The Lying Cockerel — A Modern Fable - Matias F. Travieso-Diaz
I did not see the end of the battle. I forced myself to endure it as long as I could, but it was too pitiful a sight; so I made frank confession to that effect, and we retired. We heard afterward that the black cock died in the ring, and fighting to the last.
Mark Twain, Life in the Mississippi
Part 1
Once upon a time, a man owned a farm in which he raised chickens. One day, his aviary holdings were increased when the widow in the farmer next door sold him her chickens: two dozen hens and pullets and an aging, overweight Orpington rooster called Rump.
When he heard through the grapevine that they were to be sold and moved to another coop, Rump became very unhappy. He expected that relocation meant a lowering of his status and the loss of his privileges as ruler of the coop.
Arrival at the new farm only confirmed his worst fears. Granted, hens were plentiful, among them some comely pullets that immediately attracted his attention, for he was of a lecherous disposition; but there were also a good number of roosters, most of them burlier than Rump and rather mean looking. There was no way he would get his fair share of feed and feathers under those conditions.
At once Rump realized that head to head conflict with his competitors would be fruitless and potentially fatal. Lucky for him, this coop was ruled peacefully. With so much ground to peck at, and so many available hens willing to oblige, the rooster leadership did not need to be determined by fighting, and was instead established by contest. A cultured rooster long ago had developed the concept of a singing competition to establish who among them should rule. From that day on, there was an annual crowing contest, the winner of which would be declared ruler of the coop.
The rules of the contest were simple: roosters were paired off, each pair being given the chance to hop atop a high tree stump and crow in a high voice to demonstrate their excellent qualities, and then proclaim their intentions as presumptive leaders. After each pair was finished, the entire coop – roosters, hens, and even chicks, for this was an egalitarian society – would vote by cackling loudly on behalf of their favorite. The contestant that got the healthiest endorsement from the crowd would win the round and move on to the next stage, until at the end an overall winner was declared.
When Rump arrived on the scene, that year’s competition had been recently held and had been won for the second time by a Jersey Giant, a handsome dark bird who combined a powerful yet pleasing croon and the ability to make pronouncements on the weather, the food supply, the state of the world, and other topics.
As a newcomer, Rump was subjected to scorn and derision from everyone. He was not helped by his physique: he was pudgy, had a broad body with a low stance, his feathers were no longer buff but tended towards the orange-brown, and even though he sported a generous comb, it was wrinkled, drooping and unhealthy looking. Other roosters, and even a number of hens, taunted him as “the cockerel” because of his unimpressive looks.
Rump was vain and did not take criticism well, but was forced to go along. He was playing the long game and believed his revenge would come when the next contest was held.
And that day finally came, one morning in late autumn. It started with a parade of all candidates, proudly displaying their multicolored plumage, to the cheers of the assembled multitude. There were eight roosters in in all, plus Rump. He marched in last, to virtually no applause as he had nothing to recommend him. The reigning rooster announced his intention to retire because “he had served his time” and stepped out of the queue to preside over the proceedings. As tradition dictated, the favorite among the remaining candidates – a handsome Black Spanish named Herbert -- strutted in first, head up, one foot forward, calm, fully embodying the word “aristocrat” in his demeanor. Behind him ambled Rump, the last placed, attempting to look imposing.
Herbert fluttered to the top of the tree stump, perched himself elegantly there, cleared his throat, and uttered a sustained, well-modulated crow, and started his campaign speech: “My friends, you know me well, as you know my family, which for generations has provided sound, progressive leadership to this coop. I stand here today to ask for your support in continuing this tradition…” At this point Rump, from the ground, started jumping up and down, shouting: “Liar… you and your family are just a pack of thieves, who have bled this coop dry, stealing the feed that is thrown to us.”
Herbert was somewhat fazed by Rump’s speaking out of turn and his poor manners, and stumbled for a second. He then continued in the same calm, magisterial voice: “That is wrong. We respond to no interests other than those of our people, and the best cock…” Again, Rump interrupted him, shouting even more loudly: “Herbie, everyone knows your mother was unfaithful to her sire and you are the product of her illicit relationship with our current leader. You are just a pawn of his, who is secretly backing your campaign!!”
Herbert did not know how to respond. Finally he answered, indignantly but still in measured tones: “That is a calumny. Nobody has ever accused us of being illegitimate…” The rest of his response was drowned by Rump’s retort, which was loud and sarcastic: “Herbie, you not only lie about your shameful origin, but you have such low energy that you can’t defend yourself. You are just a weakling. Can this coop rely on you to defend its interests? Get out of here, you are a coward and are not fit to lead us.”
Herbert stood there, dumbfounded, and remained silent as the crowd began to hiss, fluff feathers and flap wings in disapproval. Finally, he slumped erratically to the ground. Rump immediately hopped to the stump, gave a victory crow, and was greeted with some loud cackling and clucking, as he basked in self-admiration.
* * *
The rooster he had to contend with in the second round was a youthful but smallish Cubalaya. That rooster wilted under a barrage of loud charges in which Rump called him robotic, shallow, and unprepared for assuming control of the coop. “You are just a little chick. Go back to your mommy.” The Cubalaya countered with references to Rump’s questionable physique, age and lack of experience. Rump brushed those claims aside: “I am a much more experienced rooster than you. You should respect your betters and shut your beak.” The Cubalaya cowered, and Rump crowed in triumph once more.
Rocket, the last rooster Rump faced, had had time to prepare. He was a brawler, and would have brawled with Rump had the rules so allowed. A multi-colored bantam, Rocket made up for his small size with a ferocious attitude. The match between Rump and Rocket was a remarkable trading of insults; Rocket called Rump a pathological liar, a self-serving narcissist, and an insatiable philanderer and defiler of pullets, citing the testimony of some of the hens that had come with Rump to the farm. Rump, for his part, pointed to Rocket’s “obscure foreign origins,” and made accusations about the mixed race of Rocket’s ancestors, a matter that did not sit well with some chickens, who took pride in the purity of their lineage. This time the assembled multitude seemed divided in its allegiances and disheartened at both candidates, but at the end Rump won the contest because he managed to out-shout and out-insult Rocket, something that many found surprising.
Rump rewarded the support of the crowd with a stentorian crow and was just getting ready to take charge as leader of the flock when there was a stir in the back of the gathering, leading to a shifting of bodies to make room for something. The something turned out to be a Rhode Island White hen, a female named Gertrude (Gertie, for short) with a broad, deep body and an oblong and brick-like overall appearance. Gertie waddled to the front of the audience, and asserted in a strong voice: “I am placing myself in nomination for the leadership of this commonwealth.”
There was a clamor of protests. A hen had never tried to lay claim to leadership. Most roosters, including those that had been defeated by Rump, opposed having a hen as leader. “This has never been done.” “It’s absurd.” “The place of a hen is over her eggs.” “Hens are weak and have no leadership ability.” These comments were followed by others, more colorful and demeaning. Even a number of hens agreed. “How can a hen protect us so that we can safely raise our chicks?”
The outgoing leader, who up to that point had kept silent, let out a loud crow, drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s true that there is no precedent for governance by a hen. However, we are a progressive society and should look at the merits of an applicant, not its gender. We all know Gertie. She is an accomplished and much respected hen. Let’s see what she has to say.”
Chickens still shook their heads, but Gertie seized the moment and flew like an arrow until she stood on top of the stump. And the final debate began.
* * *
Whatever one thought of her, there was no denying that Gertie was well prepared, as if she had spent all of her nine plus years grooming herself for this opportunity. She offered a dazzling array of facts and figures and statistics, and presented a detailed plan of action describing what she would accomplish as the next leader. Her initiatives included ways of protecting the unborn from predators; ways of keeping the coop warmer in winter; new methods for digging the ground for grubs, lizards and other morsels; and measures to force roosters to contribute more to the welfare of society.
Rump’s tack was the exact opposite. He didn’t say a word about his governing plans. Instead, he painted Gertie as an insufferable biddy, a crone with one foot in the grave. He cited her raspy voice and unsure walk as clear signs of her unfitness for the job. Could she guarantee that she would be around for a full year to lead the coop? Wasn’t it true that she had been in poor health just days before? Would she be able to provide security against all the enemies that were gathered, just outside, ready to pounce on them at the first sign of weakness? When Gertie pointed to her many years of service to the commonwealth, he sarcastically demanded to know what good she had accomplished in all that time. He screamed and ranted, flew around the stump, hovered insolently over her as she tried to compose her speech, and hurled demands for her banishment or worse. When Gertie repeated her plea for making roosters do their fair share for the benefit of all, he shook his head in disbelief, declaring: “such a nasty hen, and she can’t even crow.”
Gertie remained calm and collected and spoke with an even voice, never bringing herself to personally attack her opponent. “When he goes low, we go high” she declared. Some were left unimpressed by her lack of passion.
They went back and forth for hours, and the choice among the two remained unclear. The roosters were a small minority but all squawked vociferously for Rump. They were joined by a surprising number of hens, who apparently were turned off by Gertie’s coolness. On the other hand, Gertie’s supporters launched vituperative attacks on Rump’s credibility, his lack of a clear program, his chauvinism, and his many other sins.
The sun was setting behind the distant hills, marking the time when fowl retired for the night. The outgoing leader crowed for attention again, and declared: “the vote is close, but it seems that Rump’s supporters have the upper hand. He is our new leader.”
There was a collective gasp among Gertie’s supporters. No less surprised was Rump himself: he was heard muttering to his friends: “I really didn’t expect to win.”
Part 2
“What do I do now?” became a mantra as Rump had to face his new responsibilities as head of state and an unending parade of supplicants approached him with problems that called for mature judgment and experience, both of which he spectacularly lacked. His approach to governing was the same that had won the position: talk tough and give every indication of being in control. Within days of assuming power, he had elevated friendly roosters to positions of authority regardless of merit. He had denounced and countermanded most of the policies of his predecessor. He had declared big portions of the yard surrounding the coop off limits to all but his supporters. And, throughout all of this, he had denounced his critics as lily-livered scum and sought to silence them by threatening to let loose a squad of enforcers to shut them up for good.
Emboldened by his victory, Rump dispatched couriers with self-congratulatory messages to all nearby coops, announcing that he was the new cock of the walk and they better behave or else. One of his emissaries, sent to a rival coop, was slain. The others were sent back with warnings never to return. Rump had insulted the world, and now the world was paying him back.
* * *
Sometime in mid-February, Rump was visited by a committee of supporters, who put a question to him: “It has been several months and you have given us a lot of blunt talk but you have accomplished nothing. The winter is hard, and many blame you for not having enough to eat. You have to do something quickly, because this can’t wait ‘til spring.”
“Yes, but what? Any ideas?” he queried.
A young rooster ventured forward: “Sir, you may want to consider a show of force, a reminder to everyone that you are their greatest leader. A bit down the river is the coop that slew your messenger. Why not send an expedition there to punish those bandits, retrieve their food, and bring it back to the coop?”
Rump – who tended to follow the last piece of advice he received – warmed up to the idea, and soon adopted it as his own. “I will lead the expedition and demonstrate to all that I am the greatest leader they ever had,” he pronounced.
The following morning the sky was bright and cloudless, although it was very cold. Shivering, Rump gathered his entourage and set out towards the river. As they approached the rival coop, they loudly chanted war cries and uttered threats at the enemy. Rump sought to hearten his troop even more with tales of his exploits as leader in earlier days. “And I stood valiantly as this huge wolf, growling and drooling spit, came ….” At that point, from behind the shrubs and bushes materialized a host of angry fowl: their noisy approach had alerted their target and well over two dozen roosters and hens descended upon them and dove in their midst with unbelievable force while issuing hoarse, rasping screams.
The bravos that accompanied Rump scattered in all directions, fleeing in terror. Rump too tried to escape, but was the oldest and slowest of the group, so it was left behind as one of the assailants closed its talons in a death grip around Rump’s midriff, and its pointed beak took several bites at the chicken’s neck, comb and wattles. Rump instinctively squirmed and flattened himself upon the ground.
Rump lay on the earth unmoving as the other rooster readied for a final attack, but at that time a loud barking was heard as one of the farmer’s dogs, a mean tempered giant schnauzer called Judge, hastened into the scene. The attacking rooster, sizing up the new arrival, rapidly took off with its companions.
Judge came over to where Rump lay and nosed him curiously. “Are you dead or alive?” he questioned. “Pretty messed up” answered Rump. “Please don’t kill me.” Judge let out a bark that was possibly a laugh, but one could never tell with those brutes. “I am trained not to kill the master’s chickens. Come, I will take you back home.” He cradled Rump carefully in his jaws and trotted back to the coop, depositing the bird on the ground in front of his astonished subjects. “You guys are really stupid walking out in the open so far from your coop. Next time I may not be around to save you.” With that, Judge turned around and departed.
Rump picked himself up and took inventory of his wounds. He was bleeding profusely from a couple of deep gouges and hurt all over. But, all things considered, he was in reasonably good shape. He started preparing in his mind the speech he would give to justify the humiliating defeat. He would say something like how bravely he had faced the enemies and how he had been betrayed by incompetent advisors.
Events cut him short.
You see, chickens are a bit like sharks. When chickens see blood, they go berserk. Blood sends everyone into a frenzy and they attack the wounded animal. The more blood there is, the more they attack. So, all chickens in the coop descended on Rump as he bled, pecking him everywhere. No one rose in his defense, no one remembered how they had cheered him on when he savaged his adversaries. And no one would give him credit for what he had done for the community, for he had done nothing good.
Rump’s last thought, as consciousness faded away, was “I’m glad this is over. I was getting tired of winning.”
END
Originally published by The Malu Zine, November 2023
Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man. He became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. After retirement, he took up creative writing.
Over one hundred and eighty of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in a wide range of story anthologies, magazines, blogs, audio books and podcasts. Several anthologies of his stories have also been published.
https://twitter.com/mtravies (@mtravies_diaz)
