The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly Page 4

  “No, it’s true. I’m a wild duck who can’t fly, and you’re an exceptional hen.”

  “Okay, but . . .”

  “That’s all there is to it. We look different, so we don’t understand each other’s inner thoughts, but we cherish each other in our own way. I respect you.”

  Sprout’s breath caught in her throat. Sometimes Straggler puzzled her. “Even if we don’t understand each other? How?”

  “Because I know you’re a wonderful mother,” Straggler said firmly. Sprout closed her beak. Somehow confessing about the egg didn’t seem so important anymore. “I know that weasel,” Straggler continued. “He’s a born hunter, so we can’t defeat him. He’s bigger and stronger than any weasel I’ve ever seen. Even if it’s fine now, he’s going to get us in the end. We have to finish our work before that happens.” Sprout didn’t quite understand what he was talking about, yet she knew it was true. Her heart began to pound. Sprout couldn’t believe she had spent all this time without thinking about the weasel. Straggler moved away from the briar patch and murmured, “I hope the egg hatches tomorrow, before it’s too late. I’m too tired. The weasel won’t be able to hold out any longer.” Sprout studied him silently. She didn’t know what was between him and the weasel, and that made her even more nervous. Straggler kept talking. “I’m okay. If he’s full he’ll be quiet for a while. It’s okay, as long as the egg hatches. I’m ready.”

  Sprout could no longer hear her friend. Straggler settled away from his usual spot and buried his head under his wing to sleep. Sprout’s feathers stood on end, just as the mallard’s had at the mention of the weasel. She turned the egg. With Straggler here nothing would happen, and morning would soon come. Everything was quiet. Even the blades of grass were silent, not rustling against one another. Sprout started to get drowsy. She closed her eyes for a brief moment.

  “Quaaaack!”

  Sprout’s eyes flew open. Straggler! His short, horrifying scream echoed in her heart. In the moonless dark, the mallard was flapping with all his might. Some creature was gripping his writhing, dark body. There were no longer any screams. Straggler’s neck must have been broken. Sprout shuddered, and her throat closed up. “Straggler!” She sprang up and ran outside, her eyes glaring and her wings flapping. The weasel, with the mallard in his mouth, shot her a chilling look. Sprout’s heart turned to ice. The weasel’s flashing eyes warned her not to approach. Sprout hesitated. She couldn’t win with only her claws and beak. Trembling, she watched the tragic end of her friend as his limp body was dragged away. The weasel disappeared into the darkness; the forest and the fields became quiet all too quickly. Although a precious life was snuffed out in an instant, the world was serene. The trees, stars, moon, and grass were hushed as though they’d witnessed nothing. Sprout ran off after the weasel. But there was only darkness; there was no trace of him. Wanting to find something, anything, even a feather, Sprout searched all over the dark hill. She couldn’t stop weeping. Straggler was dead. And she’d done nothing to help him. She had been stupidly scared. He had died alone. The weasel’s eyes had chilled her to the bone. From the moment Sprout had left the coop, the weasel’s eyes had always followed her. Straggler had shielded her from the realization that the briar patch wasn’t safe. He had stayed awake every night to guard her and her egg from the weasel. Why didn’t you stay awake tonight? Why didn’t you cry out a warning? Poor thing! He must have been exhausted. Sprout shivered. She could have been the one to die. Everything would have ended in an instant.

  Morning dawned. The sun began to rise from beyond the reservoir, dampened by fog as usual, illuminating the spot where Straggler usually sat. He who would watch the sun and shake out his feathers was no longer. Sprout vowed never to forget him. She flapped her wings at the sun, in farewell to her friend. Oh! The egg had been alone for a long time by now. Sprout rushed into the briar patch. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

  A baby was tottering out!

  It had cracked the shell on its own. This amazing, downy creature looked at Sprout, its black eyes shining.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Sprout stood still, in a daze. She had known there was a baby inside the egg, but this was like a dream. Small eyes, small wings, small feet—everything was tiny. But they all moved, and every movement was tiny and adorable. “Baby, you’re here!” Sprout ran over and embraced him with outstretched wings. He was a real baby, all small and warm. She could hear the ducks going to the reservoir. Outside, it seemed nothing had changed since the day before, but for her it was a special morning. In various parts of the fields things happened without interruption. Someone died, and someone was born. Sometimes a farewell and a greeting happened at the same time. Sprout knew she couldn’t be sad for long.

  A DISGRACE TO THE COMB

  Sprout marched confidently toward the barnyard with her fuzzy light brown baby in tow. Straggler’s suggestion that she leave the nest once the egg hatched hadn’t been a flippant comment. He was protecting her baby from the weasel. She had to take Baby to safety before the weasel’s stomach—currently full on her mallard friend—grew empty again. The dog, who had been dozing in the midday heat, was the first to spot Sprout. “Look who’s here!” he barked. The rooster’s hen ran over from the stone wall, where she had been digging. Six yellow chicks tagged along. The chicks had immaculate yellow fur without a single light brown tuft. “Who is that?” the hen asked, frowning. She clucked for the rooster to come out. The rooster, not a fan of the strong sun, took his sweet time.

  Sprout stopped under the shade of the acacia tree and waited for Baby to catch up. He was traveling too far too soon after being born. He tripped and fell several times on the way, but he managed to make it to the yard with tottering steps. The dog sniffed at Baby and circled him, setting Sprout on edge. The hen clucked, and the chicks kept up a steady chatter of cheeps. Then the hen groused, “How could she possibly hatch an egg? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  The chicks, who were learning to talk, rang out after her in chorus, “How could she possibly hatch an egg? It doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Shush! You don’t have to learn that.”

  “Shush! You don’t have to learn that.”

  “My goodness, I can’t say anything.”

  The chicks began, “My goodness,” when the hen quickly said, “It’s tasty snack time!” and ran toward the compost pile.

  “It’s tasty snack time!” The six chicks ran after her.

  Sprout watched the chicks with a smile. They were very cute. Their yellow fur was especially pretty. Having never seen a chick up close, Sprout assumed her baby’s light brown fur would turn yellow in time. She settled under the acacia tree and tucked Baby under her wing. No matter what anyone said, she wouldn’t leave the yard until he was fully grown. Humiliation would surely follow, but that was better than being eaten by the weasel.

  “What a mess!” barked the dog, raising his head.

  Unable to ignore the ruckus, the rooster finally came out of the barn. He was shocked to see Sprout. Perhaps in disbelief that she was still alive, he paced the yard with his eyes glued to her. The dog whispered something to the rooster, who glared at Sprout. “Is that right? Let me see the baby.” Sprout was scared, but she remained where she was. She didn’t want to do what the rooster demanded. “Let me see that duckling, I said!” thundered the rooster, his neck feathers standing on end.

  Sprout was taken aback. Duckling? The hen ran over, and the chicks surrounded Sprout. Sprout stayed where she was, Baby still tucked under her wing. Past events flitted through her head. The egg in the briar patch, Straggler, the fish, the scream, the light brown feathers . . . a duckling? All her baby’s toes were welded together. His beak was round and he waddled, but she had chalked it all up to his youth. The world started spinning, the way it had spun her first day out when she poked her beak in the trough and was bitten by a duck. Now it all made sense. The first time she went to the briar patch, she�
�d heard a scream. She’d thought it was the mallard, but maybe it had been the white duck! That was why the egg was there and why Straggler came. I was incubating the white duck’s egg. Straggler knew everything—when the egg would hatch and that he had to die so it could live. That final night when the exhausted mallard had fallen asleep, he was quietly giving up his life, knowing the egg would soon hatch. He had hoped Sprout and Baby would leave the nest while the weasel was full. That was why he told her to go to the reservoir, not the yard. Sprout’s throat closed up, and her body stiffened. Pain seared her heart like on that awful day she’d laid a soft wrinkly egg. Straggler, you were a wonderful father! What should I do now?

  Baby poked his head out from under Sprout’s wing. Sprout was flustered, but she let him; she couldn’t keep him in hiding. He came out and joined the chicks. Even though he was light brown and the others were yellow, the babies played happily together. Poor thing! He must think he’s a chick, too.

  “See? I told you!” barked the dog, triumphant.

  The rooster glared at Sprout as the hen jeered, “A culled chicken couldn’t have laid an egg! How indecent. If you were sold to a restaurant, then you wouldn’t be such a disgrace!”

  Sprout stared at the hen in confusion.

  The rooster explained sternly, “She means it’s more dignified to become a dish at a restaurant. Aren’t you ashamed? You, a member of the comb, hatched a baby of another kind!”

  “I’ll say,” the dog taunted. “A chicken hatching a duck! What a ridiculous sight!”

  The rooster, whose bad mood was getting worse, ran over to peck at the dog, who inched away and retreated into his house. The rooster’s feathers stood on end. “It’s a disgrace to the comb!” he grumbled. “A ridiculous hen has made our kind the laughingstock of the barn. How dare they laugh at us, the voice of the sun, the possessor of the comb! Foolish hen!” The rooster paced the yard, agonizing, frowning, and sometimes stopping to glare at Sprout. “This cannot stand!” the rooster announced with finality.

  Sprout’s thoughts were jumbled, but she was anything but ashamed. She had hatched her egg with all her being. She had wished for him to be born. She’d loved him from when he was inside the egg. She was never suspicious about what was inside. Sure, he’s a duck, not a chick. Who cares? He still knows I’m his mom!

  Night fell. When the ducks returned from the reservoir, the rooster held a meeting to discuss “the problem of the foolish hen and the duckling.” The rooster wanted to get rid of Sprout and the duckling immediately, but he’d overheard the owners speaking to each other:

  “Look at that hen,” the farmer’s wife had remarked. “Nice and plump! Where did she come from?”

  The farmer was pleased. “And a free duckling! We should put them in the barn.”

  Despite the rooster’s objections, Sprout and Baby seemed destined to live in the barn. The disgruntled rooster presided over the meeting. As the leader of the barn, he had to save face before accepting Sprout and the duckling. The rooster went up to the roost to look down at everyone; the hen snuggled in the haystack with her chicks. The ducks clustered around their leader, and Sprout held Baby in her wings and sat with her back to the door. As the gatekeeper, the dog kept only his front legs in the barn as he listened to the rooster.

  “As you all know, this is a complicated problem,” the rooster announced, shooting Sprout a derisive look. “This chicken hatched a duck egg and came to live in the yard. As the head of the barn I can make a unilateral decision. But I want to hear what the ducks have to say because it’s a problem for both the chickens and the ducks. What should we do with this foolish chicken? And what should we do with that duckling?”

  The hen spoke up first. “One hen in the barn is enough. And I have six chicks. There isn’t room. I’m also worried about the chicks’ education. I know they’ll keep asking, ‘Why does he quack and call a hen Mom?’ ‘Why is he different from us?’ Some of them might even try to quack. I can’t raise my chicks in a chaotic environment like that. We need to send the foolish hen and the duckling packing.”

  “That’s right,” the dog chimed in. “Keeping order is first and foremost!”

  Sprout tightened her embrace of her duckling, who was squirming to get out from under her wings. The yard animals might become incensed if Baby pranced around in their faces, and this discussion had to go well.

  “Well,” said the leader of the ducks in a gracious voice, “the duckling is young. If we send him out like this, he’ll surely die. So we should let them stay. The duckling is our kind, so I think my opinion takes precedence. Straggler and the white duck were killed by the weasel. We don’t have enough in our family. And I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve seen such a young baby. As you are all aware, we can’t hatch any eggs these days.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” scoffed the hen. “You don’t have enough in your family? How can you say that when the entire barn is filled with ducks? And that one doesn’t even know he’s a duckling.”

  The leader of the ducks didn’t back down. “That can be taught. A hen hatched him, but he’s still a duck. He has to swim and fish. I’ll teach him myself. We can’t send him off. That’s our decision.”

  “We have to!” the hen shot back, flapping her wings. “If we take in every stray, next time it might even be the weasel asking to settle down in the barn. This is exactly how it all starts!”

  The dog grumbled unhappily, “Watch it! You’re insulting the best gatekeeper!”

  The ducks began quacking all at once. The hen clucked on without pausing for breath. The debate didn’t end until the night was deep; it grew so noisy that the farmer and his wife came to the barn with flashlights to investigate.

  “Turf war. I’m going to have to do something in the morning,” the farmer said, pointing his flashlight into the corners to illuminate the upended water bowl and feathers floating in the air. The animals quieted down, and the flashlight stopped on Sprout. “Now look at that!” The farmer was pleased.

  “Not bad, right?” his wife asked, and they headed out of the barn.

  Concerned about their conversation, Sprout kept listening, wondering what they had planned for the morning.

  “Should I put it in the coop?” the farmer’s wife wondered. “Or we can boil it for soup tomorrow evening.”

  “Whatever you want,” the farmer said. “By the way, I think that duckling is wild. Shouldn’t we put him in a cage or clip his wings?”

  Sprout was taken aback. But she was the only one who heard the couple’s conversation. Once again the rooster and the hen were arguing with the ducks. Even the dog was getting riled up.

  “We have to send him away!” the hen clucked.

  “Never!” quacked the ducks.

  “Not once have I let you down as gatekeeper!” barked the dog.

  Sprout was still focused on the farmer and his wife’s plans. She could end up back in the coop, or as soup. She couldn’t stop trembling. Learning that was as frightening as seeing the weasel’s eyes. She regretted returning to the yard. Was this why Straggler had told her to go to the reservoir instead? Surreptitiously she wiped her eyes. She had to leave the yard immediately, before she was shut in the coop and Baby’s wings were clipped. That night passed slowly. Sprout didn’t let herself fall asleep because she knew they had to leave before everyone woke up.

  The sun appeared on the horizon. Sprout could faintly make out the trees in the hills. Usually the rooster would have woken up by now, but because he had gone to bed so late his eyes were still closed. The dog, too, was sound asleep.

  Sprout whispered to the duckling under her wing. “Baby, let’s leave. Quietly.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Sprout got up quietly and tiptoed out. The duckling followed stealthily. The yard remained shrouded in the bluish darkness of dawn. Sprout wasn’t worried, though, as it would soon be daylight. She crossed the y
ard toward the acacia tree and then looked back sadly. She would never return. Looking straight ahead, stiffening her claws, setting her beak firmly, and with fierce eyes, she walked resolutely into the twilight.

  CERTAINLY A DUCK

  The road to the reservoir was rugged. It marked the beginning of their wretched life as wanderers in the fields without the protection of the gatekeeper or the barn, the weasel always on their minds. Sprout asked Straggler to give her courage. She had to protect Baby until he was grown. She’d always talked to herself, but now she could talk to the mallard, who remained in her heart.

  Baby grew tired before they reached the reservoir; they had to rest. Sprout led him to a rice paddy. They drank from the irrigation ditch and caught grasshoppers between rice stalks to fill their bellies. Baby soon fell asleep under the shade of curly docks. Sprout, who had spent the previous night with her eyes wide-open, fell into a sweet, irresistible slumber.

  “What is this?” A loud quacking assaulted her ears, but Sprout couldn’t open her eyes. Her eyelids felt heavy, as if they had been welded together. “You have no idea how dangerous this is!” someone scolded.

  “My goodness, what was I thinking?” Sprout jumped to her feet.

  The leader of the ducks was looking down at them from the top of the hill. The other ducks were behind him. “Why did you run away? You’d be safer in the barn.”

  “Well, I just . . .” Sprout hesitated. Maybe she shouldn’t tell him the yard wasn’t safe for them. What good would it do to tell him that she’d figured out the farmer and his wife’s plans? “I felt bad that you were fighting because of us. We’re going to the reservoir.”

  Sprout climbed up the hill with her duckling and started toward the reservoir again. The ducks crowded around Baby. The female ducks in particular couldn’t tear themselves away from the adorable duckling, but Baby followed only Sprout.

  “Thank you for hatching the egg,” one of the ducks said to Sprout. “He’s the cutest ever! Our eggs are sold or go to the incubator, so none of us has had the experience of having a baby. What a blessing that there’s a baby in the family!”