Porchwood Hollow

A Story from Porchwood Hollow

Dolores knew everything.

This was not because Dolores was nosy.

Dolores would be the first person to tell you that.

“I am not nosy,” she would say, standing at the edge of the porch in her bathrobe and slippers, three curlers still in her hair and an old coffee mug rattling mysteriously in one hand.

“I am observant.”

Then she would take a sip.

Pause.

And add:

“There’s a difference.”

Nobody in Porchwood Hollow had ever been able to determine exactly what the difference was.

Dolores knew when someone had received a package.

She knew when the Keeper moved a flowerpot.

She knew when somebody had taken the last biscuit and put the empty tin back as though nobody would notice.

She knew when two people had argued.

She knew when they had made up.

And somehow – although nobody could explain this – Dolores occasionally knew things that had not technically happened yet.

“I heard something,” she would say.

“From whom?” Archivemouse once asked.

Dolores stared at him over the rim of her mug.

“People.”

Archivemouse opened his ledger.

“Which people?”

Dolores took another sip.

“Don’t make this ugly, Mouse.”

Archivemouse closed the ledger.

There were some sources even he could not properly document.

—

Now, Dolores did not consider herself a gossip.

Gossip, according to Dolores, was repeating things that were none of your business.

What Dolores provided was community information.

This distinction was particularly important because Porchwood Hollow already had an official body responsible for discussing community information.

They were called:

The Council of Opinionated Chickens.

There were four members.

Lady Beakerton of the Blue Brocade, who believed strongly in standards.

Henrietta Greenwing, who distrusted unnecessary change.

Sir Roosterly of the Lavender Seat, who could turn virtually any subject into a speech.

And Madam Crimsoncomb, who had never encountered an issue upon which she did not immediately have a position.

The Council met around the Campfire of Mildly Heated Debates.

Their motto was:

“If it needs saying, we’ve already said it. Twice.”

They advised the Hollow on important matters.

And unimportant matters.

And matters that had already been settled.

And occasionally matters that did not concern them in any conceivable way.

They had opinions about seed placement.

They had opinions about porch decorations.

They had opinions about the proper distance between two lanterns.

Once, they held a three-day discussion about whether a particular worm had been behaving suspiciously.

The worm was never formally charged.

—

Dolores was not a member of the Council.

This should be made very clear.

She had never been elected.

She had never been appointed.

She did not attend official meetings.

She merely happened to pass by them.

Frequently.

Usually carrying her mug.

“Well,” Dolores might say, stopping beside the Campfire of Mildly Heated Debates, “I suppose you’ve all heard.”

Four chicken heads would turn.

Lady Beakerton would straighten in the Blue Brocade.

“Heard what?”

Dolores would look surprised.

“Oh.”

Rattle, rattle.

“I assumed you knew.”

Henrietta Greenwing would lean forward.

“Knew what?”

Dolores would take a very slow sip.

“Never mind.”

Madam Crimsoncomb would stand.

“DOLORES.”

“Well, I don’t repeat things.”

Sir Roosterly would already be calling the meeting to order.

And that was generally how trouble began.

—

One morning Dolores arrived with news.

She came shuffling down the path in her robe and slippers, curlers still firmly in place.

The mug rattled.

The Council noticed immediately.

Dolores’s mug had different rattles for different kinds of information.

A gentle clink usually meant ordinary neighborhood business.

A sharp rattle meant something interesting.

But the sound coming from Dolores’s mug that morning was unmistakable.

RATTLE. RATTLE. RATTLE.

Madam Crimsoncomb gasped.

Lady Beakerton sat upright.

Henrietta Greenwing narrowed her eyes.

Sir Roosterly whispered:

“Good heavens.”

Dolores stopped.

“What?”

Nobody answered.

Dolores looked at the four chickens.

The four chickens looked at Dolores.

“Well,” she said eventually, “apparently something is happening near the north fence.”

The Council erupted.

“What sort of something?”

“Who authorized it?”

“Has the Keeper been informed?”

“IS IT THE WORM?”

Dolores raised one hand.

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

This was unprecedented.

Dolores always knew.

“I only saw the Keeper carrying a hammer, some string, two pieces of wood and a small bag toward the north fence.”

The Council stared.

“That,” declared Sir Roosterly, “is clearly construction.”

“Unauthorized construction,” said Henrietta.

“We do not know that,” Lady Beakerton corrected.

“We should investigate,” said Madam Crimsoncomb.

Dolores shrugged.

“I wouldn’t.”

Four chicken heads turned toward her.

“Why?”

Dolores rattled her mug.

“Because if somebody wanted you to know what was happening, they’d probably tell you.”

And with that, she shuffled away.

The Council sat in stunned silence.

For nearly eleven seconds.

Then they unanimously voted to investigate.

—

They found the Keeper beside the north fence.

There was indeed a hammer.

There was string.

There were two pieces of wood.

There was a small bag.

And hanging between two posts was a freshly made sign.

The Council approached cautiously.

Lady Beakerton read it aloud.

QUIET CORNER

A place to sit when the world feels too loud.

Underneath was a little bench.

Nothing more.

No mystery.

No conspiracy.

No suspicious worm.

Just somewhere quiet to sit.

The Council stared at it.

“Oh,” said Henrietta.

“Well,” said Madam Crimsoncomb.

Sir Roosterly cleared his throat.

“I believe our investigation has confirmed that the situation is entirely under control.”

“You thought it was a conspiracy,” said the Keeper.

“We considered several possibilities.”

“You brought emergency seed.”

“Standard procedure.”

From somewhere behind them came a familiar sound.

Rattle, rattle.

Dolores was standing by the path.

Watching.

She smiled into her mug.

Lady Beakerton narrowed her eyes.

“You knew.”

Dolores shrugged.

“I suspected.”

“You sent us over here anyway.”

“I told you not to investigate.”

The Council considered this.

Unfortunately, she had.

Dolores began shuffling back toward the porch.

Then she stopped.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Four chicken heads turned.

Dolores lowered her voice.

“I heard somebody has been hiding biscuits behind the flour tin.”

Madam Crimsoncomb gasped.

Sir Roosterly leapt from his lavender seat.

Henrietta demanded an immediate inquiry.

Lady Beakerton called for order.

And somewhere nearby, Archivemouse opened his ledger.

At the top of a fresh page he wrote:

Council of Opinionated Chickens – Emergency Session

Then, after thinking for a moment, he added:

Source: Dolores.

From across the Hollow came a voice.

“Don’t you put my name in that book!”

Archivemouse slowly crossed it out.

Minette, sitting beside him, tried very hard not to laugh.

She failed.

And Dolores?

Dolores took another sip from her rattling mug.

She did not gossip.

She merely kept Porchwood Hollow extremely well informe