Chickory

It wasn’t long before the crew took off from Pulleytown, and thanks to their new recruit, one of his own inventions, they now had a wagon without the need for animals to pull it. This made things much easier for traveling, but who knows how it would pan out once they got to their destinations.

The road is always a good place for someone to be on, and for Rico, it was the perfect time to learn about his new friends and their lives until now. Of course, you know all about the stories, but to Rico, this was news.

"Hold on, hold on. So you're telling me Cheddarhead over hear made a living cheese monster? I thought that was some weird analogy, he was being for real?" Rico said astonished.

Bart’s offended gasp was immediate. “Excuse me? He was not a monster! My son was a freak accident that just happened to achieve sentience and rampage across towns.”

Willow smirked from the back area of the wagon. “And then Joren blew it up.”

“Mercifully.” Joren added.

“Maliciously.” Bart muttered.

Rico shook his head in disbelief, grinning. “You people are insane. You realize that, right? I thought I was joining a group of goofballs, not spies and detination specialists."

Gus adjusted in his spot next to a box. “You get used to it pretty fast. Besides, it's not like your too far off, either, duck man."

Rico laughed under his breath, leaning back against the only true seat of his motorized wagon. "And what makes you say that?"

Gus shrugged. “Oh I don't know, maybe your absurd obsession with ducks or how you are a nine-time champion of a renowned body building contest. Just a thought."

Rico chuckled. " Hey, don't speak ill of my friends. Besides, I can't even be proud now that I lost my title this year."

Bart leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Ah yes, the tragedy of the fallen champion. Truly, history’s greatest heartbreak.”

Rico smirked at him. “You say that like you’ve ever won anything.”

That one shut Bart up. Where Bart used to get away saying strange things, Rico could retort in the perfect way.

Willow grinned. “Oh, I like him. He’s like Bart, but with better timing. Just a little negative, though."

Rico scowled. “You wound my heart, Willow. I don't intend on being negative, it's just some healthy banter between brothers of the muscle."

Bart perked up instantly. “Brothers of the what? I refuse to be part of any muscular fraternity you’re inventing on the fly.”

Rico laughed. “Too late, you’re already drafted. We flex, we argue, we occasionally flip the world on its head, that's just how things work out with us brothers."

Bart crossed his arms, puffing up in mock offense. “I am a genius, but I will compromise since you are one nifty inventor."

Willow smirked. “There you boys go, making up like real brothers.”

Joren leaned against the side, eyes half-lidded against the afternoon light. He could still hear Bart and Rico arguing about nonsense from what he could pick up on, and eventually drifted into that peaceful lull of the bumps on the road. It was nap time for our young man.

He lucidly dreamed of a memory, one of his time back at home.

The afternoon sun hung lazily over Hazel’s farm, the kind of day where nothing important was supposed to happen. At this particular point in time, Joren was busy feeding the hens like Hazel requested of him before she left to get some feed from the store.

He worked without thinking too hard, just scooped some food out of the bag and watched the chickens cluck and flutter for it. It was one of those tasks that kept his hands busy, not that he needed to be all that busy on a random afternoon. Hazel tasked Joren with keeping things quiet and the chickens fed, among other things, until she got back.

The hens, or perhaps just one, didn’t share that goal.

He noticed the troublemaker almost immediately. A white hen with a faint gray streak along its neck had been testing the edge of the fence all morning, pecking at the posts and pushing its head through the gaps like it was studying the design.

“Don’t even start,” Joren muttered, scooping another handful of feed into the trough.

The hen looked up at him, eyes beady and unreadable.

He sighed. “You’ve got food, sunlight, friends, what more could you want?”

What Joren had forgotten was that he left the door slightly ajar, which would be his fatal downfall to what should have been a normal day.

The hen gave no warning. It strutted casually toward the door as if it were trying to seem casual, then, with a sudden burst of flapping, squeezed through the narrow opening and disappeared into the yard.

Joren froze, halfway through packing up the food and getting ready to leave. “Nooo.”

He turned toward the open door, and sure enough, the rest of the hens were watching him like a silent audience. One even tilted its head as if to say "you gonna do something about that?"

“Hazel’s going to kill me,” he muttered.

By the time he slipped out through the gate and trying to mitigate the damage already done, the runaway hen was already halfway across the field, kicking up little puffs of dust behind it.

The field was wide and uneven, full of dry grass that clung to his shoes as he ran. Every time he thought he was close enough to grab the bird, it veered in another direction with startling precision.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He panted, watching the hen dart between patches of tall grass like it had trained for this.

He lunged once, almost caught it, then tripped on a buried root and went face-first into the dirt. When he looked up, the bird had stopped just long enough to look back at him before continuing on its merry escape around the farm grounds.

Joren sat up, brushing dust and grass out of his hair. “That’s just great."

From behind him approached two familiar faces, a little voice breaking his concentration. "Hey Joren, wha'cha doin'?"

Isla was in front, clutching a small wicker basket that swung wildly as she walked. Elira followed at an unhurried pace, her gaze following the runaway prisoner. Joren straightened, trying to look less like someone who’d just lost a fight with a bird. “Hey Isla, one of Hazel’s hens got out and I'm just trying to catch it before she finds out.”

Isla’s eyes widened, lighting up like this was the best thing that could’ve happened all week. “You’re chasing Chickory?” she asked, as if the hen were a local celebrity.

Joren blinked. “You named it?”

“Hazel said I could,” Isla said proudly. “She’s the fast one. I told her she should get a bell so she can’t sneak out anymore.”

Behind her, Elira adjusted her cloak. "It’s impressive, really. There’s a kind of freedom in animals that humans rarely maintain once they grow up.”

Joren rubbed the back of his neck. “Right now, that freedom’s going to get me yelled at.”

Isla turned toward the field, pointing dramatically. “There she goes! Quick! Look!”

Joren followed her finger just in time to see the hen scuttle behind an old cart. “Perfect.”

Elira didn’t move hear head from the spot. “You could try reasoning with it,” she suggested absently. “Animals respond better to calm tones.”

He gave her a look. “It’s a chicken, Elira.”

“Still,” she said with a half-smile, now turning to greet him with her attention. “No one ever listens when they’re being chased.”

Joren sighed. “Maybe, but that hen doesn't listen too well when she's in the pen."

Elira smiled faintly at that, the kind of distant amusement that came from someone who was clearly watching life rather than living in it. “Then perhaps she was never meant for the pen.”

Joren stared at her, deadpan. “She’s a chicken.”

“Every great escape begins with someone saying you can't." She replied, eyes feeling profound at the reality of life.

Isla was already climbing through the lower fence rail. “I can help catch her! I’ve been practicing sneaking on bugs!”

“That’s… not the same thing,” Joren started, but she’d already dropped into the tall grass, basket in hand like a tiny hunter.

Elira clasped her hands behind her back, watching the two of them with a lazy sort of calm. “You should let her try. She has the right spirit for it.”

Joren looked at Elira. "Then you better help, too, or Hazel will get after us all when she gets back."

That seemed to light a fire under Elira, even she didn't want to make an enemy of Hazel.

Elira blinked, as though the reminder had pulled her back down to earth. “Fair point,” she said softly. “Hazel has a talent for... disappointment. It’s far worse than anger.”

“Exactly,” Joren said, already heading toward the cart. “Let’s prevent that.”

Elira followed at her own unhurried pace, skirts brushing through the dry grass. “Alright then, where did our little friend go? Let's get her back to the pen as soon as possible.”

As the three predators approached, Chickory noticed them, of course.

Joren lunged, Elira tried to cut her off, and Isla shouted directions that made no sense to anyone involved. The hen dodged all three with effortless grace, slipping behind a bale of hay and vanishing from sight.

They froze, panting and bewildered.

She ruffled her feathers, pacing along the edge of the cart, and as if to mock their attempt at capturing her, she ran off just fast enough to stay away and dissuade further pursuance.

They searched for another thirty minutes, but to no avail. The hen named Chickory was but a mere concept now.

Just as Joren was about to declare defeat, the sound of footsteps came from the road behind them.

Hazel appeared, a burlap sack of feed balanced over one shoulder and the missing hen tucked calmly under her other arm.

“You three look like you’ve been at war,” she said, eyes scanning the trio of grass-stained, sweaty, and utterly defeated people. "Hello Isla, hello Elira. I assume you were roped into this problem of his?"

Joren could only point at Chickory. “You—how?”

“Found her sitting by the road." Hazel said simply. “Figured I could trust you with feeding chickens, but I guess not. I'm surprised that neither of you two could capture her, but I suppose that's what this hen is good at." She said, pointing to Elira and Isla.

Elira felt shameful, a rare emotion for her.

Elira brushed dust off her sleeves with quiet grace. “That’s… humbling.”

Hazel gave her a small smirk. “I’d say so, that's for sure."

Isla ran up, practically glowing. “We almost had her, Ms. Hazel! Joren was super close, and Mom was helping, and I was yelling the whole time! It was super fun!”

Hazel’s eyebrow lifted. “I can tell.” She turned toward the barn, the hen content in her arms. “Maybe next time, you’ll leave the chickens in the pen, eh Joren?”

Joren sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah..."

Hazel didn’t even look back. “Then next time, don’t let this troublemaker escape." Then she added. "Oh, do you two want to join us for supper since your here? I'm making stew."

Elira brushed a stray hair from her face, trying to hide her shame. “Well,” she said, her tone calm again, “I think we could stay for supper, maybe."

Isla nodded eagerly. “Yay!"

Hazel smiled faintly, already heading toward the farmhouse. “Good. You can tell me all about how you almost caught her while I finish cooking.”

Isla skipped after her, basket swinging in hand. “I’ll tell the whole story! Even the part where Joren fell!”

“Of course you will,” Joren muttered, trudging along behind them.

Elira lingered a moment beside him, dusting off her skirt with quiet precision. “You know,” she said softly, “you handled that surprisingly well.”

“I still lost to a chicken.” Joren asked dryly.

Bump.

Joren awoke from his dream, drool falling from his mouth. He quickly wiped it away before Willow could notice, though Gus already had. He made no attempt at letting Joren know that he saw, trying to save the kid some embarrassment.

The wagon rattled along the dirt road, the soft clatter of wheels filling the silence. The air smelled faintly of pine and dust, and the steady hum of travel had lulled everyone into that lazy mid-afternoon calm.

“Sleep well?” Gus asked, glancing over like he just noticed him stirring awake.

Joren rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the lingering haze of his dream. “Yeah, I think so. I can't remember what I was dreaming about, though."

Bart snorted from the other side of the wagon. “If it involved cheese, that’s to be expected.”

Rico leaned back, smirking. “You sure you weren’t just dreaming about me winning the next tournament?”

"I don't think so, that would be weird." Joren retorted.

Rico spoke up again from his drivers seat. "It looks like we're coming up to a bridge, be ready."

From the inside of the cart, the four of them could see what Rico was talking about. Indeed, there was a stone bridge just big enough for them to get across, but there was some sort of building on the end closest to them. Perhaps a checkpoint, though reality had ways of making every interaction a strange one for Joren and his friends.