With great sorrow and after a lengthy discussion, I had to agree with my soul mate and Keeper of All Things that Needed Doing that we no longer wished to care for chickens. So, after the death and burial of Bubba, our rooster, we gave away all things chickeny: food, straw, and watering and feeding dishes.
It happened at the time of the gloaming, and I found myself sitting under the Camper Down Elm, thinking of Bubba and Mamma and all the other girls. I would let the chickens out to dig in the beds for bugs at this time of day. Their soft clucking was so soothing. I so missed them at this time of a completed summer’s day—Ah, the gloaming ‘tis the best time of the day. Work is done, dinner is finished, and everything can wait till tomorrow, and this old bardess could dream and scheme.
Well, they’re gone, so what do we do with the yard? A bonsai garden! What fun! Now to talk to the Keeper of All Things That Need Doing; he will happily help after all—all our friends are gone.
The Keeper, at some time in the past, built me a very long and tall table to garden on. That went into the vacant chicken yard along with a few pots and some newly started Bonsai trees. The picket fence came down, and a few more flower pots and tubs went in. Of course, lawn chairs and a tea table were a must, what fun! As I sat in my chair thinking of new plants to plant and sipping Cherry-Hibiscus tea, a new sound floated into my absent-minded musing. It wasn’t clucking, but it was clearly crying. I began to look around at all the pots and gardening stuff, and Mort sat on an upturned clay pot, his little mushroom round cheeks streaked with tears. He wore a pair of black trousers and a Black Eyed Susan yellow vest. A mouse who lived in one of my broken clay pots ventured out of its home to sit poised on his knee, looking up at the tear-streaked face. Mort’s green hat was askew, and the dandelion bloom had wilted and was about to fall off.
“Mort, my dear friend, whatever is the matter? Are you hurt? Do you need some Willow Bark Tea to ease your pain? Please tell me how I can help?” I pulled my tractor-seat stool over so I could be closer to my tearful friend, hoping I might be able to offer some solution to the problem. Whatever that might be.
“I’m lost; I will be shamed of all the Wee Folk, for I have no fem. ‘Tis the worst of all possible things to befall me since me woolly caterpillar died. Oh, bardess, it is far greater than any help from Willow Bark tea. Ye cannot understand the red-faced shame I will face at the summer solstice with no fem on me arm.” The poor wee mite wailed, “Oh, whatever shall I do? I just won’t go. I know I’ll tell them I’ve come down with Snail Flue. I shall hide in my den at the Three Sisters and drink dandelion wine all night—that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
“You’ll be very sorry in the morning, Mort. Are you sure you want to do that?” Sitting there, I tried to think of something to do to help. I thought. What pray tell is a Fem? “Mort, please forgive me, but what’s a fem? I’m just trying to understand. Maybe I can help,” I asked.
A shocked look of surprise spread across his face, “Ye, want to know what ‘tis a fem? Did ye not have a mom or a sister?” he asked, scrunching up his face to look up at me.
“Oh,” I chuckled, “You mean female! I should think the most handsome Wee Folk in all the forest would have no problem with that.”
“And just how many of us blokes have ye seen?” The dandelion fell from his hat, and the mouse snatched it from his lap in seconds. Holding it in her two paws, she began to eat. As she ate, her nose turned yellow, and so did her paws. She looked quite the sight.
Oops, I thought. “Well, in truth, only you, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are handsome, at least in my opinion. Come on, Mort; you must have many fem-friends who would love to go to the solstice party. What is the problem?”
“The problem, Lady Bardess, is the Witch Creek is running full, and The Keeper of ATND (All Things That Need Doing) removed the fallen tree from across the creek. So now I can’t cross Witch Creek to take me wee Beauty to the party.” Mort snuffled and mopped at his eyes and nose with a strawberry-red handkerchief.
“Oh, Mort, I can fix this for you with ease. I’ll ask the Keeper of All Things to create a safe bridge across Witch Creek. I should think right there should do it, and that way, you and the wee-ones will have the shelter of my potting shed’s roof-eaves when it’s raining or snowing. Why, I have a large blue broken clay pot that could be set just to the side of the bridge for a cozy resting place. I’m just sure the Keeper will be pleased to make the bridge over Witch Creek. Can you get word to your fem that you are coming after all? Mort, surely she has a name—if you don’t want to tell, it’s okay.” I asked with the gentlest of voice because the wee folk are timid about their private lives. Mort’s brown eyes bloomed with light and joy, and his cheeks turned apple-red with delight in speaking her name.
“It’s Mary Elizebeth Mac Tavish, and she’s a wee beauty. And dancer! Her feet barely touch the earth, and her flame-red hair floats like flame-colored clouds at sunset about her head. Oh, aye, Lady Bardess, she is a beauty, my wee Mary Beth.”
It was nearly dark when I made my way to the back door. A light was lit, and the screen door met me with a grin. The Keeper sat in his great overstuffed chair, the newspaper across his broad chest, snoring. Yes, it was time for sleep; and the bridge across Witch Creek could wait until the morning. I closed the back door, kissed the Keeper on the forehead, and went to bed.