The Rooster’s Crow of Westende

It happened in the twilight, that strange grey time between day and night when things lose their normal shape. A farmer from Westende was walking down a sandy path, still busy with his fieldwork, when he suddenly found a gentleman standing before him.

But this was no ordinary gentleman. The farmer felt it immediately. The man — or whatever passed for one — wore fine clothes, but something was wrong. His bearing was strange, and when the farmer looked down at his feet, he saw something that made every hair on his body stand on end: goat’s hooves. Two lean, black goat’s hooves with cloven feet.

The man laughed when he saw that the farmer had noticed this. It was not a pleasant laugh. ‘Do not be afraid, farmer,’ he said. ‘I am not here to hurt you. I am here because I know you have no money to build a new barn for your cattle. Your herd must go somewhere, and your barns — your old barns — are nearly falling apart.’

The farmer was indeed poor. His barns were indeed old. How could this stranger know this?

‘I can help you,’ said the man with the goat’s hooves. ‘I will make you an offer. On this parchment you write your name in blood. And then — then my little goblins will work for you. They will build you a barn. A barn so beautiful and strong that it is worth more than all your other goods put together. And all of it in one night — before the rooster crows in the morning.’

The farmer stared at the parchment the devil held out to him. He stared at the offer, and he stared at the knife the man now held in his other hand. The temptation was great. The poverty was greater.

But something held him back. Or perhaps it was not something — perhaps it was someone. The farmer remembered his wife at home, and he felt caution returning. ‘Let me think about this at home,’ he said. ‘I cannot decide something like this alone.’

The devil grinned. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Come back here tomorrow night. But do not forget: the rooster’s crow waits for no one.’

That night the farmer told his wife everything. He hid nothing — neither his temptation nor his doubt. And the farmer’s wife — who was much wiser than her husband — immediately began to think.

‘The barn must be finished before the rooster crows,’ she repeated. ‘Yes. And how long does it take for a barn to be finished?’ The farmer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Two, three weeks at least. With many workers.’

‘Then the goblins do not have enough time,’ said the farmer’s wife. ‘Because when the rooster crows, they are gone. They cannot work anymore. So — if we can make the rooster crow earlier, the devil cannot finish his barn!’

The farmer began to smile. His wife was indeed much wiser.

‘Tomorrow you go to the devil,’ said the farmer’s wife. ‘You agree. You sign the parchment with your blood. Because what he does not know is that we will make the rooster crow before sunrise. Much earlier. In the middle of the night.’

So it happened. The next night the goblins were already ready. They were small, mean-looking fellows, but they worked like machines. They hauled stones, mixed mortar, stacked and built. The farmer saw them in the moonlight — dozens of them — busy at their labour.

And then, towards midnight, when the barn was already quite high, when the walls were already visible, it happened. The farmer’s wife got up, went to the chicken coop, and imitated the crow of a rooster. She did it perfectly — she knew all the nuances, all the vibrations, all the harshness of a real rooster announcing the break of dawn.

The rooster, startled by this nocturnal concert, did not know what was happening to him. But his instinct took over. He was a rooster. That was his call. And so: he crowed. Very loudly. Very clearly.

At that same moment, the goblins stopped. They stood motionless. They looked at each other. And then — like a wave — they vanished. Gone. The night was suddenly empty of their presence.

When the morning came — the real morning, hours later — the farmer and his wife saw what had happened. The barn was indeed there. But it was not finished. On the east side was a large hole in the wall. A hole large enough for a horse.

The devil had lost everything. His goblins could not finish their work. The rooster’s crow had prevented them. The farmer had received his barn — but not complete. And most importantly: the farmer had kept his soul. The trick had defeated the magic.