One summer in the 70s, I was with Gran.

That summer she did not arrange for her hen to brood eggs. It would be a torture, she might believe, for the pet mother bird to sit upon her eggs for days on end in the heat of summer until they were hatched. Instead, Gran bartered her eggs for 12 baby chicks at an incubator and decided to bring them up herself. After they grew up, the fowl would make a steady source of eggs or an occasional chicken broth.

In those years, weasels were plenty in the countryside. The creature did not boast a good reputation, for they would help themselves to farm poultry as refreshments from time to time if they were fed up with staples like field mice. Meanwhile, shrouded in mystery, it inspired awe in countryfolk, for in superstition it was regarded as immortal. The farmers, therefore, dubbed the creature “Super Yellow Fairy”. The mystery, I bet, had a lot to do with the fact that weasels often committed crimes without leaving behind a trace. It was a typical whodunit.

One afternoon, Gran had to go to the veg plot. Before she left, she collected the 12 chicks and cooped them up under a wicker basket, which stood upside down on the yard floor. To double ensure the birds’ safety, she even secured the crude pen by burdening it with a stool.

Gran entrusted me with the task of watching over her birds. Seated in a chair by the temporary coop, I had my eyes fixed on the basket, with chicks milling about under it. No playmate with me that afternoon, pretty soon I was bored, fell into reverie, and dozed off.

After what seemed like half an hour, I was roused from a sweet dream by some commotion. Struggling to open my eyes a crack, I saw the basket in its place, with the birds under it moving and chirping. Nothing unusual. I drifted back into my sweet dream, where Gran was killing a rooster to make chicken soup.

Then another commotion. Forcing myself to wake up, I cast a glance at the wicker basket, with the fluffy yellow balls under it full of life. Nothing else. Then I dozed off again.

When a third disturbance struck, I was dead sure something had happened, but I did not see what it was. There was nothing sinister or threatening around in sight. This time, however, for caution’s sake, I took the stool off the basket and checked on the chicks. There were only 5 remaining.

Panic set in. I sheepishly looked around and saw nothing sinister or threatening, in the tranquil yard.

Despite myself, I dozed off again. My sweet dream resumed where it had left off. In the dream, this time, Gran was serving me a bowl of chicken soup. Yummy!

Gran came back finally and shook me gently out of my reverie. Together, we removed the stool from the top of the provisional chicken house to see how the birds were doing.

Only 2 of them huddled together there, chirping miserably.

Oh Lord. I was thunderstruck. Gran started cursing the culprit, loudly. Lest the weasels take revenge, she alluded to the dreaded creature in her obscenities by employing a special title, which, in English, means “Licentious Witch”.