Gladys' Glades

They say some heroes don’t wear capes. Others order them off Amazon.

Gladys was one such hero. Her self-assigned status punctuated by the golden cape donned proudly over her shoulders on the town billboard. Her printed arm pointing casually to her renowned farm, Gladys’ Glades, on the outskirts of the nearby state forest. A dreamy place discussed as though the realm of deities, which was to say it had a reputation.

Gladys. An unfortunate name for a fortunate person. Hero to the township of Hemsvale for the gold medal quality of her eggs. Or rather those of her chickens. Those Hemsvale hens were a tidy flock of birds victorious in their consistent, and as declared by the judging panel for eleven years running now, vibrant yellow yolks.

Paige knew though that the thing about usurping a queen is that it never comes without cost. Wisdom which Game of Thrones had afforded her.

Each market day since Paige had joined this community she had been subjected to the leery glare of Gladys upon that billboard. Gladys, a ubiquitous presence. For Gladys’ Glades was not a dreamy place to Paige. It had quickly lost its prestige. Instead it was the competition. The rival. The enemy.

Paige was a farmer. At least that was how she saw herself. She didn’t wear a cape. No one thought much of her. She was an outsider. As is the curse of so many small places with small minds, Hemsvale was an insular community. It had appeared idyllic and quaint when she had first started looking for a piece of land here. Now that she rented a cottage on the edge of town its population had revealed itself for the egg it was. Fragile, yet difficult to crack.

For an egg farmer, it was tantamount to hostile.

Hemsvale was the epicentre of eggs for the surrounding region. Market days were renowned, with Gladys in her golden cape dispensing eggs by the dozen, customers came and queued for the cheery interaction their hero afforded them. Paige, at her solitary bench, her stack of cartons given a wide berth until Gladys had depleted her stock. Gladys always gave her final dozen away for free, a sideways stare shot at Paige with hubristic intimidation. Paige relished the day handing eggs away freely could be so financially viable for her.

Paige had held dreams of raising chickens for years. Her interest in poultry came from an ethical standpoint. Free range and organic were badges she excelled. Her birds were few, comparatively, but her flock followed her around the land scratching up bugs and spiders, pecking scraps from her own hands. Paige had long planned before her arrival in Hemsvale to grow capsicums and chillis solely for her birds. The red skins transferred a lovely dark orange colour to the yolks. Almost red. But what she had attempted to do to establish her ‘brand’ had been undone in a single dose of rhetoric from the notorious Gladys. Gladys had whispered, very discreetly, rumours about Paige.

I bet she bleaches her hair.

Red devil.

Those eggs of hers, yolks as red as her head.

Devilled eggs.

Gladys was certainly the origin of most gossip in the region, and ‘Devilled eggs’ had stuck. Paige, an unfairly titled devil, had been horrified. But the colloquialism was established. That was how she was referred. Without ever having sprouted a red hair upon her, now townsfolk referred to her as Bluey, to her face. Australiana at its finest. And worst.

Her brand of eggs with their dark yolks was actively avoided by all Hemsvalians. Only outsiders, like Paige, took a chance on her Devilled eggs, unknowing of the underlying tension between herself and Gladys.

Paige often wondered when the community here had learned how to avoid the disfavour of Gladys. That smarm in her disposition, that billboard, that cape, all tools of the dictatorship Paige recognised this for.

Red eggs. They would never win gold in the ‘Best egg’ category of the Hemsvale Country Fair in October. Red had been made pariah. But this accolade had never been Paige’s objective. Yet Gladys continued to dominate in all ways, to taunt, the rich yellow of her yolks so obviously an additive of her own. Paige knew exactly what is was too. And herein was the barrier, the separation between tyrant and accursed usurper. Red versus yellow.

Eleven years now. Eleven years Gladys had reigned supreme with her yellow yolks. It was a dozen medals she aimed for. No doubt about it. Her stall had grown in grandeur too. It was commonplace for Gladys to be seen nursing one of her chickens upon the throne she had built to attract a crowd. It was unnecessary, but brought all eyes upon her with the villainous vanity she concealed. She had built her character, her crown, and now reclined in awe of herself.

Gladys was going beyond measure to destroy Paige. The evidence had mounted. For eighteen months now Paige had put up with this. No new friends. No socialising of any kind in the community. No compassion. The risk she had taken in moving here, the hope and the dream. The commitment she now held to herself and her flock. It was impossible to give in.

The Hemsvale Country Fair was a few weeks away. A few weeks left in which to act. But in that act the capacity to crush a whole community. To fall victim to the moniker cruelly bestowed. It was an act that had kept her awake for weeks now, since the ear worm had crept in to whisper its malicious message, its pernicious plan. A plan of desperation fuelled by anxiety, and loneliness.

Paige had her birds. But the continual cluck of a chicken makes for poor conversation. It does, however, keep a secret.

Gladys’ Glades was known for more than its eggs. Its renown was equally built upon the visual spectacle of its one hundred metre long driveway. On the descent towards the farmhouse one would be met by a triumph of colour. Hues of purple, orange, red, pinks, and most importantly, yellow. Flowerheads as bold and perfect as any to suit royalty. A garden of Eden a long way from its context, but nevertheless spectacular. Even Paige reluctantly had to admire it.

The perfume of those flowers could be sensed across the whole region. It seemed as though her flowers dispersed their scent with the same narcissism as Gladys herself. For they were well tended, and never was a petal out of place. Never did one droop beyond its form.

Her driveway, the artery of Gladys’ Glades, was lined in a long perfect row of marigolds on each side. Marigolds, the secret to Gladys’ success.

It was not so well known that Gladys fed her chickens the marigolds she grew. Those marigolds were what coloured her eggs, what provided the celebrated yellow of her yolks. Her chickens devouring such beauty and producing what King Midas might have been proud of. Her golden goose in fact a chicken with flowery appetite.

Gladys had gone so far as to persuade the town council to restrict the planting of marigolds in the surrounding region. It had been a farce, the whole thing, but aside from her farm no resident within the stretched jurisdiction of Hemsvale were permitted to grow marigolds of any kind, upon punishment of a seventy-two dollar fine. An arbitrary amount for a regulation so unreasoned.

Seventy-two dollars was the cost of challenging the queen. Seventy-two dollars as a small price of usurpation. Paige could in no way afford it, and yet a few months prior she had planted her own secret glade of marigold, duly dubbed as Paige's Pride, the bloom of which neared ever closer to now feeding her own birds. To staining those yolks a stunning yellow.

The anxiety was real. If Gladys discovered this offence there would be a literal hell to pay. Paige would certainly see retribution swift and fierce, dealt with spiteful talons in a pecking order she now defied. But the growth of a few marigolds was only stage one of her plan. That ear worm had sung its song well, and stage two was decidedly more savage. All Paige had at her disposal though was a garden fork with a broken prong. It would usually shovel food scraps and cuttings to her chickens, but as the Hemsvale Country Fair drew ever closer it had been bestowed more glorious purpose.

Midnight neared. There was only one solution that would ensure Paige her victory. There was only one way to beat the queen, to remove the cape of the town hero.

Paige had moved furtively through the night, covering the distance overland to Gladys’ Glades. Doubt had hardly swayed her step. She had followed the pull of perfume and stared down the driveway of her adversary, knowing that in this new moon her silhouette would go unseen. Then, with a practised hand, she proceeded to systematically pry up every one of those perfect marigolds. One by one, for a hundred metres down both sides, she destroyed the icon. With each stab she drove the fork deeper into the heart of Gladys, and with each felled flower felt the darkness grow.

By the time she was finished all Paige could do was survey the wilted wreckage. A few thousand marigolds drowning in a humid heat, roots tangled helplessly as their colour drained away. When Gladys discovered this at dawn the implication would strike. In her agony she would scramble helplessly for an alternative, and her undoing would be apparent.

Paige stood with blood coursing, the adrenaline from tonight finally fuelling her pounding heart. She inhaled deeply, sweetly, savouring the lingering and final scent of what she had done. Her three-pronged fork, her trident, had well and truly been wielded by the red devil. Paige with her transformed eggs would finally hold a chance, and in the chaos to come she would not wear a cape.