Patricia Freeman

Patricia Freeman



The old woman slowly shuffled out to the front porch and carefully lowered herself down into her favorite old chair. Though she was weaker and weaker with every passing day, she somehow kept going. One day blended into the next; faster and faster than the day before, until she was almost out of time. Every day there seemed to be less and less and less to live for; as if time were taking back everything it had ever given her. First, it took all her loyal friends and loved ones and left her all alone; with none to help renew her spirit. Then it took her singing voice, her desire to paint, and her ability to keep a garden. Now it was taking all the energy she'd ever had, in its own mad rush toward some irresistibly seductive consummation. Patricia would've snickered at the vision of old man time on a hot date.



There was a bad storm moving in. The clouds hung low and heavy, and were moving so fast they almost appeared to be boiling. Though it was still early afternoon, it was as dark as sundown; so dark that the chickens were already going to roost. Little Whitey, being top hen in the pecking order and her brood, were the first in, while Brother, the cocky young banty rooster, brought up the rear. He knew it was his job to make sure they all got in safely. The way he kept bobbing his head as they went in, you'd think he was counting. Hah! No matter what her mood, her little flock could still bring a smile to Patricia's lips. All her hard earned wrinkles became a part of that wonder-filled smile.



The wind was getting colder and was blowing pretty hard now. It was going to be a bad one, alright. She had just told herself that she'd better go on down and latch the henhouse door when she spotted the chicken-hawk. It was perched on the highest limb of the majestic White Oak Tree that her late husband's Great, Great, Grandfather, Abraham Freeman, had planted right after the Revolutionary War.



The enormous bird's dotted white breast was just barely visible from the porch. Even though it was fall, and the tree was leafless, the chicken-hawk's lofty perch was almost entirely shielded from view by the mass of lower branches. Patricia had admired that tree through many seasons, though, and knew it like the back of her hand, so had easily spotted the trespasser as soon as she'd looked up, even though her vision was not what it used to be.



The Chicken-hawk's demeanor was so regal and proud, almost arrogant; apparently not caring if the whole world knew of its murderous aims. It did, however, seem to have the knack of keeping out of harm's way.



Before she could rock herself out of the chair, the thief made his move. The Chicken-hawk roared straight at the little rooster. The Scree it called out as it zoomed in, made Patricia's skin crawl.



Brother, rather than running for cover with the hens, defiantly stood his ground. When the Chicken-hawk was almost on him, Brother menacingly spread his wings and began slashing at his attacker with his little spurs. Of course, his pathetic attempt to fight off the falcon was futile. With deadly accuracy and skill, the predator snatched Brother right off the ground. It snapped one deadly claw around the rooster's scrawny neck, while the other talon grabbed a flailing wing. The victorious monster took his prey and clumsily flew safely out of sight.



Patricia knew that Brother was not the first of her flock the Chicken-hawk had taken. She'd had other birds come up missing this fall, but as anyone can tell you, knowing and seeing are two different things entirely. Now that she'd seen the gut wrenching reality of it, she knew she couldn't let it happen again. Even though the Falcon was protected by the damned law, the next time she saw it was going to be the last. The government would no longer be able to shield it from her wrath. Whitey's brood of chicks was going to grow up safe. She'd already waited too long to do something about the foul thing.



Patricia Freeman hadn't handled a gun for quite a while. The last time had been about nine years hence. Thomas had still been alive then. He'd been sitting out on the front porch with a fella who'd stopped by to see if he wanted another hay mowing job.

Mama, get your gun, there's a snake out here. She knew that although he did want her to shoot the snake, he was mostly just having some fun; showing off for the stranger.

"Can you hit it, old woman?", as if he had any doubt.

"I reckon I can", she lifted the rifle, took aim and fired. The snake fell to the ground. Thomas didn't compliment her shooting or show any reaction at all. He casually turned to the prospective employer and inquired how much he was thinking of paying for the mowing job. He'd loved recounting the tale to his old co-conspirators, and anybody else that would listen; slappin' his knee and chortling over how frightened the poor man had looked when he told Patricia to get her gun. Oh, how he'd cackled about the relief the guy had shown when he realized that Thomas really was referring to a snake. But most of all he'd laughed at how surprised the stranger had been that an old woman like Patricia could handle a gun so well. Thomas would've made a joke of his own funeral, given the chance.



Patricia figured she'd only get one shot at the chicken killing son of a so and so; so had better make it count. She wasn't sure if she could still manage the rifle at all. Her hands were not so steady anymore and her arms might not have the strength to hold the thing up anyway. After mulling it over for a while, she finally hit on a plan that might work. She'd use the tripod from her grandson's telescope to hold the barrel up and keep it steady. Figuring just how to make it work would have to wait for morning though. She couldn't do anything with it in this damned weather anyway, though it would be good to have it ready to go in the morning. Oh well, maybe she could get it set up before the dirty Chicken-hawk came back around again. If she didn't get the damn thing before it got any more of her birds, she'd might as well just kill ˜em all herself; at least she'd have the meat for her chicken and dumplings. She sure would miss her birds though; they were the only company she had these days, and oh how she'd miss those eggs. Those things they sold at the grocery store were not fit to eat if you asked her. Nothing compares to the flavor of a free range chicken egg.



The storm was getting really rough now, and had just knocked out the electricity. Patricia decided she might as well just go on to bed. She'd never been one to lose sleep over a problem, or a storm either, for that matter. No sense in worrying in bed was her motto. Besides, her treasonous old body was just making it way too hard to even care anymore



Neither the roar of thunder, the lightning flashes, nor the wind howling and banging things around had ever disturbed her sleep. The only thing that ever woke her up was needing to go to the damn bathroom two or three times a night. Thomas always said the reason nothing bothered her sleep was because her snoring was so loud; said he'd have better luck sleeping through a war than trying to sleep with her. He was such a liar; she'd offered to go sleep in another room plenty of times. Ha! Life was just not funny without that man.



Patricia didn't even wake up when the tornado came barreling out of the black night and ripped the roof off the henhouse, flinging the frightened flock up into the whirlwind. Nor was her sleep disturbed when the twister turned to Abe Freeman's White Oak, twisted it's iron trunk as if it were a mop, ripped it apart, and slammed it into the house, right through the old trusses and ceiling, smashing Patricia and her bed right through the floor.



The next day, the few surviving fowl were scattered far and wide, with no safe haven, and were now prey to all manner of beast.



The End.