ISSUE NO. 17 | Barnaby’s Goose by André-Marcel Adamek
from Contes tirés du vin bleu
One Easter, Barnaby received a visit from a distant cousin. They hadn’t seen each other for thirty years, and she insisted on a memorable gift for the only man who’d ever shown her, in their teenaged games, the interest a boy might bear a girl, braiding her crowns of wildflowers he set majestically atop her red hair.
As Barnaby raised poultry in his corner of the countryside, she had the idea of giving him a gosling with foam-white plumage. It chirped in its wicker cage.
“What a strong little duckling,” said Barnaby, who’d never kept anything but hens.
“It’s a goose,” said the cousin. “She’ll give you eggs big as your fist and protect you from thieves much better than your poor old Nero.”
Hearing his name, Nero gave a swish of his tail on the tiled floor. He was a dark-feathered crossbreed whose eyes with their hazy film of blue betrayed his age. He’d killed a thousand rats, chased greedy martens from the henhouse, and followed his master down paths both icy and stormy, always ten paces behind, beak ready to tear into any intruder. He eyed the gosling glumly, but his whole body quivered with worry at the newcomer’s magnificent energy.
“You sure it’s not a gander?” asked Barnaby, a bit taken aback by the bird’s boldness.
“I’m sure. She’ll start laying in four months.”
“I’ll call her Nelly,” said Barnaby. On the table he set out a golden cake that owed its hue to yolks from his ten hens, pampered as sultanas.
The goose soon revealed her terrible nature as a merciless conqueror. At barely six months of age, she picked out the only pretender to absolute power in the courtyard, an Irish cock redder than a ripe strawberry who violated each of the frail hens under his watch thrice daily. He carried out these misdeeds casually, falling on his prey with his claws and giving each a few solid thrusts with his rump before wandering off like a tabernacle saint, soul at ease and loins voided.
Nelly, whose head hovered three inches over the rooster’s comb, didn’t even bother challenging her rival to single combat. While he was rummaging about in the dungheap, chuckling like a senator, she lunged at his genitals, and with a twist of her neck tore off his male wiles, which she spat out disgustedly in the runnels of slurry before reassuming her noble, immaculate air.
As the speechless rooster fled with the sparrows, the goose turned toward the harem of horrified hens.
Barnaby liked his summer mornings on the back porch, when the shadows of the world shrank before the sunny east. The air there was pure, rich as pomegranate juice. No sooner would he drag a chair across the old planks than the goose would pop up out of nowhere and keep him company. He’d hear the sound of her feet on the worn wood, see her coming: head outthrust, a playful look in her eye, honking even before the blackbirds had woken.
All he would say was, “Here, Nelly.”
Then it was as if her long neck would soften to curve over the man’s hands. She too would watch the sun, which had begun flickering over the foothills. No cry would come from her beak, and sometimes she seemed to be seeking an unfamiliar warmth in the hollow of her wings. It resembled a gesture of retreat, of remorse.
“Nelly, you shouldn’t bother the hens,” Barnaby would say. And he’d caress her neck, knowing he could have broken it with the merest pressure from his fingers. Nelly exulted before the rising sun. Every tuft of her finery grew tinged with pink. Barnaby’s murmurs would exhilarate her, and the hens, still asleep, confirm her in her feeling of power and impunity.
By autumn, Barnaby had lost half his birds. Nelly had developed the habit of harassing the hens’ crests, reducing their fiery millinery to a few bloody barbs. She also ate the chicks and even terrorized old Nero, who no longer dared poke his beak into the courtyard.
One day, when Ballefroid the poacher came by to split a bottle of wine on the porch, he let out a terrible pronouncement: “I’ve never seen a meaner bird in my life. You should slit its throat before it ruins you.”
“A rundown old rooster and five dead egg layers won’t be the ruin of me.”
“You won’t have a single living hen by spring. That demon will’ve killed Nero and hamstrung you. That’s the white death right there, fallen on your house!”
“If you could see how gentle she is in the mornings, when she comes to keep me company—”
“You’re talking like it’s a woman.”
“She is, for birds.”
“It’s an animal, Barnaby! Talk like that is blasphemy. One day you’ll be begging me to come and rid you of your Nelly.” Ballefroid emptied his glass and walked off at a quick, rough pace.
Barnaby shrugged. He went to pick fresh lettuce from the garden and, like a lover counting petals on a rose, plucked the leaves off one by one, stuffing them down the goose’s great open beak.
Though it hurt him bitterly, Barnaby had to admit the poacher was right. There was nothing left of the five surviving hens but a pile of reddish feathers whirling at the winds’ whim.
Old Nero would be dead by first snow, likely more from jealousy and spite than the weight of the years.
Deprived, like all domestic fowl, of the ability to fly, Nelly nevertheless managed to climb her wire pen. Terrifying in her affection, she would persist in pecking at the door and shutters, rousing Barnaby, pale with interrupted slumber, from his quietude. He’d put up with everything up till now, but refused to yield kitchen and bedroom—his final ramparts—to the goose. He resolved to shut Nelly in the tool shed, a little windowed shack at the back of the yard.
Complaints from the neighbors started flowing in. For a radius of three hundred yards
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