewer 'em with his pitchfork which he'd throw like a spear, sometimes fifty yards distant. That was Old Jim O'Donnell for ye. So a rat he smell'd, right before dinner time. Nothin' was stirrin', not even the mistletoe. Somethin' brewin' in the air. And then he heard it. 'Twasn't like somethin' rappin', more like...someone talkin'...or like...cacklin'. The hen house.

Old Jim O'Donnell ran. That was a sight to see. Like a fast-moving stone wall pounding on the ground. We all follow'd him but he was too quick, even though he was by far the bulkiest of all. Not even Bréanainn could wear the farmer's shirt without lookin' like an idiot outa the circus. When we finally caught up with him he was comin' out of the hen house, his face all white and sweatin' like a swine on a summer day. None of us dar'd speak. Finally, Patrick ask'd him whatever was the matter. We could see his hands were shakin'.

“One of the hens just laid an asteroid.”