Magic Night at the Farm
by Charles C. Cole
Setting: Night. Farmhouse living room. Rustic. Not particularly neat. Couch prominent. Animal food on the floor by the door. FARMER lies on the sofa with a light on, waiting. The front door ajar.
Characters: Farmer, any age. Goat: Could be a person or a large hand-puppet behind the couch.
WITNESS (To the audience): He lives in a small, pre-1990s village where the most common mode of communication is mouth-to-ear. Normal, except for the annual Night of Magic, when animals talk. Every Summer Solstice, midnight to one. That’s when most folk toss pets outside, shut the windows and lock the doors. Otherwise, they get an earful. It’s true, some animals whine and remind us of when we let them down: accidentally shut them in a closet, neglected to feed them. But this humble farmer knows, with generous livestock, guard geese, and a dedicated mouser of a barn cat, he’s more than a team of one. (EXITS)
(FARMER is startled awake by BANGING on the front porch: hoofs likely. Goat BLEATS o.s.)
BESSIE (O.S): It’s time. I’m here. (More forcefully) Er, wake up, Mr. Farmer, sir.
FARMER (A wee punchy. Empty alcohol containers nearby, in preparation for the annual awkward encounter): Enter and be recognized, friend. Come on now. I’m as weirded out as you are. (Gently) I’ve got a special party-mix for the true conversationalists among you.
BESSIE, the goat, ENTERS. She stretches her neck, rattling her bell, while she considers her options.
BESSIE (Hesitant): Sir.
FARMER: Bessie?! Of course: you’re a natural leader. And you’re one of the few who can fit through the door.
BESSIE (Blurting): It hasn’t been a good year for me, sir. I had a dry spell. Deepest apologies.
FARMER: No worries, old friend. Do I yell at the crops when they have a dry spell? Come, sit. Or stand. I’ve got my opinions on where we’re at, but I want to hear yours; how are things in the yard looking? Everybody getting along?
BESSIE (Notices the pile of loose oats and noses forward; she can’t help herself. Browses a long moment.) It’s sweet! (Mouth full) So worth it!
FARMER: Surprise! A little molasses fortification, for a special occasion. I sensed you’d be the spokeswoman; I can’t exactly leave the henhouse wide open.
BESSIE (With mouth full): Immensely appreciated, sir! Though I hope you have treats for the others as well. Jealousy’s got long horns and big feet if you know what I mean. Maybe tomorrow. I’m just the messenger after all.
FARMER: Yes. Yes, you are. And I’m grateful. Maybe it’ll help if I look away. (Does so.) Any news? We’ve only got an hour.
BESSIE (As if reacting to a Dad joke): You say that every year, sir! On behalf of everyone, we thank you for all you do: the food, shelter, creature comforts, and companionship.
FARMER: You say that every year! You’re equally welcome! (Pregnant pause. Looking) And yet you have something more to share.
BESSIE: I only wish I could have relocated here earlier in my life. If you don’t mind my saying, the Garden of Eden’s got nothing on your fine homestead, sir.
FARMER: Well, we do all right, don’t we? We’re family, Bessie, ragtag and makeshift, human and animal. (Another pause) Any bad news? Out with it. Or are we just chewing the cud this year?
BESSIE: We hesitate to upset you, sir.
FARMER: Bessie, I promise you’ll be safe here as long as I live. (Honest) You can bet I don’t say that to the hogs.
BESSIE (Judgy): The hogs get what they deserve. (Beat) Are you sure, sir? (He gives her confirmation.) Yes, well: Farmer Gordon has, and I know you’ve been friends for a long time, been stealing your sheep, sir. Twice now. Both Daisy and Rhubarb.
FARMER: What?! How? I thought—
BESSIE: He climbs over the fence by the old apple tree. You know the place. It needs a little reinforcing, a little repair to be honest.
FARMER: Not coyotes? Huh. He’s had a bad year, not that I’m making excuses for him. Guess I can use the upper field for a while, discourage bad behavior. Well, crap. (Kidding) Any other news you wish to get off your chest? Anybody planning a mutiny, maybe a mass prison break?
BESSIE: Nothing like that, sir. There’s a pair of foxes scoping out the henhouse. They’ve got a determined look, sir. Impatiently biding their time. Waiting for the next moonless night, from what I hear.
FARMER (Snapping): Dang it! A man’s got to sleep sometime! (Bessie is startled.) I appreciate your sharing. I do. Go on.
BESSIE: And the old red hen, Lulu, is well on her way out, sir. Cognitive decline. A matter of time. We recommend you dispatch with alacrity, for a greater purpose. Maybe season with poison and leave her to be found by those would-be poachers.
FARMER (Teasing): Aren’t we self-serving and humanlike!
BESSIE: It’s one or all, from our perspective, sir. Or a loss of sleep for you.
FARMER: A well thought out countermeasure, to be sure. Tell me that’s it. Any other news? Health issues? Dietary demands? Anybody else want to come in for a bite? Is the barn secretly falling over from dry rot? Maybe there’s a family of rattlesnakes nesting under the porch.
BESSIE: Not to worry about that, sir, but beware an overly inquisitive raccoon. We think he’s got rabies. He’s not acting himself lately, a little addled, you might say.
FARMER: Raccoon. Duly noted. Thanks for the information. I was “addled” myself a couple nights ago. Allergic reaction to a lovers’ quarrel. Drinking and driving. Hit the old horse trough while working things out. Sorry for the excitement. (Thinking) I never ask, do you understand human behavior on other days?
BESSIE: Absolutely, sir; you’re all quite demonstrative. We most definitely get your meanings. (Reluctant) One final warning, sir. This one’s rough. It’s about your overnight ladyfriend, Delores.
FARMER: I know: she stepped on the cat’s tail. It was dark. She said it couldn’t be helped.
BESSIE: Did you wonder what she was doing up at that hour?
FARMER: When nature calls...
BESSIE: She was going through your papers, sir, checking out the deed, your accounting book, looking for cash you might have tucked away, sizing you up.
FARMER: Was she now? I should be insulted, I know, but I can’t fault her for being practical. I was thinking of popping the question. She wants to be ready to make an informed decision. Is that all?
BESSIE: I wish it were, sir. That same night Morris Whitlock came calling, reeking of hooch. She met him on the porch, like she knew he was on his way. He said she deserved better. Brandished a knife meant for (indicating the Farmer)... She took it from him and tossed it behind the lilacs outside the kitchen window. It’s still there.
FARMER: Whitlock’s a feral one and twice divorced! Anyone with eyes can see I’m a better catch. And here I thought I was a light sleeper. Maybe I should get a dog, to bite him in the ass if he comes by again.
BESSIE: My old farm had a dog, sir. They can be pretty feral themselves, if left to their own devices. I’m not worried for me, but the hens, the cat. You understand.
FARMER (Not listening): She always closes her eyes when we make love, like she’s imagining I’m someone else. I wondered who! I’ll recover the knife in the morning. Anything else, Bessie?
BESSIE (Struggling, then resolved): Nothing that can’t wait. That’s plenty for this year, I think, sir. Please.
FARMER (Considering): You’re right, Bessie. Good talk on important matters. You guys are my eyes and ears.
BESSIE (Regretfully): Oh, the barn cat, Theo, he’s hoping you’ll put his food outside for the time being. Ever since the tail incident, he’s reticent to come inside. He doesn’t think “she” appreciates him. He’s our man on the inside, and she knows it.
FARMER: Ouch! Poor Theo. We need our barn cat, don’t we? Delores just crossed the red line. (Digesting the info) Off you go. Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got chores in the morning. And, thank you, Bessie. I look forward to chatting again next year.
BESSIE (Almost shocked): Really, sir? (No reaction) Me, too, sir. Me, too. Awkward as it usually is.
Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Cole
