Joseph Farley has been writing and publishing for nearly fifty years.  His 12 poetry collections include Hard Times For The Circus Clown (Impspired),  Yellow Brick Pilgrim (Alien Buddha), Written In The Sand (Alien Buddha), and Longing For The Mother Tongue (Marsh Street). His story collections include Nightmares and Hiccups (Alien Buddha), Farts and Daydreams (Dumpster Fire), and For The Birds (Cynic). He also has a novel, Labor Day (Peasantry).  Most of his books can be found on Amazon.

The Church of Old MacDonald

The hands of the clock glowed on the shelf in the chicken coop. The clock had been put there and was kept wound by farmhands.

     These same hands fed the incumbents of the chicken coop each morning to supplement whatever nutrition the birds gained from scratching and pecking around the enclosed field where resident poultry were able to run free. The extra food was paid for with eggs and donations from well wishers.

     Gertrude looked at the clock. It confirmed her sense of the hour. Gabriel had stayed out all night again, probably drinking, gambling, and watching fights in the barn with other roosters that wandered over, or been brought there by humans. The humans also drank and gambled and fought among themselves while watching the cocks go at it.

    Gertude had bought the alarm clock because her husband was unreliable. She had asked the farmhands to place it on the shelf and keep it wound. She paid them for this service, as best she could, with fresh eggs.

    Gabriel, a rooster, should have been able to get up before dawn to crow on his own. It was expected of him. That was one of the main reasons he was employed at the farm. 

    Gabriel did not worry about others’ expectations or schedules. He liked his booze. He liked watching fights. He loved games of chance. More than any of that he loved to be in the sand circle, giving it his all, strutting, kicking, pecking, and flapping.

    Gabriel had been gifted with large sharp spurs on his feet. One of the farm workers helped him supplement this natural advantage before each fight by tying razor sharp metal spurs to the rooster’s feet. Gabriel had plenty of scars under his feathers, but knew he did unto others, on most occasions, much worse than he received. Still, he was getting older now. He did not fight in the pit as often as he used to. He left that to younger birds, some of whom he coached, when they were willing to listen.

     Saturday was not the only night Gabriel spent drinking and gambling in the barn. He did the same on other nights of the week as well, as often as he could get away with it. He would stumble home close to dawn, collapse into a nest and sleep until past noon.

    In his prime Gabriel could have had any young hen he wanted, but he had set his eyes on Gertrude. She had set her eyes on him also. Both had been raised in religious coops. Both were taught to be monogamous and faithful, concepts that did not sit well with Gabriel’s natural instincts. Despite this, after Gabriel and Gertrude married, he stayed loyal to her, more or less. He got use to living with a cloud of guilt in his small head. It was the reward for his shortcomings, in keeping with the lists of sins, drilled into his tiny cranium in Sunday school, along with multiple examples of what hell had in store for the weak, selfish, and backsliding. His life, the lives of the other chickens on the farm, might have been much different if not for Saint Henry. Their lives would have been much shorter and less civilized, but would not have been burdened with concepts of shame or guilt.

     Henry MacDonald had a farm with fields of wheat, rows of corn, groves of fruit trees and gardens filled with many kinds of vegetables. He kept cows for milk, beef, and hides. Chickens were kept for eggs and, well, chicken. Ducks were kept for eggs and their flesh. Sheep were for wool and mutton. Pigs were for disposing of garbage, and for ham and bacon. 

     The farmer was married for over forty years He loved his wife dearly. They were unable to have children, but were content with each others company and all the living things around them. Then Mrs. MacDonald passed away.

     After the loss of his wife Old Mr. MacDonald turned to his faith. He read his Bible daily. His life became more about prayer than farming.  The more he prayed, the more he changed. He became a vegetarian. He stopped killing animals with his own hands, and later stopped selling them off for slaughter.  He continued to feed and care for the animals on his farm, viewing them, more or less, as family. For the remainder of his life he kept a large garden, which he tended daily, to supply his table with vegetables and to produce as much food for his animals as he could.  Any other costs needed to be covered by other means.

    As the years progressed, Old MacDonald sold off some of his land to a developer. He leased another thin strip of land near a highway to a billboard company.  He leased the remainder of his fields to other farmers. This meant income for him, less work, and more time to pray,

     People living on neighboring farms began to think Old MacDonald was touched in the head. He was spending too much time in prayer, and keeping too many valuable animals as what amounted to “pets.”

Good, well meaning, neighbors might have gone to a judge and had the old man labeled incompetent. Neighbors talked about that possibility. The old man might have ended his days in a nursing home or a funny farm,  That or worse could have happened, but it did not. It did not happen because of the miracles. The first of these was receiving the gift of tongues.

     There had long been stories about this or that person someplace in the distant past being able to talk with animals, really speak to creatures and understand their replies. Such tales were just entertainment for children until Old MacDonald received the gift of tongues.

     It must have been on account of all that praying he did. Iy had earned him a gift from God. That’s what the cardinals and theologians concluded. Anyhow, whatever the cause, it happened. One morning he was feeding the chickens, and found that he could understand them when they clucked and cawed back at him.  It was the same with the ducks, the sheep, the cows, the pigs, even his cat and dog. He could not understand all animals, just the ones living on his farm. They could speak to him, and he could speak to them, and, it seemed, all of them could now understand each other.

    Over time that would change a bit. MacDonald became able to understand animals living on other farms. He even learned to speak with some of the crows, hawks and foxes that poached upon his lands. Old Mister MacDonald tried to persuade these predators to change their ways, with limited success. These attempts, however, signaled the start of his call to preaching. He knew this gift of animal tongues had been bestowed upon him for a reason. That reason, he concluded, was to convert all animals to Christianity.  Many years of missionary work followed. He gained converts.  A trickle at first, then a flood.

     Old MacDonald taught the bible. He delivered harangues. He cured incurably sick animals that veterinarians had given up on. He chased off the avian flu and hoof and mouth disease with prayer rallies. The animals on his farm, and farms where he visited, avoided infection, while animals on other farms were decimated.

      When there was a major outbreak of avian flu, state and federal agricultural agencies ordered the holy farmer to cull his beasts, kill all his chickens and ducks, and take other actions to prevent his farm from becoming an incubator for the lethal disease.  Old MacDonald resisted the officials. He fought against court orders to seize and kill his animals. He sued in court. He demanded that his animals be tested for infections. He appeared in court bringing a selection of birds and beasts as witnesses. The judge and jurors laughed, until they heard the witnesses’ testimony and found that they too could understand what the animals were saying so long as Old MacDonald was in the court room. This shared gift of discernment did not last longer than the trial, but that was long enough. It would later be labeled as another of Saint MacDonald’s miracles. In the end the jury ruled in his favor. The animals in the court room broke out into hymns of thanks and praise, the tunes of which were recognizable, if not the lyrics. It was yet another miracle.

     After that, cameras and pilgrims flocked to the farm.  Old MacDonald welcomed pilgrims. He prayed together with them and the animals. He tried to ignore the cameras. He did not like them, and never got used to being photographed or filmed.

     During the years left to him Old MacDonald made audio translations of the gospels into the languages of sheep, cows, chickens, ducks, pigs, dogs and cats. He was working on an audio translation for horses when he died, his body ascending into heaven according to tradition, after a propane tank he was hooking up to a barbecue grill exploded.  Witnesses claimed the saint was not burned by the flames or damage in anyway as it rose towards the clouds. The old famer bore a smile on his face and his eyes looked heavenward until he disappeared in the stratosphere.

      The animals Old MacDonald had converted, along with their offspring raised in the faith, prayed for the holy man’s soul at his funeral, which, in the absence of a body was more of a memorial service with extra trimmings.  This took place in the small church the farmer had built on a section of his property with aid of donations from people who had learned of his miracles through television and social media. Clergy in attendance at the service were impressed by the orderly conduct of the animals, the harmonies from the choir, how the ducks and the hens got along with the cats and dogs, and the huge media turnout. Several bishops heard a distinct “ka ching” as cash registers rang in their heads. This too was taken as a miracle.

     Within fifteen years of his death, Old MacDonald was canonized as Saint Henry MacDonald, patron saint of livestock and poultry. He lost out on a chance to be patron saint of dogs and cats due to the prior canonizations of St. Francis of Assisi and a lay nun in Mexico who had run a shelter for felines. 

     The first service on Sundays at the Church of St. Henry MacDonald was said in chicken. Gertrude tried to attend this first service every week, but she was late now. She had grown tired of waiting for her husband to return. Gertude gave her chicks some seed and water and told them not to leave the coop. She convinced herself that Gabriel would be back soon to watch over them, even if he could only keep one eye open, and that partially. She left for church, running as fast her little legs could carry her.

     It was not fast enough. The mass was well along when she got to the church. Gertrude did not feel comfortable entering late.  She waited outside, scratching at the lawn, until the service ended, planning to attend the next mass, which would start thirty minutes after the service in chicken ended. The second mass was said in duck. Gertrude was fine with that. Anyone could attend any service, whether they understood it or not. The important thing was to go to mass on Sunday.  Although Gertrude would rather have heard the service in chicken, duck would have to do.

     A stain glass window depicted Saint Henry MacDonald with a yellow brimmed straw hat, a white beard, and overalls, and clutching a Bible. The saint looked towards some distant point while he led a parade of horses, dogs, cats, chickens, ducks, cattle, sheep, goats, pigs and other domesticated animals toward a brick building with door wide open and a cross on the roof.

     Gertrude looked around the church. It was mostly ducks in the pews, but not only ducks. There were a dozen or so other chickens, hens and chicks for the most part. There were also a few sheep and cows, even one or two families of humans.

     She thought she recognized one of the humans. The man might have been the same one who fixed leaks at the chicken coop after a storm. The man looked much different in his Sunday best. Gertrude wondered if the man recognized her. Probably not, she thought. Most human could not tell one hen from another. Besides, Gertrude was wearing her good red dress. She had probably only had an apron on when the roof had undergone repairs.

     The priest did his best, but even Gertrude, who had mastered little duck, could tell he was mangling the language. It did not bother her as much as it might have if it had been the mass intended for chickens, and it was her language that was coming out garbled. A quack was a quack to her. A cluck, on the other hand, could mean so much.

     It did not matter if the language was wrong. The form of the mass remained the same. Gertrude could follow it. She knew when to stand, when to sit, and when to kneel. She knew when to respond and sing. She did so in chicken, but kept her voice low, so as not to offend the ducks in the pews around her.

     The readings changed with the liturgical calendar. The priest did his best with voice and gestures, such as flapping elbows, swaying, and moving his head, to convey the message of the Gospel to his audience, but the quacks and honks did not hold much literal meaning for Gertrude.  She knew the sounds were holy. She had been taught so, and she believed this, to the best of her ability. It might, for the most part, be just noise of interest only to waterfowl, but in her soul Gertrude trusted that it was much more than that.

     Unable to always follow along, Gertrude prayed in silence during her periods of ignorance.      Gertrude prayed Gabriel would be awake when she got home. She prayed that he had sense enough to look after their chicks until her return. She prayed that her chicks would be kept safe from pagan weasels, foxes and hawks; and that they would be safe from backsliding rats, and evil snakes and toads.

     She prayed that her husband, Gabriel, would stop boozing, fighting and gambling.  She prayed that her husband would avoid the temptation of other hens. She prayed that Gabriel’s faith would grow, and that he would become a better husband and father.

    Gertrude prayed, but her prayers were filled with doubt. The devil, she, thought, is always there. She prayed for her own faith to increase, and that her small soul would be made worthy of peace in this life, and heaven after death.

    “God,” she questioned in her heart. “Do I beg for too much?”
     Gertrude watched the mystery of the Eucharist, and mixed with waddling ducks and grunting sheep in the communion line. Her reward was a small piece of bread. Not much of a meal for humans or cattle, but a good breakfast for a hen.

    After mass, Gertrude headed home to her coop. Her pace was slower than the mad rush she had made to get to church.  It was a fine morning. It would be a fine day. The sun was in the sky with a few clouds that spoke of the blessings of shade and rain.

     There were times when she looked at the sky and feared it would fall on her. Not literally, though she had heard old stories that such things might have happened in the past. It was more the weight of all her worries pressing down. It onlyfelt like the sky could fall at any minute.

    That was how she felt on most days, but, not today. This was Sunday, and she had gone to mass. For the moment, Gertrude had no worries. She had a warm feeling in her gizzard, and could, for the moment at least, believe only good things awaited her at home. The truth, whatever it was, she would learn when she crossed the yard to where her offspring should be waiting for her, pecking at the dirt and grass, supervised by a half awake rooster. For now she had hope, belief, that everything would be fine and just and good, the way it should always be. And maybe it would be, if only for today, if her prayers had been heard, and God smiled in her direction.

    And so her prayers were answered, at least in part, perhaps the part that mattered most at the moment. As Gertrude passed through the gate that led to the chicken run, she saw Gabriel. He was  outside the coop, resting with eyes half open, while chick played nearby.  Gertrude quietly clucked a prayer of thanks.