Free The Book of the Dun Cow by Walter Wangerin Jr.

And she was so beautiful.
    Now Chauntecleer the Ready did a most unready thing: He sat down and stared.
    Perhaps if he had first seen her while she walked among a flock of Hens, clucking and pouting, this might not have happened to him. But he saw her in her weakness. He saw her lying open, where anyone in the world could have come by and hurt her. He saw her loose, sleeping, and without protection whatsoever. He saw her truthful, when she was not pretending to be anything else than a purely white Hen with fire at her throat. He saw her when she didn’t see him back. He saw her lovely.
    Chauntecleer stood up. Then he sat down again. Again he stood up; he ran to find Mundo Cani, but the Dog had gone; so the Rooster returned and sat down—close enough to touch her, should he work up the nerve. Well, the fact is, Chauntecleer the Rooster wanted to wake her up. But he didn’t know how. He was embarrassed. Her sleep embarrassed him.
    He tried a hoarse little crow. A cough, really. But the Hen remained still. If she didn’t notice the rain, which fell everywhere upon her stomach and wings, how could she notice the clearing of one’s throat?
    So Chauntecleer apologized aloud several times, and then he crowed. He crowed a round, loud, morning crow—lauds, with the full flapping of his wings and the thrusting of his head. Then he watched her and saw her eyes roll underneath their lids. But that was all.
    He was in an anguish.
    â€œI can’t carry you,” he pleaded. “I can barely walk. You
have
to wake up!”
    Then he reached out and touched her. He snapped back, afraid to be caught in the act. But it did no good.
    After a long debate with himself, he took courage and shook her. Her head lolled back and forth. He shook her again, and this time she took a sharp breath and began to cough.
    â€œGlory, glory, glory,” Chauntecleer mumbled, but he got away from her and watched.
    The Hen rolled over onto her stomach with the coughing and slowly stood up. She had to push at the ground in order to stand, because she was so weak; but she tottered and stood. Chauntecleer unconsciously patted his wings together. Her eyes took on a light. Around at the river she looked, around at the weather as if she didn’t understand either one. Then she looked, suddenly, at Chauntecleer himself. And the Hen screamed.
    It was a scream of white terror.
    Chauntecleer’s stomach turned immediately to water and his legs trembled. “Don’t,” he said, still patting his poor wings together and hopping from leg to leg.
    But the Hen only screamed the more—crazy, unaccountable screaming. Her mouth wide open, she turned and tried to run away. But it was a sadly broken run, with her wings slapping at the ground. She kept slipping toward the river.
    Chauntecleer couldn’t go after her; he felt too guilty. But he couldn’t stand still and watch her pain and do nothing—especially because he
did
feel guilty. So he said, “Oh, please, don’t,” and hoped with all his heart that she would stop of her own accord.
    She didn’t. She came treacherously close to the current. Her screaming took on syllables and resolved into a single word, repeated again and again without meaning and without end. “Cockatrice!” she was screaming so full of terror: “Cockatrice! Cockatrice! Cockatrice!”
    Chauntecleer could stand it no longer. Every instinct in him was appalled to see her so careless of her life. In spite of himself he began to run after her. Nor was his run any better than hers. He, too, stumbled on account of his mud cast; but he ran with a purpose.
    He caught up with the Hen. With his beak he grabbed the back of her neck, and he wrapped his wings around her. She fought him wildly, flailing her wings and beating him on the sides of his head; but he didn’t fight back. He just held her as tightly as he could. And together they began to slip into the river.
    She