"Why did the..."
Mortimer was baffled.
“It’s a chicken!’ He exclaimed, mostly to himself, but still aloud.
He looked up and down the apparently empty pavement, hoping that someone was seeing the same thing he was. But to no avail.
“It’s a chicken!” He repeated, gesturing with both hands at the small bird stood by the verge looking back and forth for a space in traffic to traverse the busy thoroughfare. The rhythmic nature of the chicken’s head movements were mesmerising and soon Mortimer found himself following along in unison, looking for a gap - even though he had no need to cross.
Mortimer looked to all intents and purposes like a 1970’s insurance salesman heading to work; in reality, that’s kind of what he was. He sported a black bowler hat, a small and well-groomed moustache, a pinstripe suit and he carried a battered leather Gladstone bag. He definitely looked the part, right down to the umbrella tucked inside the handles running the length of the bag. But that’s because he was a 1970’s insurance salesman and he’d been doing the same thing for 50-odd years.
He’d thus far resisted two attempts to retire him and eventually his boss has basically told him to retire when he wanted. He still did a good job - even now, insurance was insurance, after all. Mortimer was so boring that he lived alone - he’d been married twice, his second wife marrying, and subsequently divorcing, without him barely noticing. Mortimer was surprisingly happy with his lot and to him, that’s what was important.
But his world had been somewhat disrupted by the events of this morning.
He shook his head to clear the alarming hypnotic effect the fowl was having on him and considered the situation he was observing. Stepping forward, so the chicken could see him, he addressed the bird.
“You know, this looks a lot like the makings of a joke.”
The chicken looked up at Mortimer - “B’gark!” it replied. (Well, you try and type chicken!)
“Sorry,” Mortimer felt pretty daft apologising to a chicken, “but I don’t speak chicken.”
“Humans,” this time the chicken spoke so that Mortimer could understand, “so lazy. You ask me a question and expect me to reply in your language.” The chicken shook his head sadly. “And yes,” continued the chicken, “all of chicken kind have heard your ‘joke’.”
The chicken managed enough sarcastic inflection on the last word to momentarily surprise Mortimer further.
“You speak English?” he asked.
“Yes,” came the slightly casual reply.
“Is that because you’re an English chicken?”
“No,’ came another short reply. Mortimer now felt that perhaps the chicken was the lazier of the two of them.
“Can you speak any other languages?” he asked.
“Spanish, Portugese, Malay, Hebrew,” the chicken paused and cocked his head, as if trying to remember, “oh, and Ukrainian.”
Mortimer started at the list. “Malay? Ukrainian?” he questioned, “They’re a bit left field, aren’t they?”
‘Chicken linguistic ability,” the chicken said, matter-of-factly, “is passed down through generations. We deliberately learn languages of the main countries that eat chicken.’
Sounds logical, Mortimer mused. ’But why?” he still asked.
“So we know what they have got cooked up for us.” The chicken almost groaned at his own joke, “Pun intended.” Mortimer wasn’t sure that it actually was.
“I mean, obviously,” the chicken continued, “we would prefer to tie ourselves up with a religion.” Mortimer held out his hands and shrugged uncomprehendingly. “For protection,” the chicken clarified.
“Protection?” Mortimer queried.
“That’s right. Pigs have engaged with the Muslims for sanctuary. Cats, big and small, have been revered for millenia by religions that have come and gone. Why do you think so few cultures eat them?” Mortimer didn’t have an answer. “And don’t get me started on cows!”
If it was possible to do so, the chicken rolled his eyes and groaned for real this time.
“What beef have you got with cows?” Mortimer asked carelessly, almost immediately closing his eyes and slapping his own forehead. It meant he didn’t see the chicken walk over and kick him in the ankle.
“Ow!” Mortimer exclaimed, rubbing his now sore ankle.
“Punishment fits the crime,” said the chicken remorselessly.
“You were saying about cows and religious protection?” Mortimer asked, still nursing his lower leg and scrunching up his face in pain.
“Oh yes,” began the chicken again, ’Despite being mostly a recently domesticated animal, cows apparently have a better marketing team - Hindus will not only avoid beef, they also consider the animal sacred!” He shook his head in disbelief, “It’s utterly ridiculous!”
Mortimer was undecided if a talking chicken was qualified to make such a statement, but his throbbing ankle persuaded him to drop the notion. ’So, who have the chickens elected to provide salvation?” Mortimer felt silly even asking.
“It’s a, er…work in progress,” the chicken was hesitant to commit.
“Oh?’
‘Yes,” continued the chicken, “Sure, the natural protection offered by vegetarian Sikhs and vegan Jains are very tempting, but do they carry the weight of numbers required?’
’Why not aim higher?” suggested Mortimer, ’Christianity has the people.”
“No, thank you!” the chicken declared, “I’ve seen what they do to each other, purely over a difference of opinion!”
“The only other large volume of people pulling together is the Chinese.” Mortimer scratched at his chin as he pondered the dilemma.
‘I’ve got two things to say to you,” began the chicken, “sweet & sour and chow mein.’
“Good point.’ Mortimer confirmed his agreement with the wave of a finger.
Deciding that all this talk of food was making him hungry, and that Weetabix will only go so far to suppress a hunger that was now craving takeaway (he only ordered chips anyway, even from the Chinese), Mortimer decided to change the subject.
“You were saying that one of our most famous jokes isn’t really a joke after all?”
“That’s right,” confirmed the chicken, closely inspecting his claws, “it’s a fable.” That matter-of-fact tone was back; if Mortimer was honest, he found it a little unsettling.
“A fable?” Mortimer couldn’t resist asking for more detail.
“Yes, that’s right,” came back the chicken casually, “if humans can have old stories about animals, why can’t chickens? You didn’t expect us to have them about humans, did you?” It was a goading question and Mortimer had already learned not to fall into that particular trap.
“Go on,” gestured Mortimer with a hand.
“The story supposedly originates from over 3000 years ago.” Mortimer decided to sit on the floor, cross-legged (impressive for a man of his advanced years) and set his bag on his lap, resting his hands on top. It must have been quite the image to a passerby, of which there were many, as the rush-hour traffic had yet to abate.
“There were two brothers, who lived on either side of a rarely travelled track. Their individual patches of land were settled amongst other farms in the area - opportunities for expansion were limited, but animal feed and grain, etc. were both fairly readily available.” The chicken paused to ensure Mortimer was still with him.
“Ravi and Zarif Sayeed were happy with a modest existence for each of them. “Predominantly, they reared goats and sheep, which grazed in the elevated pastures of the region. A sustainable, albeit small, income. In addition, each of them kept some chickens on their own respective plots. The steady supply of eggs was welcome and, eventually, there started to come an excess - this was sold or bartered to neighbours for other resources.”
A few other pedestrians had stopped to observe the bizarre scene being played beside the highway; occasionally one or two would take a seat with Mortimer, or mill around to see where the story was headed. Even if it was being told by a multilingual chicken.
“Over time, Ravi and Zarif started to enjoy the luxuries offered by the income generated from the extra eggs -” the chicken paused for a moment, “and I’m not giving you any egg-stra or egg-cess jokes, so forget it!” The audience was silent - who would question an insistent chicken?
“Anyway, one evening the brothers were discussing the future and they came to the conclusion that they should pool their resources. Why continue to keep chickens separately and manage the continual upkeep within the confines of their own - and let’s call it what it is - their own over-sized back garden?”
“Quantities of scale!” exclaimed a spectator. Mortimer turned to see a young woman he recognised, from the financial consultants in the building where he worked, raise a finger in the air to ensure she got the credit.
“Yes,” confirmed the chicken in a somewhat bored and impatient tone. “Quantities of scale.”
By this point, occasional cars were starting to slow and take in what they were fairly sure they weren’t seeing. Mortimer wondered who would be busier over the next couple of days - opticians or psychotherapists.
“So,” the chicken continued, unphased, “the brothers collaborated and created one large chicken farm, if you will. Ravi had the coop facilities for the chickens to rest indoors and Zarif was responsible for outdoor feeding and the chicken exercise yard.”
Sounds more like a split-site prison, thought Mortimer.
“In order to maximise the space, the brood was split across both farms - half on either side.”
“How did they switch them over?” came a voice from the back of the crowd; Mortimer couldn’t see the originator from his seat on the floor.
“The farms operated on a loop run. The chickens crossed the track at the same time, in opposite directions, about 50 yards apart. That way, they didn’t cross paths and get mixed up.
“Initially, Ravi and Zarif erected fences across the track at both crossing points, to ensure the birds didn’t wander off. Then one time, some of the fencing blew over.”
There was an audible gasp from the crowd, although why was a real mystery to the chicken.
“A good few of the chickens appeared to look long and hard at the gaps, before shrugging (the way chickens do) and carrying on anyway.”
A middle-aged woman wearing an apron embroidered with a local pet shop brand brought a small dual pet bowl over, with water and seed, and set it in front of the storytelling chicken. The chicken looked her in the face and clucked a noise that sounded like ‘thank you’ before taking his fill. His audience was virtually silent, eagerly awaiting the next part of the story.
“When they realised that they didn’t need the fences, they stopped bothering. The track was mostly unused and, to be fair, even when the chickens did stop to inspect each other, mostly they just figured it was some sort of mirror.”
“What’s the point of this story?” heckled someone from the back, who clearly wasn’t aware where all this started.
“I’m not forcing you to stay and listen!” came back the chicken, as loud as he could. He heard a low muttering, but no-one left.
“One day, the unthinkable happened. The chickens had been swapped and, as had become fairly normal, neither Ravi nor Zarif had closed the main gates. The details of the actual event are heavily contested at this point, with different versions being told over generations. Needless to say, the ground rumbled heavily as a large, and rapid, dust cloud approached the brother’s split farm along the track that separated them. Both brothers turned to look - after all, anything coming along the track was rare.”
If it was possible, the audience became slightly quieter and the traffic seemed to slow.
“Out of the corner of one eye, Ravi caught sight of one of the chickens stood out on the track, halfway across, looking in horror as the supposed behemoth thundered towards it!”
More than one of the assembled audience gasped again; Mortimer thought they were being a bit over-dramatic. Not unlike the chicken’s storytelling technique, he mused and rolled his eyes.
“What happened next?” someone shouted.
“As I say, accounts vary somewhat - some say it was a despatch rider with a chariot, but the most likely case was a runaway cart, being pulled by a group of spooked horses. Needless to say, despite Ravi’s shout and the wayward chicken’s sudden movements, it got winged by a horse’s hoof.” That pause again, “Figuratively, and literally.” added the chicken.
More gasps from the crowd. Mortimer coughed so he could hide his own groan.
“Did it die?” came a call that sounded a lot like the heckler.
“Surprisingly, no.” confirmed the chicken. “The local witch doctor, although it’s fair to say he practised something more like animal voodoo than actual medicine, came to see the brothers and the injured fowl. Later that day, the chicken was up and about, although Ravi had adopted it as a pet by that point, blaming himself for the accident.
“News of the accident spread to the town that benefited most from Ravi and Zarif’s egg trade, finding both brothers and product much to their liking. The townsfolk were desperate to hear about what had happened to the chicken.”
“How does that translate into a fable?” Mortimer asked out loud. A few members of the standing audience glowered at him.
“The witch doctor became something of a celebrity, as word of the story and chicken’s subsequent survival started to spread, so more and more people wanted to hear about the witch doctor and what he was capable of. Blessing livestock and crops, healing sick animals, etc - ultimately, he became a Middle Eastern Soothsayer/Vet.”
“How did the story make it to Europe?” someone asked.
“The same way as all the other stories,” the chicken was both matter-of-fact (again) and cynical, “they were gathered by visiting religious dignitaries (although they called themselves ‘crusaders’ back then), taken west and twisted to suit an agenda.”
With that, the chicken turned his back on the gathered throng and strolled across the road, irrespective of traffic. He’d just made it to the opposite pavement when Mortimer called after him.
“Hey! You never told us the moral of the story. You know, how it became a joke.”
“Isn’t it obvious by now?” the chicken shouted back (as loud as chickens can), “it’s not really some human philosophical question.”
“What do you mean?” Mortimer shouted, trying to carry his voice over traffic noise, “Why did the chicken, Ravi and Zarif’s single chicken, cross the road?”
The chicken was ready with the response that Mortimer definitely didn’t want.
“To get to the other Sayeed!”
