The day started out with blue skies, but then scudding across a milky sky, charcoal clouds closed in on the farm on that day, the first week of November.
Farmer Brown did not arrive with the morning feed and the turkeys clustered along the fencing which faced the farm house, where the lights were on. The feeding always took place at 9 AM, but not this day, and by 11 AM the birds were becoming irritable and several fights broke out. A hungry bird is a testy bird.
Just before noon a low rumbling began and grew louder and louder until its source appeared: A fifteen foot silver truck ground slowly down the road and pulled up in front of the pig barn. It had a huge red and gold star painted on its long walls: "Gold Star Market."
Seeing that, Brooks remarked, "That is the same logo that man had on the back of his jacket. The man Farmer Brown was talking to the other day."
None of the other turkeys could make that connection.
Members of Farmer Brown's family, his three teen aged daughters, walked out of the farmhouse, wearing blue jeans and brown rubber aprons which reached below their knees and they walked to the far side of the van and disappeared behind it.
The hired men, wearing similar aprons, drove up in a pickup truck and jumped down and several entered the silver truck from the door on the near side, and one stood in the door and three formed a line in front of the truck from the door to the road.
Finally, Farmer Brown walked out of his front door, down the road to the turkey field and he spoke in a booming voice.
"You are all winners today!" he shouted. "So white and big breasted. This farm has had its best year in history. Believe me. And we want to mark the greatest flock of turkeys ever with a special celebration. Come one and all, the lines are wrapping around the block!"
The troika turkeys, Sean, Rush and Rupert led the procession, walking across the road and down toward the covered bridge to the silver truck and up the stairs where each turkey was hoisted through the door by the hired men.
Toward the end of the long line Brooks, Chamberlain and Will straggled along behind. As they passed the goat pen, the goats seemed most intent on not looking at them, not even Delphi, who was normally the most responsive goat, met their eyes.
Only the old goat looked up and followed the line of turkeys with his eyes, and he met the eyes of each of turkeys who had visited the goats with a strange and steady look.
The pigs were gathered in their sty. They had their own field on the north side, but this day, they remained corralled. They looked at the turkeys pass by and grunted amongst themselves in a low, not unfriendly, but not a happy murmur.
The chickens were nowhere to be seen, which was unusual, as they were always underfoot.
From behind the truck Rush, Rupert and Sean emerged and headed back up the road toward the turkey field.
"Oh, you'll love it," Rush cackled.
"Best party ever" said Sean.
"Winners," Rupert said. "Every one."
But from within the truck a grinding, whirring sound was audible.
And a stench gradually filled the road.
The closer Brooks and his two friends got to the truck, the more intense the the smell and the louder the whirring sound, almost like the grindstone Farmer Brown occasionally used to sharpen his scythes.
The line of men lifted the birds and handed them along, until they finally reached the man at the front door to the truck, who handed the birds inside to unseen hands. The three friends, Brooks, Chamberlain and Will had not quite reached the line of men. Then Brooks noticed a large rubber hose running from the unseen side of the truck down to a barrel below.
Two of the daughters were struggling to lift the hose out of the top of one barrel and place it into a new, fresh barrel, but as they did, the hose gushed a crimson stream, which splashed on the ground between the barrels.
Brooks saw Chamberlain's eyes focus on the scarlet tide and then back to Brooks.
Just then, a shadow crossed over the faces of Brooks and his two friends. They realized the shadow was from a bird flying over them. They looked up and there, a hundred feet above them, sailed Thomas and three of his wild turkey friends.
The wild turkeys did not look down upon Brooks, but flew on, wings beating rhythmically, voices clear, plaintive, keening. They did not form a line as geese would do, but lumbered along in the air, heavily, working hard. They were slow, but they were up there, on their own power, moving steadily, untouched by the scene below them.
The hired man seized Brooks, smiling and handed him to the next man in line, and he was passed along until he reached the final man at the door to the silver truck, who handed him inside, where the whirring sound had grown louder.
Indian summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay. In northern New England, Indian summer puts up a scarlet-tipped hand to hold winter back for a little while. She brings with her the time of the last warm spell, an unchartered season which lives until Winter moves in with its backbone of ice and accoutrements of leafless trees and hard frozen ground. Those grown old, who have had the youth bled from them by the jagged edged winds of winter, know sorrowfully that Indian summer is a sham to be met with hard-eyed cynicism. But the young wait anxiously, scanning the chill autumn skies for a sign of her coming. And sometimes the old, against all the warnings of better judgment, wait with the young and hopeful, their tired, winter eyes turned heavenward to seek the first traces of a false softening.
--Grace Metalious, Peyton Place
October opened with heat which in the 20th century would have been called, "Indian Summer," but the animals and people of New Hampshire had, for some years, come to expect summer would shift into winter without pausing for autumn.
The wild turkeys pecked and hunted the sere, the yellowed fields abutting the fenced in yard for the white turkeys. The wild turkeys looked parched and their muscles had gone stringy and their voices cracked.
Standing along the fence between them, Brooks, who had grown ever fatter, his plumage whiter and his breast muscles bulging, called out to Thomas who raised his head to listen.
"You know, Thomas," Brooks said. "If you wild turkeys flew in here at dusk, there is always feed left in the bins. We cannot eat it all. Nobody would say anything and Farmer Brown goes off to the north fields in the afternoon."
Thomas smiled as much as a turkey beak will allow for a smile and said, "That is very kind of you. But I don't think we will take you up on that generous offer."
"It must be hard to recall the death of your friend," Brooks said. "But I do think it would be safe and we could post look outs for Farmer Brown. You would have plenty of time to escape, should he approach."
"We're struggling; it's true," said Thomas, "But we are getting by. Once the heat passes, we'll do better."
"It just seems a waste, all that feed uneaten at the end of the day," Brooks persisted.
"This is New Hampshire," Thomas said, "Live Free or Die. In our case, in yours as well, ever true."
"You are still the Cassandra," Brooks said. "Sounding the alarm for the approaching apocalypse."
"And you still cleave to Farmer Brown."
Later, that same day, Farmer Brown arrived with a man who wore a silver jacket which had printed in big red and gold letters on its back, "Gold Star Market." The two entered the fenced in turkey grove and walked slowly among the birds. One of Farmer Brown's daughters trailed behind, in dungaree overalls and pigtails.
"I raise the best and most beautiful and whitest turkeys in the entire country!" Farmer Brown told this man. Farmer Brown waved his arms about and as he did some of the turkeys approached, in hopes he had feed in his pockets. "Look how they love me!" Farmer Brown told the man. "They are the happiest, fattest, biggest, strongest, healthiest, most beautiful birds who ever existed! Right here."
The birds preened and strutted and fluttered their stubby, flightless wings and they all felt like winners.
"Any one of these birds would win first prize at the County Fair, if I would enter them. But I keep them right here. I wouldn't risk taking any off the farm, exposing them to those other birds from other places."
The man with the silver jacket shook Farmer Brown's hand. They ambled back out, trailed by Farmer Brown's daughter.
"I just feel so good every time he sets foot in the compound," said Chamberlain.
"He is so charismatic," Will said. "I'd follow him anywhere."
"He has kept us safe," Brooks agreed. "We eat well, all we can eat and more. His fence has kept the fisher cats and foxes and coyotes away. We have never had it so good."
Thomas was just beyond the fence, with two other wild turkeys.
"But you are not free," Thomas reminded Brooks.
"If this is not freedom, whatever it is feels pretty good. You may say that we ain't free, but it don't bother me," replied Brooks.
"That sounds like a line from a Robert Altman movie."
"Sometimes," Brooks said, "If we hop up on the hay bales, we can see across the road and through the window and see the big screen TV in Farmer Brown's living room. We saw 'Nashville' the other night."
"Ah," said Thomas.
"Farmer Brown really cares about us. Did you notice the new gate he put up at the entrance?"
"Yes. But I could not read the words."
"They are German," Brooks said. "The old goat told the other goats. Arbeit Mach Frei."
"Meaning?" asked Thomas.
"Something about freedom, I think. We are free range turkeys. Farmer Brown has set us free. We live so much better here than on other farms. We have no coops here."
"What is freedom, really?" asked Thomas.
"Just another word for nothing left to lose," laughed Brooks.
"I've heard that one."
"We can walk where were want to."
"As long as you stay on the right side of that fence."
"We can eat as much as we like."
"I can fly wherever I like," said Thomas.
"Why should I want to go anywhere else? I'm fine here. What more do I need to know?"
"Ah!" Thomas expostulated, "That's just it, isn't it? What more do you need to know? What is the use of exploration? Why ask what is on the other side of the fence, the stream, the salt marshes?"
Brooks looked across the fence at Thomas and Thomas looked back at him. They were not more than five feet apart, but they lived in different worlds entirely.
September, and the days were getting shorter.
The wild turkeys still prowled the fields beyond the fenced off white turkey grounds.
Many of the white turkeys, who were becoming very big breasted began saying things about the wild turkeys like:
"They are really, when you look at them, very dirty looking. Look how white our feathers are and how dark and filthy they look."
Or
"They are an infestation."
Or
"They must carry disease. Bird flu maybe. Best to keep them on their side of the fence."
Or
"They cackle at me, like I'm some sort of floozy. I'm glad that fence is there. They're all rapist turkeys."
The white turkeys took great pride in their white feathers and their red wattles. They strutted around, shoving out their breasts and they complimented each other with, "You look luminously white today."
They told each other, "Farmer Brown's fence is so great. We will not be replaced by those filthy brown turkeys."
But Brooks and Will and Chamberlain, the three turkeys who had met with the goats, walked along the fence and sometimes they spoke with the wild turkeys.
"Rush says Farmer Brown is a wonderful farmer," Brooks told Thomas.
"Oh, Rush said that did he?" said Thomas.
"Yes," Brooks said, unsettled by Thomas's tone. "He did."
"Well," Thomas said, "I guess Rush should know."
"Why is that?" demanded Brooks.
Thomas did not answer, at first, but just kept pecking at the sere. Finally, he stopped and looked up at the three white, worried turkeys on the other side of the fence and he asked: "Did Rush come from the hatchery with you?"
"No," Brooks said. "He was here to greet us, when we arrived."
"Yes. Rush has been here the past three years," Thomas said. "Sean and Rupert, too."
"Oh?" said Brooks.
"Did you ever wonder why there were only three turkeys here to greet you?" asked Thomas, not looking directly at Brooks, but continuing to hunt and peck around the dry grass.
"Well, no."
"There are dozens of chickens," Thomas said. "Those chickens have been here for five, six years. A dozen goats. Goats been around longer. A score of pigs. Two lamas, six years. Twelve cows, seven years." Thomas said. "But there were only three turkeys," and then Thomas lowered his voice pregnantly. "Only three surviving turkeys to greet you."
"'Surviving' turkeys?" asked Chamberlain. "What do you mean: Surviving turkeys?"
"Have you ever asked the goats or the chickens or the pigs what happened to the other turkeys?The turkeys who were here before you?" asked Thomas.
"Before us?" said Brooks.
"You must have noticed the fencing of your yard was not new," said Thomas.
"You did not think you were the first turkeys to have been brought to the farm."
"We were happy to be brought here," Brooks said. "We had heard we would be free range turkeys on Farmer Brown's farm. We had seen, across the road, how other farmers coop up their birds."
"That is true," Thomas said. "I've flown over some of those turkey coops. You can smell the urine from thirty feet up. It's just ...inhuman."
"We are lucky to have Farmer Brown protect us," Chamberlain said.
"Those three--that troika--they are fat and happy turkeys," Thomas said. "They keep you happy. That's their job. That's why Farmer Brown spares them. They are the Judas goats, or Judas turkeys, as it were," said Thomas. "Ask the old goat."
"What is a Judas goat?" asked Will, after Thomas had left.
"I don't know," said Brooks, "But it doesn't sound good."
The old goat was back to his reticent ways, but Delphi confirmed the three turkeys of the troika had been on the farm for at least three years.
"And how many other turkeys have there been here, on the farm?" asked Brooks.
"When?" said Delphi.
"Last year." asked Chamberlain.
Delphi shot the old goat a look and the old goat looked down at the ground, as if he had not heard, as if this conversation had nothing to do with him and that's the way he wanted to keep it.
"I don't rightly recall," said Delphi.
The three turkeys turned to go, when one of the lamas spoke.
The lama spoke with a strong Spanish accent, but the turkeys had no trouble understanding him:
"There were as many turkeys last September as there are right now, this year," the lama said. "Close to two hundred."
"Where did they all go?" asked Brooks.
"Where they always go," said the lama.
"And where is that?"
"Into the big silver van."
"What van?"
"The van comes every November," said the lama. "In the dark days."
"How long have you been on the farm?" Brooks asked the lama.
"Six years," said the lama. "But I am here for my fur. They shear me every Spring. That's all they want from me."
"And what do they want from us?" asked Brooks.
"Not fur," said the lama.
As August bled into September, the white turkeys became more and more convinced they understood their own position on the farm and in the world.
The wild turkeys still skulked around the periphery of the turkey enclosure, but after Farmer Brown's shot gun blast, the wild turkeys did not attempt another incursion at the feeding pots.
The white turkeys, getting fatter and slower by the day, were careful to clear a path for Farmer Brown, as he had shown his temper when he kicked turkeys.
Some of the turkeys, especially the females, muttered that Farmer Brown might not be a very nice man, after all. But that would later be addressed by the troika turkeys, in good time.
Farmer Brown arrived every day and spoke to the turkeys, and told them how important they were, but more and more he spoke of himself.
He told them he was the best farmer to ever farm in the history of the whole world. He also said he was the best businessman ever to have lived and he said he was the richest farmer in the world, the richest farmer who ever lived. He had negotiated a great price for turkey feed and the turkeys would all be winners. He was the greatest negotiator who had ever lived.
Some of the birds, who had been partial to soybeans, noticed there were no more soybeans in the mix, but this was to be explained.
Three of the very fattest white turkeys,who the turkeys called "the troika," Rush, Sean and Rupert took it upon themselves to explain Farmer Brown to the other turkeys: the turkey Rush hopped up on the big hay bale and jumped up and down on his fat legs, sweat rolling down his beak. If you have ever seen a turkey sweat, you would know: a sweaty turkey is a sight most people will not forget and Rush was a very fat, very sweaty turkey.
He explained that the soybean farmers had tried to rip off Farmer Brown on the price of soybeans so Farmer Brown retaliated by charging the soybean farmers a toll. He had erected a large swinging gate at the entrance to the farm, and whenever a truck approached, one of the hired men was there to be sure the driver paid the toll or he would not be allowed to drive his truck into the farm.
Rush explained this was an example of what made Farmer Brown the most brilliant man, the best businessman, the most extraordinary negotiator the world had ever seen, since the dawn of creation.
Turkey Brooks recalled, as Rush declaimed, having seen a truck back up at the gate, the prior week and he thought that had probably been the soybean farmer's truck.
The feed, of late, had become somewhat tasteless and not at all filling. The protein in the soybeans, most of the more knowledgeable turkeys agreed, was filling and without it, the turkeys never felt really sated.
"I do miss the soybeans, " Turkey Will murmured to Brooks under his breath, so as not to be overheard by Turkey Rush, who had moved on to the subject of Farmer Brown's meeting with the fisher cats.
The fisher cats screeched eerily some nights and nobody could sleep. It sounded like the night Chrissie had been murdered. Some of the turkeys were so upset by these night howls they could not eat the next day and some even began to lose weight, and Farmer Brown became alarmed whenever the turkeys lost weight.
So Farmer Brown had cleverly arranged a meeting with the fisher cats and it had gone very well, Rush told them.
Turkey Sean now leaped up on the hay bale and shoved Rush aside and he said, "You should have seen those fisher cats: they just cowered in front of Farmer Brown. They promised they would stop screeching at night, anywhere within ear shot of the turkey enclosure."
He paused for effect:
"They said they would not attempt to dig under the fence and they would eat no more turkeys from Farmer Brown's farm, if only Farmer Brown would not aim his shotgun at them," Turkey Sean said.
"Any more turkeys?" asked turkey Chamberlain.
Sean said, "Well, you remember...Chrissie. That time we found Chrissie's head..."
"But I thought the wild turkeys killed Chrissie," said Will.
"What stupid turkey you are," shouted Sean. "What turkey could decapitate another turkey? No, that was the fisher cats. Don't you remember the screeching the night before we found Chrissie?"
Brooks raised his head above the crowd of turkeys: "Farmer Brown said the wild turkeys killed Chrissie. I remember."
That's when turkey Rupert jumped up on the hale bale, and he shoved Sean aside and he pushed Rush off the bale altogether.
"You remember?" Rupert taunted Brooks.
"Yes," said Brooks. "I thought it odd that a turkey could behead another turkey, so I remember."
"Memory!" Rupert sneered. "Is so last week."
"So last week?" Brooks repeated, not understanding.
"What is memory but a malleable, easily contaminated and distorted thing? You remember Farmer Brown saying it was wild turkeys. I remember him telling his hired men to dig a barrier under the fence. Turkeys, wild turkeys at least, can fly over any fence. Why you'd need a roof over this yard to keep out wild turkeys.
No, Farmer Brown knew it was the fisher cats who got Chrissie. That's why he had his men dig the barrier trench."
"It didn't make much sense," Brooks admitted.
"Because your memory is fake news," laughed Rupert. "Phony memories."
"But..." Brooks stammered.
"Memory is not to be trusted. All that matters is what we say now."
And all the white turkeys nodded. Yes, memory could not be trusted. Memory is past and the past does not matter."
"All that matters is what we say now," Brooks repeated.
Then Rupert looked over the flock and said, "Some of you have spoken to me about how frightened you were when Farmer Brown kicked you out of his way, as he was leaving. But that was a show of strength. Farmer Brown is a strong man. A man who gets his way. A man who can protect you. You don't want some candy ass, fearful man dealing with fisher cats, foxes or wild turkeys. You need a strong man."
"A strong man is good for turkeys," Brooks said to himself. "That sounds right."
