Senor Medina's Chickens

Senor Medina's Chickens(Carl Brooks) Señor Medina's Chickens
By
Carl Brooks


Vicente pulled himself up until he could see over the six foot board fence that surrounded the chicken yard. The boards were rough and full of splinters, but his hands were as hard as the skin of a burro so he did not feel the sharpness. He looked one way and then the other for someone who might be guarding the precious birds. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark, but he squinted anyway, as if to focus perfectly on his task. Several months before, there had been six dozen chickens in the yard. Some were white with yellow legs and some brown with red legs, even some the color of gold, with magnificent feathers on their heads which reminded him of pictures he had seen of Aztec Indians - his ancestors. The chickens were lean and stringy, but tasted delicious when boiled and eaten with tortillas. Tortillas were hard to come by now, due to the lack of a corn crop in the village. This, in turn, was because of the terrible drought that had plagued them for three years now. Vicente liked tortillas very much, but, he liked Señor Medina's chickens too. Most of all, he liked the chickens.

Now, there were only a six chickens left in Señor Medina's chicken yard. Vicente knew this for he recounted them every day by looking through a knothole in one of the boards, and watched as their numbers became fewer and fewer. He had not stolen a chicken every day, nor even a chicken every two days. He only stole when there was nothing else to eat, but lately that had been more and more often.

His job with the American pipeline had lasted for almost a year. Vicente was happy then, with plenty to eat. With his earnings he would sometimes buy beef and cheese to eat with his beans and tortillas. He knew it was more than he needed, but it tasted very good, and besides, that was what he wanted, so, he told himself that it was alright. He had once bought a pair of American boots with metal sown into the toes to protect his feet. He would drop heavy things on his toes and then laugh as though he had done something naughty. No one else in the village had such boots and he was very proud of them.

Every payday Vicente would jump off of the truck which brought the men back to town after their work was finished and go together with the other workers to the church of St. Jude. There, they gave Padre Hidalgo twenty percent of their earnings. They were expected to give only ten percent but the extra amount was to make up for when they had no income and could give nothing. Padre Hidalgo blessed them, accepted their offering in the name of the Church, then, blessed them again for their generosity. The parish was very poor, so the Bishop would be quite pleased at this humble gift from good Christians.

From the church, it was anyone's guess where the men would go to spend their money, for even though the village was small, there were many eager hands waiting for the feel of the new pesos. Some would put their few coins in tin cans and bury them in the corners of their mud houses; some would buy pulque, get drunk and sleep in the streets, and some, like Vicente, would buy beef and cheese for supper. Sometimes, before going home, Vicente would stop and count Señor Medina's chickens.

Señor Medina had once owned the best fighting cocks in all of Chihuahua and looked after them as if they were his own children. The magnificent birds lived very well for most of their lives, at least until they were chosen to participate in the arena, pitted against one another for survival. Vicente had often studied the chickens with great concentration, just before taking one for his supper. It occurred to him that the people who lived in his small, rural village were very much like the chickens in Señor Medina’s yard. Father Hidalgo looked after his flock of souls similar to the way that Señor Medina cared for his chickens. Otherwise, there would be no one to look after them and everyone would pretty much be on their own. The village was not big enough, or wealthy enough, to have a constable, or fire truck, or water system like other communities. There was only a group of small, mud houses huddled together around a deep well… and the chicken yard. That is where the villagers made their roost.

When Vicente was employed by the pipeline, he had worked very hard for many days in the hills, digging trenches in the dry crust in which to lay the pipe. The Americans demanded much work, but they paid very well, so in all fairness he could not complain. He had enough money to buy the things he needed and even some of the things which he only wanted. He did not save any of his pay for the future because he would only have to bury it somewhere and then worry all day about those who would steal it from him. Anyway, that is what he told himself and he seemed to be satisfied with it.

Vicente had always been poor, as was his father and his father's father. They had all lived in the same village and indeed in the same mud house with a pipe sticking through the roof to allow smoke to escape from the stove within. He had married a quiet and shy girl of fourteen who was neither pretty not ugly, but knew the ways to stretch the corn meal and did not complain when she had to do it. They had been married behind the church because neither of them was important enough in the village, or rich enough, to be allowed a wedding inside. Thus was the custom. Both, Vicente and Lupe' loved God and the Church and gave pesos, whenever possible, to assure their places in heaven when the time came. They were glad to give whatever they had and were happy for the opportunity to display their generosity. Fifty years ago Lupe's father had given the Church a golden disk which he had found in the mountains near Mexico City. He had thought the disk holy at the time and knew it was bad luck to keep such a thing, so he decided to share it with God. Padre Hidalgo thanked him for such a wonderful gift and then in a soft voice, blessed him with holy water. When Lupe’ died in childbirth, Vicente was drunk on pulque for many months, and after that he did not think about women very often.

With the American pipeline moving south, the truck no longer came to the village to pick up the men for work. To make matters worse, that was the second year of the drought and all the seed-corn had been wasted in the dry earth with no yield to show for the efforts of Vicente and his friends. Most of the other people in the village had somewhere to go when there was no food; a friend's house in another village, perhaps, or a relative. Vicente had no one.

When the food in Vicente's house was gone, he was alone. Not that help would be denied him from people in the village, but there was simply no help to give. Everyone was equally poor. Vicente would go to the Church of St. Jude and ask Padre Hidalgo for advice and strength to keep him well. In a soft voice the Padre would call him “Son” and tell him to pray and all would be well again. Vicente would kneel before the golden crucifix and bow his head in prayer. His stomach would rumble coarse sounds which embarrassed him in front of Padre Hidalgo. Then, opening his eyes, he counted the candles being held by the heavy silver candle-holders and saw the ruby studded chalice sitting just ahead of him, along with the numerous and priceless treasures which stood for kindness and generosity in mankind. Again, his stomach rumbled.

Vicente had been out of work for many months now, and every source of food known to him had long been discovered and eaten. Small animals no longer lived near the village, for there was no water for them to drink and no spilled corn for them to eat. Each day Vicente would go to the Church of St. Jude and ask Padre Hidalgo for some kind of help. In a soft voice the padre would call him “Son” and tell him to pray and all would be well again. Vicente prayed.

When Vicente realized the treasures in Señor Medina's chicken yard it was just in time, for he had been thinking of other, more terrible ways of getting enough food to fill his complaining stomach. He stayed in the shadows and watched others steal the chickens until he finally convinced himself it was alright, because he was hungry, and because Señor Medina was rich, and because others were also stealing. He had made several trips there in the middle of the night and had eaten well the next day. Vicente never got used to the awful feeling when he had to squeeze the neck of the chicken until it stopped complaining and finally surrendered to his will. Nor did he tell Padre Hidalgo of his sin at confession, the way others had done, or he would surely have to stop it and go hungry.

Vicente grew more and more bitter every day as his stomach growled in protest of the famine. He reminded himself that surely it could not last much longer. He was not angry with Padre Hidalgo, for it was not his fault, but he did not understand the ways of the church. Several of the children in the village had died in the last month, not from starvation, but they would not have been sick if they could have eaten. Several more were sickly. Surely there was some way to get help while there was still anyone there to receive it; just until the rains came again. Even Señor Medina had fallen old and ill and could no longer look after his precious chickens. Vicente had watched as they scratched the dry earth for insects to eat, but they too had long ago disappeared. Burros and dogs that used to make strange noises in the night were all silent and now there was nothing left... except for Señor Medina's chickens. Their numbers slowly became less and less, as more of the villagers discovered the precious birds as good for something other than fighting. At midnight, several sets of hungry eyes could be seen hiding just outside the fence, anxiously waiting their turn at survival.

Vicente hung on the fence for just a moment, getting his long wire-catcher free from his trousers. Now he was ready. He dropped noiselessly just inside the fence and tip-toed to the old, wooden house where the chickens would be roosting. Vicente was careful not to make noise that would frighten his prey and make them harder to catch.

When Vicente could finally see inside the chicken house, it was empty except for one blind old fighting cock. He quickly grabbed it by the neck and squeezed until the vibrating strain could no longer be felt. Vicente pulled himself up and over the fence. He dropped to the ground on the other side and found himself surrounded by villagers. They had hunger in their faces and clubs in their hands. He heard a soft, familiar voice say, "Forgive us, Father."

The End