Where Kinship Hatches

A Red River Métis Fable

In an old crooked chicken coop, a brood of hens lived in relative peace, except in the spring when the eggs began to pile up. They were shoved into corners and hidden for days beneath clutter before being found and brought back to the nest.

Now, each auntie prided herself on the quality of her eggs, even though, at times, they were unable to care for all of them due to the sheer number.

Henriette, the elder hen with a cracked beak and a fine sense of decorum, insisted her eggs were the most “historic.”

“I descend from the Old Line,” she clucked. “My great-grandmother laid eggs near the old settlers’ fort. These yolks are practically heirlooms!”

Colette, the speckled hen with a fondness for fiddle music, boasted hers were the most “artistic.” 

“Look at the speckling on the shell! They practically paint themselves!”

Jeanne, the youngest and most carefree, laid her eggs wherever inspiration struck: under the grain bin, beside the dog bowl, even once inside a boot. 

“They’ll know they’re mine by the energy,” she declared. “Very spontaneous, very fresh!”

But one fateful day, the wind blew open the coop door, and all the eggs were blown around and out of control, rolling into one great muddled pile at the far end of the coop. The hens gasped in horror.

Whose were whose? Was the spotted one Henriette’s or Colette’s? Was it Jeanne’s energy that caused this catastrophe?

A great debate broke out, feathers flew, and accusations were tossed like corn kernels. 

“You’re trying to steal my legacy!” cried Henriette. 

“That’s my masterpiece!” squawked Colette. 

“I don’t remember laying that one!” confessed Jeanne.

The hens bickered and fussed until they were too tired to flap another wing. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the muddled pile of eggs.

Henriette sighed and settled beside the pile.

“I don’t know whose is whose anymore,” she muttered.

Colette sat next to her. “Neither do I, but I suppose… it doesn’t matter so much now.”

Jeanne walked up with a mouthful of straw, plopped down and grinned. “We could just hatch them together.”

The three aunties looked at each other and nodded… and so that’s what they did.

They took turns keeping the eggs warm until each began to hatch one by one. When the chicks came, no one could tell which belonged to whom, and it didn’t matter. The chicks were fed from the same dish, cuddled beneath any feathered wing, and raised with stories of saskatoon summers, table scraps every evening, and the joy of sharing what little they had.

They grew up proud, not just of their feathers, but of each other.

Kinship is not measured by possession, but by participation. It is found in the shared work of care, the choice to belong to each other, and the weaving of bonds that hold a community together into something enduring and whole.