"The Sacred Cow Festival (and Other Disasters)"
By sunrise the next day, the village of Cloverhill was buzzing like a beehive that had discovered free mead—alive with the chatter of excited voices, the tangy scent of frying dough twists, and the bright clang of hammers nailing up last-minute decorations.
The Sacred Cow Festival—a celebration that had never existed before yesterday—was now the talk of every home, tavern, and turnip field. Overnight, enterprising villagers had sewn banners from every scrap of cloth they could find: cheerful painted cows with halos, winking cows, cows wearing tiny crowns, all flapping merrily in the warm morning breeze that carried hints of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and fresh-churned butter.
Children darted through the streets wearing wooden cow masks carved from old crates, complete with floppy ears and bells that jingled with every gleeful stampede. A few ambitious ones had even painted black spots on their cheeks and mooed at passersby, who mooed right back.
And in the center of the village square, atop a flower-strewn platform that smelled like a wildflower meadow exploded in joy, sat Bessy—decorated with garlands of daisies, roses, and buttercups woven through her horns, ribbons in every color of the rainbow trailing from her tail, and far, far too much attention from adoring fans waving handkerchiefs and blowing kisses.
Tomlin, on the other hand, looked like a man attending his own execution while wearing an itchy sweater knitted by a well-meaning but colorblind aunt.
"You could at least smile," Bessy said, chewing contentedly on a bouquet of lavender and marigolds someone had offered with a deep bow. The flowers crunched satisfyingly between her teeth, releasing a sweet, herbal perfume. "It's not every day you become the high priest of bovine holiness."
"I'm not the high priest," Tomlin hissed, tugging nervously at his borrowed ceremonial robe. The villagers had insisted he wear it—it was bright gold, scratchy as burlap, far too long (he kept tripping on the hem), and smelled faintly of candle wax, mothballs, and the priest's overly enthusiastic incense experiments.
"According to the poster nailed to your barn," Bessy said with a smug flick of her ribboned tail that sent petals fluttering like confetti, "you are. Right under the words 'Tomlin the Blessed, Keeper of the Divine Udder.' There's even a little drawing of you holding a glowing milk pail."
Tomlin buried his face in his hands, feeling the heat of mortification bloom hotter than the festival bonfire. "I am going to strangle Old Man Barley with his own beard."
The festival kicked off with a thunderous roll of drums made from old barrels, horns that wheezed more than blared, and a slightly off-key choir of farmers' wives belting out hymns they'd composed the night before over copious mugs of cider. The lyrics were… creative. ("Oh Sacred Cow, with tongue of gold, guide our plows and keep us bold!")
Bessy was enthroned on a makeshift throne of fragrant hay bales piled high and cushioned with embroidered pillows pilfered from every parlor in Cloverhill. Tomlin stood stiffly beside her, clutching a wooden staff topped with a carved cow head that someone had thrust into his hands with reverent whispers of "The Staff of Moo-nlight."
The village priest—now proudly self-promoted to "Grand Prophet of the Holy Moo"—stepped forward dramatically, robes swirling like a peacock on parade.
"Brothers and sisters!" he cried, voice booming over the square. "We gather to honor the Sacred Cow, the divine messenger who speaks in wisdom and moo!"
Bessy leaned toward Tomlin, her warm breath tickling his ear. "Did he just say 'speaks in moo'? I clearly speak in perfect Common, with excellent enunciation."
"Just let them finish," Tomlin muttered through clenched teeth, smiling desperately at the sea of upturned faces.
The priest gestured for silence with a flourish that nearly knocked off his mitre. "And now, the Holy Cow shall bless our crops with her sacred words!"
All eyes turned to Bessy. The crowd waited, breathless, the only sounds the distant bleat of confused goats and the soft pop of dough twists cooling on a nearby stall.
Tomlin mouthed desperately behind his staff: Say something nice. Please.
"Ahem," Bessy began, lifting her chin regally. "Eat your vegetables, wash behind your ears, and for the love of pastures, stop overwatering your cabbages. They're drowning, not growing."
A murmur rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat.
Then wild cheers erupted—hats tossed skyward, children jumping so high their masks flew off.
"Such profound wisdom!"
"She knows about the cabbages! My cabbages have been soggy for weeks!"
"The goddess sees everything—even my laundry pile!"
Tomlin groaned so deeply it rattled his ribs.
"I didn't mean to start a religion," Bessy whispered, sounding almost apologetic.
"Well," he whispered back, "you're halfway there. Next they'll be selling indulgences in hay."
By mid-afternoon, the festival had descended into the most delightful, sugar-fueled chaos imaginable.
Someone tried to feed Bessy a gold-plated apple (it was actually painted turnip, but the effort was admirable). A local poet with ink-stained fingers scribbled furiously, muttering lines for The Epic of the Holy Cow ("In fields of green, where turnips dream…"). And two rival farmers got into a passionate shouting match over which of their barns was more "divinely aligned with the stars," complete with star charts drawn on napkins.
Tomlin tried to slip away quietly toward the cider tent, but a gaggle of children surrounded him in a sticky, enthusiastic swarm, chanting in high-pitched unison:
"Bless us, Druid Tomlin! Bless our goats! Bless our chickens! Bless our turnips!"
He gave them each an awkward pat on the head, trying not to knock off any masks. "May your goats, uh… chew wisely. And may your turnips grow large and… turnip-shaped."
They gasped in collective awe, eyes shining like polished buttons, then ran off shrieking, "The Druid has spoken! Wise chewing for everyone!"
"You're getting good at this," Bessy teased from her throne, where admirers were now braiding more flowers into her tail. "Next you'll be selling blessed manure."
"I am this close to moving to another kingdom," Tomlin growled, holding up thumb and finger a hair's breadth apart. "One with no cows. Or festivals. Or cabbage enthusiasts."
When evening finally draped the sky in soft indigo and the villagers dispersed—clutching cow-shaped cookies, humming new hymns, and smelling of bonfire smoke—Tomlin dragged himself home, bone-tired and ribbon-bedecked against his will.
Bessy trotted behind, humming a jaunty little tune that sounded suspiciously like one of the new festival songs.
"You have to admit, that went rather splendidly."
"Splendidly?!" Tomlin snapped, kicking off his too-big ceremonial sandals. "I've been called a druid, a prophet, a goat whisperer, and—thanks to that poster—a keeper of divine udders—all in the same day!"
"Technically accurate," Bessy pointed out, "considering how you talk to me. And you do keep my udder in fine working order."
He sighed, slumping onto the porch steps as fireflies began their twinkling dance over the fields. "What do you even want, Bessy? Why do you keep making this worse?"
Bessy stopped beside him, thoughtful for once. The ribbons in her tail rustled softly in the night breeze, and the lingering scent of flowers clung to her like sweet perfume.
"I don't know," she said quietly. "Maybe I just like seeing everyone smile. The village hasn't laughed like this—really laughed—in years. Not since the great pumpkin blight of '22."
Tomlin blinked, the fight draining out of him like milk from a tipped pail.
For a moment, she didn't sound sarcastic. Just… sincere. Almost gentle.
Then she ruined it perfectly.
"Also, I enjoyed the free apple pie. Three whole slices. With whipped cream."
He stared at her, mouth twitching.
"You—"
"Don't pretend you didn't have two slices yourself. And lick the plate when you thought no one was looking."
They both burst out laughing—Tomlin's a weary, wheezing guffaw, Bessy's a deep, rolling moo-laugh that echoed across the quiet fields and startled a few late-night crickets.
And as the stars rose over the peaceful farm, twinkling like mischievous witnesses to the whole ridiculous day, Tomlin had to admit—grudgingly, between lingering chuckles— that even if his life had turned completely upside-down (and udder-side up), it wasn't all bad.
Not bad at all
"Of Taxmen and Talking Cows" 🪶💰
The following morning, Tomlin woke to a sound far worse than Bessy's usual razor-sharp sass or even the roosters' dawn serenade.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was the kind of knock that echoed like doom in a drum—precise, impatient, and promising an avalanche of paperwork, financial pain, and perhaps a short stay in the royal dungeons for "creative accounting."
Tomlin shuffled to the door in his rumpled nightshirt, yawning wide enough to swallow a hay bale. The crisp morning air carried the comforting smells of dew-soaked grass and distant woodsmoke from the village chimneys, but none of that comfort reached him now.
He cracked open the door to reveal a thin man in severe black robes that smelled faintly of ink, mildew, and bureaucratic despair. The stranger's nose was sharp enough to slice cheese—or, more likely, slice through excuses. A massive leather-bound ledger hung from his shoulder like a boulder of judgment, and his spectacles glinted coldly in the early sunlight.
"Good morning," the man said in a voice as dry as week-old bread crust. "Royal tax collection. Name?"
"Uh, Tomlin Hayfield," he mumbled, scratching his beard and wishing he'd at least put on trousers.
The taxman's quill scratched across parchment with the enthusiasm of a hungry mouse. "Occupation?"
Tomlin hesitated, glancing nervously toward the barn where a suspicious rustling of hay suggested eavesdropping. "…Farmer."
The man raised one thin eyebrow so high it nearly vanished into his receding hairline. "Strange. The report forwarded to me by the regional office—complete with enthusiastic eyewitness sketches—lists you as High Priest of the Sacred Cow Cult, Keeper of the Divine Udder, and Official Goat Whisperer."
Tomlin froze, feeling his stomach drop like a stone down a well. "Oh, for the love of turnips—"
"Good morning!" Bessy called cheerfully from the barn doorway, her voice bright and warm as fresh milk. She ambled into view, ribbons from yesterday's festival still tangled in her tail, swaying like victorious banners. "Lovely day, isn't it? Care for a cup of holy milk? Straight from the source—guaranteed blessed and mildly sarcastic."
The taxman blinked rapidly behind his spectacles, his quill hovering mid-air like a stunned hummingbird. "Did the cow just—"
"Speak? Yes, yes, everyone's terribly impressed the first time," Bessy finished for him, swishing her tail and sending a few stray petals fluttering to the ground. "It loses its charm around the third gasp of astonishment. Now, about these taxes—do divine beings and their ordained clergy get exemptions? I believe there's precedent in the Book of Meadows, chapter 'Pasture Loopholes.'"
The taxman's quill trembled as if caught in a gale. His face drained of color until he resembled a particularly anxious ghost. "I… I'll have to consult the bishop. And possibly the archbishop. And the royal auditor."
"Do that," Bessy encouraged, leaning forward with wide, innocent eyes that somehow managed to look utterly scheming. "And tell him the goddess demands a ten percent rebate on hay purchases. Plus interest for emotional distress caused by soggy alfalfa."
The man turned the shade of fresh cheese, snapped his ledger shut with a thunderous clap that startled a flock of sparrows from the roof, and bolted down the path. His black robes flapped like crow wings, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust as he fled toward the village horizon, muttering prayers under his breath.
Tomlin watched him disappear, then slowly closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until he sat on the floorboards in a defeated heap.
"You just scared away the royal tax office," he said, voice muffled by his hands.
"Good," Bessy replied, trotting over and nudging him gently with her warm, flower-scented nose. "Now we're officially tax-free clergy. Think of the savings! We can upgrade to premium hay. Maybe even that fancy clover blend from the eastern meadows."
Tomlin buried his face deeper into his hands, feeling the heat of a blush that could warm the barn in winter. "That's not how any of this works, Bessy. Not taxes, not clergy, not divine rebates."
"It does now, Druid," she said smugly, settling onto a pile of straw with the satisfied sigh of a queen reclaiming her throne. "Welcome to the new holy tax code. Chapter one: Thou shalt not bother the Sacred Cow before breakfast."
Tomlin peeked through his fingers at her, caught between horror and helpless amusement.
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell began ringing frantically—probably the bishop getting an urgent, breathless report.
And despite everything, Tomlin felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
Just a little.