Rod the Rooster

A young rooster strutted through the woods. His white and black mottled feathers were speckled with the dark red of dried blood and the dusty orange of dirt and clay. He bobbed every now and again from exhaustion, but his legs kept moving for him. Luckily, they remained unscathed. A snapping twig sounded behind him, and his head shot up. The lack of a wattle betrayed his youth, and his wide eyes betrayed his fear. He cocked his head to the side, watching quietly. A squirrel ran through the thicket, but even so, the rooster stood. The dark and cold woods had his attention now.

An autumn breeze blew, stirring up the fallen foliage. In the distance, the creaking of a broken door could be heard. Still, the rooster watched. The smell of dried feed and death followed after the wind, burning the rooster’s nostrils. Still, the rooster watched. His feathers ruffled about him, exposing his wounds to the cold, dry air. When they settled, a single feather fell among the leaves, much too small and bloodied to be his own. Finally, the rooster turned away.

The rooster wandered through the night, hiding in brambles and thickets. A long ways away, the rooster could hear the damned barking of dogs. Tired and worn, he needed to find shelter. Finally, he found it. The branches were tight, providing enough coverage for the rooster to hide behind. The boughs themselves were sturdy and flat enough to provide a good resting place. The tree was surrounded by ivy and brambles, making it almost impenetrable for large beasts to follow into. Above all, it’s branches started low to the ground, allowing the rooster to climb up into it for the night. Temporarily safe, the rooster slept.

Dreams are a funny thing. They plague every creature caught under its thick blanket. They come from vague memories that the mind twists around into an almost unrecognizable image. Some can be lovely. Others can be indescribable. Then, there’s the kind that life shudders at: the kind that are called nightmares. Since every being dreams, nothing can escape the clutches of these twisted memories.

The rooster knew nothing about dreams or nightmares save for the fact that they came to him from time to time. He didn’t know that trauma and joy could affect how the mind pervades these nighttime visitors, nor did he know that they could bring alive things wished to be forgotten. The rooster knew none of these things. So when he nestled down to sleep, hope had filled his aching heart. Maybe if he knew the truth about the mind and nighttime’s disturbed daughter, he would have stayed awake. If only, he could have stayed awake.

The rooster found himself surrounded by an inky warmth. There was nothing to see, but he knew he was surrounded by his beloved hens. He could feel the hay beneath his talons. He could feel the stale air of his coop. He knew that sunlight would eventually peek her weary eyes through the siding, and he would call out to the day. Yet there was something wrong about this feeling.

Uneasy, the rooster peered into the nothingness. Vague shapes hazed around him and slowly began to form. Here were the hens. They surrounded him. Their eyes were dull and unforgiving. Some of their necks bent towards him at unnatural angles. Wings were broken and hung limply. There were a few that lay on the ground, motionless. However, all wore that accusatory stare.

Beneath his talons was the coarse hay. It shifted and swayed as if it were the water disturbed in their trough. Then, he noticed that the hay was merely floating atop it. The “water”, or so the rooster thought, was murky and sticky. It clung to his feathers and threatened to pull him under. It poured from the hens in gallons, filling the coop with its sickly stench.

The walls of the coop held the stale air within it. However, the rooster didn’t remember them being such a dark color. They moved up and down, swirling them all within it. Along the edges, sharp rocks started to grow. Slowly, the hens moved away from him in the churning liquid. They spun out of control and crashed into the pearly rocks. Only feathers remained.

The rooster knew that sunlight would sneak in eventually. The sun would peer in, and he would run out to greet the world. His hens would be behind him, and all would be right again. However, the coop opened wide, and there was no sunlight. Two gleaming pairs of dark brown orbs peered at him, and the only thing that crept in were the distant barking of dogs.

The rooster startled awake. He was no longer in his coop. The only warmth that surrounded him were his own feathers. The coarse feeling beneath him was simply pine needles. The air was held still by the overhanging branches.

However, beyond the horizon, he could see her. The sun opened its large eye. She peered unto the land below her and cast away the darkness and dreams. The rooster watched her rise, and with all his strength, he called out to her. He didn’t cry to greet the day. He didn’t cry to awake his hens. He didn’t cry to welcome the farmer or his dried feed.

He cried because he was alive.