The Fowlstien Letters - The Sack of Chickentopia

      This addition to the Fowlstien letters is inspired by a challenge given by a good friend of mine to his writer friend:

“Compose a short story based on the following items: an apple, theater happy and sad masks, a lightbulb, a book, an arrow, a key, a magnifying glass, a tree, and a lock. They can be used as actual items, or can be used as inspiration for an idea: example, a computer could make you think of cubicle workers.”

Each of those items either appears in the following story, or inspired part of it.

This is an excerpt from the Fowlstien letters. Dr. Fowlstien had sent his nephew, Garth, news of his discovery of Chickentopia, an ancient civilization of chickens. This is a part of their communications, and the stories that Dr. Fowlstien shared with his nephew.

To my Dearest Uncle, Theodore,

            It is grand to hear from you, Uncle. I always enjoy the tales you tell of you adventures and expeditions. It reminds me of when I was a child, when you sit me down and read to me out of that leather bound journal that you used to record your discoveries in. I would sit and snack on an apple or some other healthy snack (for, as you recall, my parents were ever health-conscious) as I listened. I am very excited to hear of your discovery. Who would have thought that Chickens were capable of building such a grand civilization! Your discovery could be the key to understanding how civilizations are formed, how they rise, and how they fall on a level that we have never before dreamed possible. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely yours,

Garth

My dear Garth,

            Thank you for your kind words. I too remember those visits with great fondness. It pleases me greatly that you enjoy my adventures, for I crave a boon from you. I have become ill of late, and sorely desire that my work be made known to the world. The board has abandoned me, so I turn to you, dear nephew. I have gone through my findings, and compiled the most fascinating, most astounding, and most enlightening discoveries into a single tome. This is my life’s work, as the saying goes. I have printed two copies of this record. I include one of those copies now. Please keep it safe. If I should breathe my last prior to publishing this record, I pray that you publish it in my stead.

My sincerest thanks,

Uncle Theodore

Dr. Fowlstien’s Tome, as he called it, contained many stories. One of the most compelling is that of Barmintos, the last scribe of Chickentopia. His is the story of the fall of the great civilization that Dr. Fowlstien discovered.

          It has been many seasons since my home fell. There are few of us left, and it has been far too long since anyone has spoken of our old home, and how it came to be that we now live as barbarians – scratching in the dirt and serving the giants. It astonishes me that even these brutes could stand to live under the iron fist of the giants. They feed us, but occasionally take one of the flock, and eat them. Worse still, they separate the roosters from the hens (as the barbarians seem to call their men and women), and so prevent children from being fertilized, and instead steal most of the children for whatever unholy rite is conducted in the great building they live in. I morn for the home I once had – free from the giants, before the walls fell and Wild Ones came. I pray that someone finds this history and will take heed, lest they too make the same mistakes that we did. This is the final chronicle of Chickentopia, written by one who lived through the fall of our great land. I am Bramintos, once a scholar, and now a prisoner.

            Bramintos begins his tale many years before he was born. He describes a strong people, with powerful armies that drove out what he called the barbarians, the Wile Ones, and the Hunters. The people grew prosperous, and no one wanted for anything. He describes the complex political system of his homeland, but the most interesting part of his story begins around the time that he was born. The king and his administrators, once known as paragons of justice, had begun to take bribes. At first it was subtle, with only a few administrators accepting bribes. However, the corruption spread until it became common knowledge that, with enough money, you could literally get away with murder. It was a murder that first showed Bramintos that his country was not as prosperous as it seemed.

The night that I got my first glimpse of what was to come has been burned into my memory forever. I was but a hatchling, still seeking shelter beneath my mother’s wings on dark nights. This night was especially dark. A thick layer of clouds obscured the stars and the moon, but no rain fell, and the wind did not stir. It was a still, quiet, heavy night. I was awakened from my slumber by my Mother suddenly pulling me and my sisters into the corner of the small room where we slept, hiding us completely beneath her wings and her body. I saw through her feathers that my father was up and heading towards the door. He was putting on the war-claw that had been given to him by his father; the same war-claw that had been used to defeat so man of the Hunters by my grandfather. Before my father could finish strapping on the claw, the still locked door to our home burst in, and a creature out of the worst nightmares of our people tore into our home. He ran on all fours, covered in fur that gleamed red like fire in the feeble light filtering in from the street. His eyes glowed fiercely, his teeth flashed like dozens of knives. My mother pushed me down further, and I lost sight of what happened next. I heard a crash and a scream, and then silence. After what seemed like a lifetime, my mother lifted her wings and I saw what I feared most – my father was dead. The door was splintered to pieces, and room was a wreck. This was the first time I would see a Hunter, but it would not be the last.

          My mother took us to her sister’s house that night, and left us there in the morning. At the time, I did not know where she went, but I later discovered what transpired. My mother went to the justice building, to inform the Protector of what had happened, and see to it that no one else fell under the gnashing teeth of a Hunter. Her attempts at seeing the Protector, or any of his staff were met with great resistance. This seemed strange to her, for my father had been one of their number – a staff member of the Protector. My mother was eventually sent away without any satisfactory answers. She went back the next day, and the next and the next, always being met with excuses and dismissed without ever seeing anyone. It was not until the fifth day that she was granted a meeting with a staff member of the Protector. The staff member was named Grinswald. He was one of the senior members, and had been my father’s friend. Grinswald told my mother that they were aware of what had happened, and to stop insisting on seeing the Protector – for no good could come of it. He did not allow her to plead her case, nor did he tell her anything else.

          It was many years later that I learned the truth of what was going on in the Protector’s office at that time. My father was not the only staff member murdered that night or in the following nights. Fully half of their number were slain by Hunters. The Protector himself was not attacked, but instead of mobilizing the Protectors or asking for help from the Guard, he decided to cover up the murders. Many rumors persist about his motivation. Some said that he feared losing his job, others that he was trying to avoid a panic by the populace, still others say that the Hunters or the Wild Ones had purchased his silence. It matters not what his motivation was, for he was recalled to the palace within a few weeks of the murders, and never heard from again.

          It was a strange time, with the office of the Protector gutted, our Protector recalled. There was no one left to defend us, but we did not fear overmuch, for there had been no attack on our land for over a generation. This complacency was our downfall. I did not know it at the time, but many more Protectors, officers, and Guards were murdered over the next year. Rarely would more than one or two be slain in a single district, and never more than a three or four in a month. The official report was always the same – burglars. But even those of us who had lived through it did not guess at the truth. The Hunters were returning.

          In my second year I began to study at the academy in the palace. I trained to be a scholar of history and science. I had just begun to learn of the hero Swooprren when the invasion began. The Wild Ones from the north were the first to invade our weakened land.  They were great roosters, with blood red combs and huge battle spurs on their feet. It was rumored that some could even fly like the eagles of the western canyons, though I never saw any concrete evidence of this. The guard was called up from the districts, and the Protectors were ordered to bring up the militia and call for volunteers. Many responded, and the ranks of our army swelled with new recruits. Still, no one saw the evil genius behind what was happening. Our army was large, our weapons sharp, and our armor gleamed bright in the sunlight. But there were few seasoned veterans, few who had patrolled the wastelands of the north to keep the Wild Ones at bay before the time of peace. There were very few who had been trained by those of the generation who had seen war. We did not realize it at the time, but every murder that had been perpetrated by a Hunter had been for a single purpose: to weaken our army and make us ripe for conquest. And ripe we were.

I did not serve as a foot soldier, but was assigned as a messenger, map maker, and records keeper. It was this assignment that saved my life. Our army went out to meet the Wild Ones on a bright spring day. I was with the commanders on top of a hill overlooking the battlefield. We stood beneath a great tree, observing what we thought would be a swift victory.

          As our army was still lining up on the edge of the field, a great war-cry rose from the other side. I looked up, and saw hundreds of Wild Ones flying across the field. They ran along the ground, screaming and flapping their wings. They wore no armor, and each wielded a battle spur twice the size of his head on each leg. Just before reaching our line, the Wild Ones leapt into the air, flapping their wings to get over the first line and land in the middle of our ranks. Our army was in a panic. Few of the recruits had ever seen a Wild One, and most had only had a few days or weeks of training. Our army began to run in all directions, but everywhere they turned, they were met by the bite of a battle-spur.

          Before the battle was over, I was sent with all speed to the palace to call for reinforcements. I did not see the end of the slaughter, but I know what happened. The Wild Ones killed all of our soldiers. They captured and executed our commanders. The Wild Ones allowed only a single warrior to go free. He ran back to the palace, covered in blood and sweat, bringing news of the slaughter.

I had arrived only a few hours before he did, and was trying to find reinforcements to go and help my comrades. The generals that were left would send no one. Instead they recalled all troops, guards, and Protectors to the palace and the surrounding city. Provisions were gathered in, and the walls were lined with warriors. It did not take long for the Wild Ones to arrive at the palace. Seeing an army waiting on the walls, the Wild Ones surrounded the city, and began the siege of Chickentopia.

The siege lasted for several months. In that time, a plan for the survival of our race was conceived. We would send out young males and females at night, hoping to sneak a few through the lines of the enemy. They would make their way to the coast, and find a way to flee this land. We had heard of a land where our kind lived in peace across the sea. The Wild Ones had no boats and feared the water, so it was thought that, if we could make it to the sea, and we were able to find a sea-worthy vessel still intact, then the Wild Ones could not pursue us.

I was chosen as one of the young males to attempt the escape. However, we were never able to try to sneak through the siege. The day before we had planned to make our escape attempt, the Wild Ones attacked; and not just Wild Ones, but Hunters as well. The Hunters attacked the walls with a fearless ferocity that is truly terrifying. Many were able to leap onto the walls and kill dozens of warriors before they were finally brought down. While the Hunters were attacking, the Wild Ones waited just outside of the range of our weapons. Once we seemed to be thoroughly engaged with the Hunters, the Wild Ones all quietly moved around to the other side of our walls, in the hope that we would move troops to the side where the Hunters were attacking. This tactic would have worked, but for a young officer named Henwry who noticed the quiet movement, and called his men to hide just inside the walls on the side where the Wild Ones would soon attack. When the battle with the Hunters was at its fiercest, the Wild Ones gave their war-cry and stormed the opposite side of the walls. Henwry was ready for them, and met them at the walls, pouring boiling oil and hurling stones at the Wild Ones assaulting the base of the walls. The Wild Ones were pushed back at first, but quickly re-grouped for a second assault. The second attack was more deliberate, and more successful. Rather than an all out charge on the walls, the Wild Ones brought up many platforms, rolled in on wheels. Henwry tried to repel these platforms with his oil and stones, but there were too many Wild Ones, and they kept coming no matter how many he slew. When the platforms reached the walls, the Wild Ones leapt on top the platforms, and from the platforms to the walls. It did not take long for Henwry’s unit to be overwhelmed, and for the Wild Ones to rush along the walls and into the city, killing all that they found. The Hunters broke through the lines on their side of the city soon after the Wild Ones reached the city itself.

The sack of Checkentopia was, I think, a quick process. Few were left in the city after the walls fell, and all who had the strength to fight were on the walls. I have heard of none who escaped after the Wild Ones broke through Henwry’s unit. However, Henwry gave our escape plan a chance of success.

When Henwry noticed the Wild Ones moving around to the other side, he sent a messenger to those of us who were chosen to escape. We quickly made our way to a small, little known gate. It was used to allow sewage to flow out of the city, and does not appear to open from the outside. However, there was a secret way to open it. We opened the gate, and made our way through the sewage canal to the outside. At that point, the Wild Ones were all attacking Henwry and did not notice us. We fled quickly and quietly to the coast, and were able to find a small fishing boat, abandoned by some poor soul as he fled to the doomed palace for protection. I do not know why this boat escaped destruction when so many others were burned, but we were thankful for it. We made our way west and north across the sea, hoping to find that fabled land of peace. Our boats were not made for sea voyages, and rarely went far from the coast. No one had tried to cross the sea for generations, and only legends remained from the last time it had been attempted.

We rowed and sailed as best we could, but a storm arose on the afternoon of the second day. Our little boat was thrown about, and I was sure that we would be dashed to pieces. We were soaked, and driven far from the course we had set for ourselves. When the storm subsided, our boat was still floating, and everyone was still in it. We continued to row west and north for the next three days. Finally, we saw what appeared to be land, and began to row towards it. Land it was, but not the land of legend. We dragged out boat ashore, and began to search for signs of civilization. We carefully searched the rivers and fields, and quickly found others who looked like us. But, they could not speak, or at least seemed to not understand what we said, nor could we understand any of the sounds that they made. They seemed to spend their days scratching in the dirt for bugs to eat. This seemed distasteful to us at first, but we grew hungry when our provisions ran out, and found ourselves doing the same thing.

We lived this way for several years, following the barbarians and watching them closely for tips on how to survive in this land. In our third year in this new land, we had our first glimpses of the giants. Huge creatures, as tall as six roosters, walking on two legs with thin wings that they used to grasp things. They saw us too, for they came and forced us into cages, and carried us to what must be some kind of farm. They put us in a large caged in area, and began to feed us. This seemed good at first – until they began to steal our unborn children. Then they took away some of our number, and we never saw them again. I can only assume that they eat the ones they take.

There are only a few of us left from the group that escaped. We hide from the giants, and have managed to avoid being taken. The giants sometimes allow the barbarians to have children, and we have managed to have a few children of our own. Our children are not like the barbarians, thank goodness, and we have taught them what we have learned of the barbarians, and of the giants.

I am old now. I do not know if I will die from age, or if the giants will finally catch me. Either way, I do not expect it to be long. I write this, the final record of my people, and leave it in the care of my children. I pray that they will preserve it – perhaps even escape from this place with it.

            This is the end of Barmintos’ record. Dr. Fowlstien does not know what happened to him, or to his children. He was not able to find any more written records of the chicken civilization.

The Fowlstien Letters, Letter 3

It was at this point that letters sent to Dr. Fowlstien's Nephew began to appear along with those sent to the board of trustees. I have included the letters in chronological order of when they were dated. Unfortunately few replies from this nephew were found. I have removed his name to preserve his anonymity.

August 9, 1953

My Dear Nephew,

I bring you greetings. I apologize for the great breadth of time since I last wrote. I have been oft away on expeditions, and unable to write. I am having trouble convincing the board to fund my next expedition, they claim that I have not shown any substantial progress towards the major discovery I promised. Have they not read my letters? I have told them of Swooprren and Basili, and yet they still deny me the assistance I need to continue my research. It is like they care nothing for the study of ancient civilizations!

It reminds me of the last time I was in Italy, tracing the final days of Chickentopia. Their society had grown to gargantuan proportions, and bureaucracy seemed to have taken over the intellectuals. Just an example of this is one of the widely accepted theories of the era. Some so called scientist had come up with the idea that all life had started in a pile of filth, and that the first creature to draw breathe on the planet was a dung beetle. One of the most notable of these scientists, a bird named Charwing, wrote a synopsis of his theory which I uncovered near Venice.

The evidence is clear, there is no question any more that the theory of the origin of fowls is fact. There was naught but dung when the world began, as the pile shifted at random over countless moons, beetles were formed when the pieces fell together just right. These first creatures on our planet, the noble Dung Beetles, are the foundation of life. As they bred and multiplied, they began to move the dung, and over many more countless moons, other creatures were formed when the dung was, by chance, configured just right. Long after such mundane creatures and cows, hawks, and humans were formed, a very special pile of dung was somehow formed. Out of this pile, the greatest of all creatures sprung, the Chicken. We have all come from the dung heap, and must respect it as an equal, not exploit it and destroy the very environment from which we arose.

It was theories like these, and the fact that birds like Charwing pushed them so hard, that I believe led to the destruction of Chickentopia. We should take warning from this, and be careful to avoid such absurd mob mentality, ever fearful of new, or unusual ideas.

I shall try again to write to the board, this time explaining the language of the chickens, and how I have been able to decipher it only through such generous support as that which I am begging of them. Thank you for listening, I shall make an effort to visit you before I leave for my next expedition.

Always yours,

Uncle Theodore

The Fowlstien Letters, Letter 2

August 1, 1953

To the Board of Trustees,

Greetings,

I am worried by the lack of interest that your organization has shown in my recent discoveries. Perhaps if you give my proposal further consideration, you will see the necessity of continuing with another expedition.

After my first expedition to Austria and the discovery of Swooprren's tomb, I made another trip to the same area to further explore those mountains. This time we uncovered a repository of miniature scrolls. On these was written the same language as that found on the tomb. Among these writings, I found a history of one of the greatest empires of Chickentopia, the great Empire of Sebright. This Empire stretched from the mountains of what is now Austria all the way to southern France and even included much of modern Germany. The record of this empire is one of intrigue and betrayal, war and conquest.

Sebright was the name of a town on the Danube river, the inhabitants of which were known for their valor in combat. This town's rise to greatness is best told in the writings of Poulticus, a monk in the order of the Comb. I have translated and included a portion of his work, describing Sebright's first, great leader: Basilï the Great.

In the year of the great grain famine, when the moon had just completed her seventh time, a great rooster of the coop Sebright was out hunting. Like all in that year, he had had small fortune finding food for his coop and family. It was hunger that first drove him forth into the forbidden lands. It is not known what terrors beset him while he traveled there; some say he slew the fearsome Cockatrice, others that he passed through the fires of Glambrildomincrice. Whatever transpired in that cursed land, when he emerged from it he was not the same Rooster that had been driven hence by famine. The Rooster that emerged was Basilï.

Basilï returned to his village, and found a hungry, defiant people. He roused them with words and promises that would make even the most peaceful buzzard take flight and fight. With only two hundred spurbirds at his command, he set out to conquer land. For food and for freedom they conquered Appenzell, Catalana, and Fayoumi. It seemed that none could, nor would even try to stand against the mighty Basilï, and his Iron Spurs.

It was not for another 14 times of the moon that Basilï met his first real challenge, and the first great battle of the Sebright Empire took place. The first army of any size to come against Basilï came from the Redcomb alliance. By the time the alliance challenged him, Basilï's army had swelled to 1,000 Roosters, wielding spur and sling. The Redcomb alliance was intent on quelling this rebellion, and had raised the largest army that had ever been seen on the plains of the north, 10,000 Roosters, all fierce coopbirds of the north. Against this overwhelming force, Basilï arrayed his troops, and gave a rousing speech.

“This day you see before you the might of those who oppress us. We have starved, while they have fed. We have been forced to contend with the monsters of the forbidden land, while they have become fat on the green plains of the north. This day we strut, this day we fly, this day we fight! This day we cry, 'No more!' This day we make a future for ourselves, this day we show that the birds of the south are strong indeed! Fight for land, fight for your coop, and end the tyranny of the north!”

As he finished speaking, Basilï surged forward at the head of his birds, giving his terrible war cry. The army of one thousand plunged headlong into an army ten times its size. The ferocity of the attack took the Redcomb alliance by surprise, sending the front lines into confusion. This was the chance that Basilï needed, and leading his 50 greatest spurbirds, he drove through the center of the enemy, straight to the command coop of the alliance. In an amazing feat of strength and skill, these 51 Roosters overcame the Coopguard, and Basilï himself struck the Combmaster down. With the head of the army gone, the alliance descended into chaos. Just as one cannot function for long without a head, neither can an army fight without a leader. The battle continued for several hours after Basilï's great feat, but the Redcomb army could not make any coherent action, and was eventually wiped out.

With the Redcomb alliance broken, nothing stood between Basilï and his goal of conquest.

The good Poulticus goes on to describe the form of government that Basilï set up, how he ruled and conquered, and his many exploits in battle. Perhaps I shall include more of his writings at a later time, but surely you see now the importance of what I have found. I need to return and search out this mystery more fully. Surely what I have found thus far has shown you this. I again urge you to grant me the funds I need to continue my research into these ancient mysteries.

Sincerely,

Doctor Theodore Norris Fowlstien

The Fowlstien Letters, Letter 1

When looking through an old attic, for I am wont to do those sorts of things on occasion, I came across a box of letters. This is not unusual, and often leads to exciting insight into the lives of those who wrote them. However, when I began to read these letters, I discovered the most extraordinary story. They were written by an archaeologist by the name of Dr. Fowlstien. He was a brilliant man, and made quite a stir in the archeology circles in his younger days. These letters told the tale of his later years, a time I had thought he spent in obscurity, living off of past glories. I could not have been more wrong. These letters tell of his final, and greatest discovery, and of his quest to gain the ear of unbelieving investors, and an even more unbelieving public. It is a tragedy that his story has not been told before, and so, I humbly take on the task of doing so. It will not be through my words, however, that you learn his story, but through his own. As you read the correspondence that Dr. Fowlstien sent to those from whom he hoped to gain financial support, you will learn is his story far better than I could ever tell it. I have changed many of the names to protect the innocent.

July 21, 1953

To the Board of Trustees,

Greetings,

As you know, I have devoted my life to the study of lost civilizations. Over the years I have made many important discoveries, but none so important as that to which I have devoted the last decade of my life to uncovering. What I have found is possibly the most earth shattering discovery that we have ever made. It is clear to me now that humanity is not the only species to have a civilization. Indeed, there are still remnants of another, great civilization. It dates back to a time when the world was not entirely populated with humanity, a time when the world was ruled not by man, but by the most unlikely of all creatures, that which we now know as Gallus gallus domesticus¹.

What was this civilization like? How did they live? The purpose of these letters, ladies and gentlemen, is to reveal to you the answer to these, and many other questions. I will begin with the first evidence I found of this great civilization: an epic scratched into an ancient tomb in the mountains of Austria. It is the story of a great hero who rose from the ranks of mere fowl to become the savior of his people. It was called “The Ballad of Swooprren,” and I have done my best to translate it into English for you.

Plow was laid to field that day,

a day like any other.

Children bathed in dust that day,

a day like any other.

Swooprren watched his flock that day,

a day like any other.

“Ho there, Hi there!” he cried.

His flock did hop about.

“Tis a fine day to live,” he cried

His flock did hop about.

And then came evil, dark and swift,

on that unsuspecting day.

It swept o'er land, and coop and home.

The darkness covered everything, and took all joy and song.

“Tis wrong!” the toadherd did cry,

“For us to suffer so.”

He took up his spurs and mounted his hog,

he rode forth that fateful day.

He rode forth to right those dreadful wrongs,

wrought on the world that day.

“To arms, my brothers!” Cried the lad,

he called on Gimmiza, Marans, and Red.

“To arms, this day, we fight that dark,

which covers our fair land.”

And so they rose, led by the lad, an army like none other.

Riding on a mighty boar, he led them to dark plains,

where waited for them, darker still, an army of such terror,

that had they been not led by him, they would have never stood.

For Swooprren was their leader now, no toadherd any longer.

He stood upon the battlefield, his spurs shone brightly in the gloom.

He paused before the battlefield, and looked upon his foe.

His men were brave, but ill-equipped.

His enemies were many: armed with longspurs, shield, and bow.

His men were brave, they stood their ground.

His enemies advanced.

A mighty war cry came from him, and so he led the charge.

The battle, it was fierce that day,

A day of darkness and of gloom.

For Swooprren fought as no one could,

and struck the darkness left and right.

He fought with spur, and shield and bow,

he fought like Featherbane.

He led his men to victory, and struck off Gloomwing's head.

But as the last dark warrior fell, so did tragedy.

Cruel fate was not content,

to let the victory be sweet.

For Swooprren, hero, general, friend,

was hit by one last blow.

His head was lost,

but there was hope, for he did not fall.

Swooprren lost his head that day, but lived to tell the tale.

He could not fight, nor lead thereafter,

but he did live, and show his courage.

He lived without his head, tis true,

for many a long month.

Until that mighty hero could

no more, no more endure.

The day he died, we all did mourn.

And this we did in honor,

of him who died to free us from

our darkest, evil hour.

He is dead, and we are free,

and so we lay him here,

inside this stone, which shall endure,

and tell his story to all who care,

and all who would be free.

We pray the one who reads this now, remember our evil hour,

recall what we, the brave few did

but most of all, we pray thee,

never forget the hero who led us to this place,

recall and sing the ballad of the greatest rooster of our time.

Swooprren

The discovery of this tomb was the first of many discoveries that has led me to conclude that an ancient land of Chickentopia did exist. I shall share more with you in my next report. Until that time, I wish you all well, and ask that you would give careful consideration to my request that you fund my next expedition.

Sincerely,

Doctor Theodore Norris Fowlstien

1The Domestic Chicken