The first rays of morning light spilled gently across the Hayfield farm. The roosters crowed, the wheat swayed, and a half-asleep farmer named Tomlin Hayfield groaned into his pillow.
"Five more minutes…" he mumbled.
The roosters ignored him. So did the sunlight.
Reluctantly, Tomlin rolled out of bed, threw on his faded tunic, and stumbled toward the barn. The smell of hay, milk, and manure greeted him like old friends.
"Morning, Bessy," he yawned. "Time for milkin', eh?"
Bessy, his plump brown cow, blinked at him with wide eyes. For a moment, all was peaceful—the calm before the chaos.
Then Bessy opened her mouth.
And spoke.
"About time you woke up, you lazy sack of potatoes."
Tomlin froze.
He blinked once. Twice. Then rubbed his eyes so hard he nearly poked himself.
"…Did—did you just—?"
"Talk? Aye. And about time someone around here noticed my brilliance."
Tomlin dropped his milk bucket. "B-Bessy?! You—you're talking!"
"And you're stating the obvious. Wonderful start to the morning."
Tomlin stared, slack-jawed. His brain, not being properly caffeinated, tried to make sense of the situation by considering every possible explanation in order of stupidity.
He was dreaming.
Someone slipped ale into his breakfast again.
The gods were playing a prank.
The cow was actually talking.
He settled on number four, because the cow was glaring at him.
"Now then," Bessy continued, flicking her tail indignantly, "since you're finally conscious, maybe you can explain why my hay tastes like old boots and disappointment."
Tomlin stumbled backward. "I—uh—what?"
"You heard me. Yesterday's batch was soggy, and don't get me started on the bucket you call 'clean.' Honestly, I deserve better."
"Saints preserve me…" Tomlin muttered, crossing himself. "I'm haunted. Possessed. Cursed!"
"Don't flatter yourself. I wouldn't waste a curse on you," Bessy snorted.
Tomlin ran outside, tripped on a rake, and landed face-first in the mud.
From inside the barn, Bessy called cheerfully:
"Careful out there! The ground's slippery. Like your common sense!"
By the time Tomlin gathered his wits and dignity (what was left of it), the sun was higher in the sky and the village bell rang in the distance.
He glanced at the barn door.
Then at the sky.
Then back at the barn.
"…If I tell anyone about this, they'll think I'm drunk."
"You are drunk. Drunk on ignorance," Bessy replied from within.
He sighed. "Oh no. She's sarcastic, too."
"You're welcome."
And thus began the strangest day of Tomlin Hayfield's very ordinary life—
a day that would somehow lead him, his talking cow, and half the village into the most ridiculous chain of misunderstandings the kingdom had ever seen.
Tomlin Hayfield had faced many challenges in life: hailstorms, tax collectors, and that one time a chicken chased him across the field.
But none compared to the sheer absurdity of trying to convince people his cow was not magical.
It all started when his neighbor, Old Man Barley, came by to borrow a shovel and overheard Tomlin yelling at Bessy.
"No, I'm not bringing you strawberry jam! You're a cow, Bessy, not a princess!"
"You wouldn't understand the refined palate of a lady, you pitchfork peasant!" she retorted.
Tomlin froze. So did Old Man Barley.
A long silence followed.
Only the sound of crickets.
Then the old man's eyes widened like saucers. "Tomlin…" he whispered. "That cow just spoke!"
Tomlin's blood ran cold. "Wait—no, she didn't! You must've—uh—heard me throwing my voice!"
"Throwing your voice? You couldn't throw a rock straight," Bessy snorted.
Old Man Barley dropped the shovel, made the sign of the sun god, and ran screaming toward the village square.
"THE FARMER TALKS TO BEASTS! HE'S A DRUID!"
Tomlin's heart sank. "Oh for plow's sake—Bessy, look what you've done!"
"Me? You're the one yelling at a lady about jam!"
By the time Tomlin arrived in the village, it was already too late.
A crowd had gathered outside the tavern. People whispered, eyes wide. Someone had even drawn a crude chalk circle on the ground with herbs and candles.
"Tomlin the Druid!" shouted a baker. "He commands beasts!"
"I heard he made a deal with forest spirits!" said a cobbler.
"My cousin's friend saw him hug a goat!" added another.
Tomlin raised his hands helplessly. "People! I'm not a druid! I just—uh—have a very… opinionated cow."
"That's putting it mildly," came Bessy's voice from the back of his cart.
Gasps. Dozens of villagers turned toward the talking cow, jaws dropping in awe.
Then, in the silence that followed, the village priest
stepped forward, his robes fluttering dramatically.
"A divine beast!" he declared. "The Holy Cow of Prophecy!"
Tomlin blinked. "The what now?"
"It is said in the Book of Meadows that when the Heavens grow restless, a golden-tongued beast shall appear to guide the lost!"
Bessy batted her eyelashes. "Golden-tongued? Oh, finally, someone with taste."
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Children bowed.
Someone threw flower petals.
Tomlin buried his face in his hands. "I'm never living this down."
"Cheer up," Bessy said smugly. "You're famous now. Maybe we can start charging for autographs."
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Tomlin slumped in front of his farmhouse, utterly defeated.
A crowd still lingered at his fence, lighting candles and praying to "Saint Bessy the Benevolent."
"Well," Bessy said, reclining on her hay pile like royalty, "it's been a productive day."
Tomlin groaned. "You've turned my life into a circus."
"Correction: our life. And every circus needs its ringmaster."
He glared at her. "And who's that supposed to be?"
"You, obviously. Now fetch me that strawberry jam, Druid."
Tomlin threw a pillow at her. She mooed in laughter.
And somewhere, the villagers began planning a festival in honor of the "Sacred Cow of Verdelune."
By sunrise the next day, the village of Cloverhill was buzzing like a beehive on market day.
The Sacred Cow Festival—a celebration that had never existed before yesterday—was now the talk of every home, tavern, and turnip field.
Banners with painted cows hung across the streets.
Children wore wooden cow masks.
And in the center of it all sat Bessy, decorated with flowers, ribbons, and far too much attention.
Tomlin, on the other hand, looked like a man attending his own execution.
"You could at least smile," Bessy said, chewing contentedly on a bouquet someone had offered.
"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, itchy, and smelled faintly of candle wax.
"According to the poster nailed to your barn, you are," Bessy said with a smug flick of her tail. "Right under the words 'Tomlin the Blessed, Keeper of the Divine Udder.'"
Tomlin buried his face in his hands. "I am going to strangle Old Man Barley."
The festival began with drums, horns, and a slightly off-key choir of farmers' wives singing hymns they had composed the night before.
Bessy was placed on a makeshift throne of hay bales.
Tomlin stood beside her, holding a wooden staff he didn't ask for.
The village priest—now apparently the "Grand Prophet of the Holy Moo"—stepped forward dramatically.
"Brothers and sisters!" he cried. "We gather to honor the Sacred Cow, the divine messenger who speaks in wisdom and moo!"
Bessy leaned toward Tomlin. "Did he just say 'speaks in moo'? I clearly speak in perfect Common."
"Just let them finish," Tomlin muttered.
The priest gestured for silence. "And now, the Holy Cow shall bless our crops with her sacred words!"
All eyes turned to Bessy.
The crowd waited, breathless.
Tomlin mouthed desperately, say something nice.
"Ahem," Bessy began. "Eat your vegetables, wash behind your ears, and stop overwatering your cabbages."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Then cheers erupted.
"Such wisdom!"
"She knows about the cabbages!"
"The goddess sees everything!"
Tomlin groaned.
"I didn't mean to start a religion," Bessy whispered.
"Well," he whispered back, "you're halfway there."
By mid-afternoon, the festival descended into full-blown chaos.
Someone tried to feed Bessy a gold-plated apple.
A local poet began writing The Epic of the Holy Cow.
And two rival farmers got into a shouting match over which of their barns was more "divinely aligned."
Tomlin tried to slip away quietly, but a group of children surrounded him chanting,
"Bless us, Druid Tomlin! Bless our goats!"
He gave them an awkward pat on the head. "May your goats, uh… chew wisely."
They gasped in awe and ran off shouting, "The Druid has spoken!"
"You're getting good at this," Bessy teased.
"I am this close to moving to another kingdom," Tomlin growled.
When evening came and the villagers finally dispersed, Tomlin dragged himself home, exhausted.
Bessy trotted behind, humming.
"You have to admit, that went well."
"Well?!" Tomlin snapped. "I've been called a druid, a prophet, and a goat whisperer—all in the same day!"
"Technically accurate, considering how you talk to me."
He sighed. "What do you even want, Bessy? Why do you keep making this worse?"
Bessy stopped, thoughtful for once.
"I don't know. Maybe I just like seeing everyone smile. The village hasn't laughed like this in years."
Tomlin blinked.
For a moment, she didn't sound sarcastic. Just… sincere.
Then she ruined it.
"Also, I enjoyed the free apple pie."
He stared. "You—"
"Don't pretend you didn't have two slices."
They both burst out laughing.
And as the stars rose over the quiet farm, Tomlin had to admit…
Even if his life had turned upside-down, it wasn't all bad.
The following morning, Tomlin woke to a sound far worse than Bessy's usual sass.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was the kind of knock that promised paperwork, pain, and perhaps imprisonment.
He opened the door to find a thin man in black robes, carrying a massive ledger. His nose was sharp enough to slice cheese.
"Good morning," the man said coldly. "Tax collection. Name?"
"Uh, Tomlin Hayfield."
The taxman scribbled. "Occupation?"
Tomlin hesitated. "…Farmer."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Strange. The report I received lists you as High Priest of the Sacred Cow Cult."
Tomlin froze. "Oh, for the love of—"
"Good morning!" Bessy called from behind him. "Care for a cup of holy milk?"
The taxman blinked. "Did the cow just—"
"Speak? Yes, yes, everyone's terribly impressed," Bessy said. "Now, about these taxes—do divine beings get exemptions?"
The taxman's quill trembled. "I… I'll have to consult the bishop."
"Do that. And tell him the goddess demands a 10% rebate on hay."
The man turned pale, snapped his ledger shut, and bolted.
Tomlin sighed. "You just scared away the royal tax office."
"Good. Now we're officially tax-free clergy."
Tomlin buried his face in his hands. "That's not how any of this works, Bessy."
"It does now, Druid."
Two days later, Tomlin's life went from bad to royally disastrous.
A fancy-looking carriage rolled into Cloverhill—white horses, gold trim, and guards who looked like they'd faint if they touched dirt. The villagers dropped everything to stare.
The coach stopped in front of Tomlin's farm. Out stepped a tall man with silver armor and an expression that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.
He unrolled a scroll and announced,
"By royal decree of His Majesty, King Eldred the Mildly Confused, Farmer Tomlin Hayfield is hereby summoned to the capital, along with his… divine companion, the Cow of Prophecy."
Tomlin blinked.
Bessy burped.
The knight frowned. "You are Tomlin Hayfield, yes?"
Tomlin nodded weakly. "I… suppose I am."
"And this is the Holy Cow?"
"The one and only," Bessy said, flicking her tail. "Do I get my own royal stable or a throne?"
The knight froze mid-bow. "It speaks."
"It complains," Tomlin muttered.
An hour later, Tomlin found himself on the road to the royal capital, sitting in a carriage beside a smug, flower-adorned cow.
"You could at least act nervous," he grumbled.
"Why? I'm about to meet a king. Finally, someone who understands my level of sophistication."
Tomlin groaned. "He's going to execute me."
"Oh please. You think anyone would dare harm the Holy Cow? You're practically untouchable by association."
Tomlin stared out the window. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Correct."
By the time they reached Verdelune City, crowds lined the streets to see them.
Children threw flowers. Merchants shouted blessings.
Someone even sold "Sacred Cow Milk" that was just regular milk with sparkles in it.
Tomlin wanted to sink into the cobblestones.
They were escorted into the castle—a massive marble structure that smelled faintly of perfume and political disappointment.
At the throne sat King Eldred, a round-faced monarch with kind eyes and a crown slightly too big for his head.
"Ah! The man and his cow!" the King exclaimed. "Splendid! We've heard… quite a lot about you."
Tomlin bowed awkwardly. "Your Majesty, I assure you, it's all a misunderstanding."
"Don't listen to him," Bessy interrupted. "He's modest. I'm divine, he's my handler, and we accept offerings in bread and apple pie."
The King blinked.
The court gasped.
The royal scribe fainted.
"By the stars…" the King whispered. "It truly speaks."
Tomlin tried to interject. "Actually—"
"And," Bessy continued, "I've come with wisdom for your kingdom: lower taxes, fund the arts, and for heaven's sake, give your cooks a raise."
The King stared at her for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he began to clap.
"Marvelous! A talking cow and a reformer! The gods truly bless us!"
Tomlin groaned quietly. "Here we go again…"
That night, Tomlin and Bessy were given rooms in the castle. His had silk sheets and more gold trim than sense. Hers had a velvet cushion and a view of the royal gardens.
"I could get used to this," Bessy said, munching roses off a royal bush.
"Don't," Tomlin warned. "The moment they realize you're just… you, we'll be tossed into the dungeon."
"You underestimate my charm," she said with a grin. "By tomorrow, I'll be running the place."
Tomlin sighed and muttered to himself, "By tomorrow, I'll be fleeing the country."
The next morning, Tomlin was dragged—half-dressed and half-awake—into the royal council chamber.
Bessy followed behind, humming, her hooves echoing like royalty's applause.
Around a long polished table sat the Royal Council: the High Priest, the Treasurer, the General, and several nobles who looked allergic to common sense.
King Eldred smiled nervously. "Ah, council members! The Holy Cow has agreed to share her divine wisdom!"
Tomlin opened his mouth to protest, but Bessy had already taken the floor—literally.
"Good morning, esteemed fancy-hatted humans. Let's begin with agriculture."
The Treasurer squinted. "You… have thoughts on taxation?"
"Naturally. Stop taxing cows for existing. It's discriminatory."
The High Priest gasped. "Blasphemy!"
"Correction: policy reform."
The General leaned forward. "What about defense, oh bovine oracle?"
"Simple," Bessy said, licking her hoof. "Feed your soldiers better. Hungry men don't win wars. Also, make their armor shinier—it boosts morale."
The General nodded slowly. "...That actually makes sense."
Tomlin facepalmed. "You're encouraging her!"
"Silence, Druid," Bessy said without looking back. "I'm working."
King Eldred clapped his hands. "Splendid! From this day forth, Bessy the Benevolent shall serve as Royal Advisor of Agricultural Affairs!"
Tomlin's jaw dropped. "She's what!?"
You heard the man," Bessy said smugly. "Looks like we're moving up in the world, Druid."
That night, Tomlin sat by the window, staring out at the moonlit city.
His life, once simple and peaceful, now involved royal councils, political reforms, and a cow who gave economic advice.
"You're quiet tonight," Bessy said softly.
"Just wondering how this all happened."
"You found me. I found you. The rest is history."
Tomlin smiled despite himself. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"And yet, here we are."
They sat in silence, the gentle night wind rustling through the curtains.
Then Bessy added,
"Oh, and tomorrow, we're attending a royal banquet. I expect a tiara."
Tomlin groaned. "Of course you do."