A Tale Of Two Hares Or Do Not Cross The Farmer's Wife

Many Years Ago, Before Any Of Us Were Born...

Mr. and Mrs. Tarbib huddled in the cobwebbed corner of the creaky garden shed, looking furtively at one another as the moon cast long shadows through the partially broken window above them. For the last several minutes, they had been scurrying around the field of carrots and turnips, trying to get away from the farmer's wife and her hellish hounds. They had finally ditched the gruesome threesome, but with no way out but the way they had come in, the couple's only hope was that the craggy faced woman would get bored and call her rabid dogs off.

_{Photo by Glen Anthony Albrethsen}

"Can you hear them?" asked Mrs. Tarbib. She was trembling so that Mr. Tarbib extended a forepaw around her.

"I can't hear a thing." His nose twitched as he moved his head up and down and back and forth. "Can't smell them either."

"How long do you think we need to stay in here before it's clear?"

"I don't know. There was a dark gleam in her eye I've never seen before. She might not give up so easily this time."

"Don't say that!" Mrs. Tarbib wailed in a whisper. "You'll curse us both, you will."

"Now, now," Mr. Tarbib said. His paw patted her shoulder. "We'll be all right. We just need to sit here and be quiet and..."

A rush of sound, air and odor hit both Tarbibs, putting the surprised couple in sensory overload. All at once, the door was flung open, smashing against the inner wall, sending a wave of wind to batter them, carrying on it the stench of what might very well be rotting flesh. Mrs. Tarbibs' already accelerated heartbeat ticked up several notches as she tried to wriggle inside her husband's coat.

From the outside gloom, four glowing orbs hovered at the threshold, then proceeded towards them. As the orbs penetrated the shed, fangs and fur formed around what became diseased riddled eyes and grew out to hound sized dogs.

Growling, saliva dripping from their razor sharp teeth, the canines advanced, effectively cutting off any chance of escape. The window was too high and intact for the Tarbibs to attempt to leap through. The hounds might be slow, but in this confined space, they held the advantage.

"Where's your mistress, demon dogs?" Mr. Tarbib said, his eyes flashing with defiance. He did it for his wife, quelling his own natural tendency to paralyzing terror.

"Right here, my darling." The farmer's wife stepped into the shack, "I knew you had to be somewhere nearby. I could feel you."

She passed the dogs and leaned down to the Tarbibs, strangely cocking her head to one side, making her crooked nose with its scabby wart even more severe as it jutted out under cavernous eyes and caterpillar brows.

"Now see here," Mr. Tarbib said, raising up on his hind legs in attempt to raise his own gaze, "You're frightening the missus. I simply can't allow that."

"You both should have thought about that before you came to steal from my field. Again." The old hags' breath rattled and whistled as she spoke, spittle forming on her lips. "You were duly warned what would happen to you if you persisted. Now it's time to pay for your insolence."

"So, this is it, is it?" Mr. Tarbib lowered down, raising his head so he could still see the ancient woman's face. "Just like that?"

"You've had your chances to abstain. You've had mercy extended. The consequences of repeating the offense were painstakingly explained. I..."

"Well, then, on with it, will you?" Mr. Tarbib said, mustering an impish grin, "Or we'll both die of boredom right here, we will."

He heard his wife's tittering as she partially looked away and covered her mouth. She always found him funny. It was his sense of humor that attracted her all those years ago.

The farmer's wife, however, had a different reaction to Mr. Tarbib's barb. Enraged, she did not hold back. For you see, she was also a witch, steeped in the dark arts. While she generally refrained from using witchcraft, she simply could not abide rodents among her prized carrots and turnips. Not after sufficient warning. The Tarbibs could have left well enough alone, but it wasn't in their nature. So, justice must be dealt, swift and sure.

Turned to alabaster, forever clinging to one another, frozen in defiant mirth, the Tarbibs were then sold to unsuspecting townsfolk as yard ornaments, where they have been passed on ever since from one soul to the next, none the wiser as to the true origins of their outdoor decorations.

But if you someday spy the pair at a garage sale, you now know the tale of how they came to be.

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About This Post

This bit of fiction comes about from a conversation I had with @willymac on a post he wrote over a month ago about yard art. He stated that all yard ornaments had a story. When I told him that most of ours didn't, he insisted, saying:

There is a story with everything, even if it [is] no more than "I found it on the street." With a bit of embellishment, it can become a yarn.

I decided I would take him up on the embellishing part.