La Mucca | 1951

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LA MUCCA

by A.P. Varoche | Published in 1951

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Spoiler

 

 

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The drawing room was cold, dark, and dank. The castle-like windows spanned from floor to ceiling and did little to light the room. Perhaps, it’d be better if we lived somewhere tropical, the Duchess Woodeward thought. It was raining that night, the sky was an oppressive gray with clouds decorating it like a painting. Cows strolled about in the fields, unbeknownst of their eventual fate. They chewed on dewy, light green grass, letting out a groan every once in a while. The Duchess Woodeward watched lazily as the farmhand, Gabriel, sat under a tree.

 

Soon, the Duke Woodeward returned home. He groaned, much like a cow, taking off his wool coat and hat. He passed them off to a wary servant, wobbling past his wife into his bedroom. It had been twenty-five years since the couple had last shared a bed.

 

“Are you not having dinner? I had our chef cook filet mignon tonight.”

 

“No, I had enough to eat in the city.”

 

“Suit yourself.” Said the Duchess, an annoyed huff escaping from her nostrils. She went back to watching Gabriel, the farmhand. He wore brown pants and a white shirt, complete with a few dirt stains here and there. His hair was a charming red that often hung over his eyes and he had light stubble and a soft, round face. As he was hiking up to the manor, the Duchess strolled onto her balcony – a rare occasion for her in rain.

 

“Gabriel! Should you like to eat with us?”

 

“Oh, yes, of course!” Gabriel ran up the steps, two steps at a time. He was dripping with water and sweat.

 

“Why don’t you take a bath, first. I’ll have Jane draw up a bath for you.” The Duchess suggested, motioning over to a short, brown-haired servant with a wild mane to start preparing for a bath.

 

Gabriel nodded, somewhat embarrassed. “Thank you, your grace.”

“Of course, of course.” The Duchess waved a hand, as if it were nothing. Soon after that, Gabriel hobbled up the stairs into the Duchess’ bathroom.

 

The Duchess placed herself back by the hearth, reading the Holy Scrolls for a while. This was her routine, bathe, eat dinner (usually with her husband, the Duke), and then read. Albeit, when she invited Gabriel into the house, her routine had been interrupted. 

 

She could live with that.

 

After about thirty minutes, Gabriel came down in a new, white linen shirt and clean brown pants.

 

“You look quite ravishing, Gabriel.”

 

“Thank you, your grace.” He grinned, his face ripe as a tomato. He and the Duchess sat on opposite sides of the table as servants finally brought out the feast. Gabriel’s face widened as he saw all the food being brought out. Wines from Illatia, pigs feet with gravy, salads, Auvergne truffles, and of course, the filet mignon. Gabriel took one of everything, whereas the Duchess took only a few select items.

 

“Gabriel, I must tell you something,”

 

“Yes, madame?”

 

“My husband and I haven’t slept in the same bed for twenty-five years now. Our daughters have left for their own marriages, and our son spends his days philandering in the city.”

 

“Oh. That’s unfortunate, your grace.”

 

“I know!”
 

This had grown to be the new routine. The Duke would come home, take off his wool coat and hat, saunter up to his room, and the Duchess would invite Gabriel to come in and dine with her. First, he’d bathe himself, dress into new clothes, and then eat with the Duchess. The two had grown fond of each other, Gabriel could eat good food and the Duchess could talk to someone other than her servants. One night, Gabriel even disagreed with her!

 

“Gabriel, do you believe in God?”

 

“No.”

 

“How can you not believe in God? In salvation?”

 

“Well, I suppose I don’t believe in salvation anymore. I think the church is rather, well, corrupted.” He said, shoving food into his mouth with a fine, silver fork. The Duchess had forgotten the last time she had felt so thrilled was. She was tired of her servants always agreeing with her. Perhaps, a part of her admired Gabriel.

 

That night after dinner was finished, she suggested Gabriel sleep in her daughter’s old room. He hesitantly agreed, stumbling up to her room. The Duchess followed Gabriel up the steps to her own room, a moderately decorated room with a fine, striped blue wallpaper. She disrobed herself with the help of a servant, changing into her nighttime chemise.

 

“Thank you, Jane.” She murmured to the servant, dismissing her. She climbed into her wooden bed, completed with a canopy. 
 

The golden morning light shone through her window. The Duchess yawned. She felt heavier– and hairier– than before. She groaned, and, oddly enough it came out as a moo. The Duchess tried to look down at her stomach, but her head wouldn’t allow it. She noticed the bed was broken, caved in on itself. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her chemise, ripped in half, with one half laying on the oak wood floors. She moo'd in agony. That was her favorite chemise. The Duchess kept mooing until her husband came into her bedroom.

 

He stopped at the door. “Mary! Mary!” He called out. “There’s a cow in your bedroom! Mary!”

 

Mary let out an annoyed moo.

 

“Mary? Is that you?”

Mary moo’d in confirmation.

 

"Oh my god. Oh my god!”

 

Mary groaned. She wondered why God would punish her by turning her into a cow. Usually, going to hell was enough punishment for one woman on the verge of committing adultery! Her mind wandered to her husband and son, why hadn’t they been punished for their philandering? The Duke had an affair with Jane, after all– and it wasn’t even an exciting affair. A boring marriage is one thing, but a boring affair just doesn’t make sense! And, in her defense, she hadn’t even committed adultery (yet)!
 

“I’ll go fetch Gabriel! We’ll figure this out, Mary.”

 

Mary rolled out of the bed, landing on her udder. She groaned in pain, forcing herself up. She prayed and hoped that the Duke would come back soon with Gabriel, as she knew the wooden floor beneath her couldn’t hold all sixteen hundred pounds of her new body.
 

An eternity of an hour later, the Duke and Gabriel burst into the room. The door flung open, almost off its hinges.

 

“Oh! Your grace!” Gabriel cried out.

 

Mary moo’d once more, a huff escaping her new, wet and pink nose.

 

“What do we do?” The Duke asked.

 

“We get her to the farm, of course.”

 

Mary moo’d in protest, stomping one of her hooves on the wooden floor. The floor was now dented.

 

“Well, you cannot stay here!” Gabriel retorted.

 

Mary huffed. In all forty-four years of her life, the Duchess had never felt so humiliated. She tried to contort her face to show how annoyed she was, how embarrassed, but it was no use. Cow’s couldn’t

show that much emotion beyond mooing.

 

The Duke dismissed all the servants for the day, saying his poor Mary had died in her sleep. What a stupid excuse, thought the Duchess. The Duke and Gabriel brought Mary to the stairway. Mary moo’d in protest once more, she felt an overwhelming sense of not wanting to go down the stairs. It was odd because Mary had gone down the stairs several times.

 

“Mary, you’ll have to go down the stairs sooner or later.” The Duke hadn’t called her Mary in the past ten years of their marriage. She resented him for it, and only now the Duke was calling her Mary. Everything was humiliating.

 

Mary Moo’d, kicked her hooves. She tried turning herself around, but Gabriel pushed her buttocks so that one hoof would be on the first step going down.

 

“Go in front of her, your grace. Coax her down.”

 

“Do I have to?”
 

God, you’re such a coward, Edward, Mary thought.
 

"Yes! You have to!”

 

It took them almost two hours to get Mary down the first few steps. And then another two hours to get her down the last half of the stairs. By now, it was mid-afternoon and she was still inside the house. Mary wondered what her mother would think. She came from a low-ranking Baronial family and she had managed to worm her way into a Duke's liking, all to be turned into a cow by God. What a loving God. The Duke and Gabriel dragged Mary out of the house and into the cow pen. Once again, Mary groaned in protest.

 

“But how will we know we won’t eat her?” The Duke questioned Gabriel.

 

“I’ll tag her.”

 

For the first few hours of her new life, Mary quite enjoyed mooing with the other cows. One of the cows had just had a daughter, whom Mary named Martha. She chewed the dewy, green morning grass and stood in the sun. Life now was as riveting as it was before, but, for some reason, was more enjoyable. Mary did not need to follow the social norms of high society anymore. No more boring balls and terrible tourneys, no more coronations of kings and pontiffs, no more attending church every weekend, and most importantly, she didn’t have to endure her husband's philandering anymore.

 

“OK, which one of you is Mary…” Gabriel murmured, armed with a bell in one hand.

 

Mary moo’d and huffed, but so did the other cows. No, you cows! I’m Mary!
 

Her pleas did not stop the other cows from mooing.

 

“Oh dear,” Gabriel murmured, hanging the bell around Martha’s mother's neck. No! You idiot! That’s Anne! Mary moo’d again, hoping Gabriel would hear her pleas. But, alas, he did not care for her mooing any longer. Gabriel exited the pen, wiping the sweat off of his forehead.

 

Mary stood there, the sun beating on her back, in silence.

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