The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly Read online

  Sprout stopped. “Family?” she snapped. “I don’t plan on giving you the baby.”

  “What? What do you think you’re going to do with him? You’re a hen.”

  “I’m his mom. They’ll clip his wings. You think I’m going to let him go back to the barnyard?”

  “That’s why you ran away? Don’t be scared. It doesn’t hurt at all. It just stings a little. He might not even feel it. So he won’t fly away.”

  “So he won’t fly away?”

  “This baby looks more like a wild duck than one of us. If you don’t domesticate him, he’ll be in danger. He’ll forever be a wanderer like Straggler and end up killed.”

  Sprout continued on silently. Straggler’s end was tragic, but she wouldn’t even consider giving Baby away.

  The leader followed her and persisted in trying to convince her. “Think about Straggler. He was always alone. It’s hard to live in between, as neither wild nor domesticated. He couldn’t change his fate. He lost his mate to the weasel and wounded his wing. He couldn’t fly, so he couldn’t return to the winterlands.”

  “The weasel hurt his wing?”

  “Who else?”

  Sprout nodded in silence. Now she understood why his neck feathers would tremble at the mere mention of the weasel.

  “He found a mate in the white duck, but she was done in by the weasel, too.” The leader sighed. “All because he couldn’t change his wild duck ways. If the white duck had hatched the egg in the barn, she would still be with us. Well, I guess if the farmer took it, she wouldn’t have been able to hatch it!”

  Sprout shuddered, that final night coming to her in a flash. Now she knew what Straggler had been thinking. They had been harboring the same wish. If she had only realized it earlier! He had been nervous the entire time, worried she wouldn’t sit on the egg if she knew it was a duck’s. But she wouldn’t have refused even if she’d known. Nobody could possibly know how happy she’d been when she sat on the egg. Sprout slowed down to match Baby’s gait. The female ducks fell back unwillingly. Sprout felt surging hatred toward the weasel. He’d taken every precious being. She wanted to be stronger than the weasel to get revenge. But she knew it was foolish. Revenge? Just thinking about living in the wide-open fields again was enough to make her cry. But she held her tears at bay and set her beak.

  They arrived at the reservoir. The ducks jumped in, clamoring to be the first to get in. But the leader and Baby remained next to Sprout.

  “Look at this. He doesn’t know that he’s a duck or that he can swim. Even though his feet are webbed, he probably thinks he’s a chick!” The leader, wings outstretched, tried to herd Baby into the water. Baby resisted, screaming.

  “Leave him alone!” Sprout shot at him angrily, her feathers bristling. Baby scampered under her wings.

  The leader sighed. “This is wrong. Even though a hen hatched him, he’s still a duck.” He shook his head and swam toward his ducks.

  Sprout’s heart was heavy. But she had to find a nest. She strolled along the edge of the water away from the clamor of the ducks. She didn’t know what to do. All she knew was that she had to stay alert so they didn’t fall victim to the weasel. A thatch of reeds appeared. Sprout fell for the place at first glance. Dried reeds were strewn on the ground, and new reeds were clustered together, creating a most excellent hiding place. It was beautiful there, with blooming water lilies and water hyacinths, but the best part was the abundance of food. This area was teeming with throaty frogs perched on lily pads, dragonflies resting on reed stalks, small fish that came to the surface of the water, locusts, and diving beetles. It would make a great home. I hope nobody finds us. Sprout constructed a nest of dried reed leaves. Only a small bird would be able to weave through the dense water plants.

  Baby hopped on a lily pad.

  “Baby, careful!”

  “Careful, careful!” He quacked happily before leaping onto another pad. It made Sprout nervous, but she couldn’t hold him back. Baby hopped from pad to pad until he was in the middle of the reservoir.

  “Baby, come back!”

  “Mom, look where I am!” He waved his little wing joyously. The lily pad tipped, and he fell into the water.

  “Baby!” Sprout panicked. Surprised, Baby flailed about. Sprout ran into the reservoir, but her feathers became waterlogged, and she barely managed to get out.

  “Mom, look at me!” the duckling called out, short of breath, floundering.

  Sprout looked closely—Baby wasn’t drowning; he was definitely swimming, albeit clumsily. Dripping wet, Sprout laughed loudly. Her baby was doing things he hadn’t been taught. “Yes, you’re certainly a duck!”

  Days passed peacefully. Sprout lost weight to better navigate through the reeds. She made sure to be quiet so she wouldn’t alarm their neighbors. A pair of reed warblers had built a nest nearby and laid eggs. The moon filled out, and nobody peeked in the reed thicket. Sprout felt ill at ease whenever she noticed blades of grass casting shadows under the moonlight or reeds rustling in the wind, but she and her baby were safe. Baby was growing every day, and getting better at swimming, diving, and catching fish. Each evening he liked to settle under Sprout’s wing to sleep.

  One day Baby swam out far and returned with the leader of the ducks. Or, judging from Baby’s slightly scared expression, the leader had followed him uninvited. Under orders from the leader, the other ducks kept back a short distance. They played among the water lilies, chattering loudly. Sprout was displeased. The female reed warbler cheeped nervously, and the male flew up several times to see what was going on.

  Sprout shook her head. The silly ducks had never incubated an egg, so they didn’t have any idea how a mother would feel threatened by their ruckus. She hoped the weasel wouldn’t be drawn to the noise and discover their hiding spot. The leader, who was oblivious to her worries, made idle chatter. “He’s grown so big I hardly recognize him. He’s gotten the best parts of the white duck and Straggler. It’s amazing he’s figured everything out on his own! Good for him!” The leader tried to stroke Baby, who slipped away and looked first at Sprout, then at the leader. The leader continued: “Even though a hen hatched him, a duck is a duck! Our kind never forgets how to swim or dive. He knows how to do it without being taught. It’s not something a chicken, who is confident in the yard but afraid of the fields, can do!”

  Sprout snorted at the leader for bragging like he was Baby’s father. He didn’t know Baby. Baby wouldn’t leave her just because the leader praised him. He would never leave her. She puffed her chest out confidently. “Chickens fear the fields?”

  “Oh, not you, of course. But the other chickens don’t know a thing. I’m sure they don’t even know that their ancestors paraded around the skies, like birds.”

  “Chickens? Like birds?” Sprout couldn’t believe her ears. Flying with these wings that only scattered dust? She had seen the rooster jump down from the stone wall with his wings outstretched, but that couldn’t be called flying. At the very least, flying required floating up higher than a tree and traveling elsewhere, managing to be afloat for a long time. It would be wonderful if she could fly. “But what happened? Why can’t we fly anymore?” Sprout stretched her wings. She wouldn’t be able to clear even the tops of the reeds.

  “Well, that’s because all you do is eat all day and lay eggs,” the leader explained. “Your wings grow weaker and your behind grows bigger. And yet you still think you’re so great, saying you represent the voice of the sun.”

  Sprout thought it was laughable that he was bad-mouthing chickens behind the rooster’s back; he wouldn’t say a word of this to the rooster’s face. “So if our behinds grew larger, why was it the ducks that ended up waddling?” Sprout asked gently. “And you have wings, too. What do you use them for?”

  The leader coughed and changed the subject. “Actually, I came to talk to you about the duckling. It’s dangerous for him to li
ve like this. Let’s go back to the barn. Let him, at least, even if you don’t want to.”

  “Nothing bad has happened to us here. If you continue to make such a ruckus, everyone’s going to find out where we’re hiding. Please go home with your family. We’re not going back.”

  “Two chicks from the barnyard were taken!” the leader pressed. “Because curiosity led them up the hill from behind the garden. The hen is depressed and won’t even come out of the barn.”

  Sprout shook her neck feathers in fright. She didn’t understand why the weasel insisted on devouring the living. “Baby, come,” she said, wanting to keep her baby safe under her wings. But Baby just looked at her and then at the leader, hurting her feelings a little.

  “It was too much for the hen to look after all those chicks by herself,” continued the leader. “But we’re different. We have a big family, so it’ll be easy to look after one duckling. Don’t make your life difficult. Let us help. It’s inevitable that the weasel will try to take all the chicks now that he’s had a taste of tender flesh. You know who’s next.”

  Sprout tensed her claws. She could sense the shadow of the frightening hunter approaching. The weasel would be here soon enough. He might already be looking this way. She glared at the leader, rendering him mute. “Leave us and go. Now,” she ordered.

  “You’re so stubborn! You can’t keep thinking of him as a chick. Even though a hen hatched him, a duck is a duck!” the leader said in a huff and then left.

  The other ducks raised a fuss when they learned the duckling wasn’t coming with them. The reed warblers twittered nervously until the quacking died down. Baby sat in the nest, looking at the retreating ducks. He didn’t look as carefree as before. The ducks’ ruckus must have bothered him.

  “Baby, we need to leave,” Sprout said. “It’s not safe here anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “If the ducks found us, the weasel will, too. The weasel is powerful. He can easily hurt us. He hunts the living, and he never gives up. So let’s find another nest before nightfall.” Sprout gathered their feathers that had scattered on the ground and tossed them in the water. She clawed at the nest and smoothed it over with her wings. Quietly she led the way out of the reed fields to keep from disturbing the reed warblers. The duckling kept looking back, reluctant to leave the water behind. His foot-dragging told Sprout they wouldn’t get far.

  The day was waning. Sprout climbed a shallow slope of grass that overlooked the reed fields. The cow that had been tied to the willow tree during the day had been led home. It had pulled the rope to its full length in order to graze on the grass at some distance from the tree, so the patch of grass just under the tree was lush and uneaten. Cow patties were scattered around the tree. It would be too dangerous to spend the night in the fields without cover. But Sprout mustered her courage. “I think we can spend one night here. The cow patties will hide our scent.” She dug a hole and spent the night in it, her wings wrapped around Baby. The overgrown grass hid them somewhat, but she remained wide awake.

  The moon was bright. Baby, who had been quiet all evening, fell asleep, and Sprout could hear only the breeze rustling the grass. Watchful and alert, Sprout looked into the darkness. She was like Straggler now. Back then she’d slept worry-free like Baby, while Straggler had stayed awake to keep the weasel away, flapping his wings and hollering. She had to be brave like Straggler: before he gave up his life, even the weasel was no match for him. She was startled by a memory, as though a drop of cold water had fallen on her head—the weasel hadn’t been able to get her in the Hole of Death because she was too feisty. She could face him as long as she was brave. He can’t touch us!

  Sprout stepped away from the hole and looked down at the reed patch. She wished they hadn’t had to leave the nest. She was now a wanderer without a home. She hadn’t wanted to be shut in a cage, and she couldn’t stay in the yard as she’d hoped. She’d had to abandon their nest in the reeds. Tomorrow morning they would leave again. Why was this her life? Was it because she held out hope? She thought about Straggler. He was always in her heart, but often she wished he was right beside her. If she could only hear his voice and see his face—

  Sprout caught sight of something moving.

  She flattened herself on the ground. A dark shadow swiftly approached the reed fields. The weasel. I knew it! She froze in place and began to tremble. The weasel entered the reed fields. The stalks appeared to rustle for a moment, but then she couldn’t see anything. Knowing the weasel would come out empty-jawed, she couldn’t help but smile. She had won this battle. We’re not there! You can’t catch us! The weasel emerged from the reed fields and ran back to where he had come from.

  The next day Sprout and Baby returned to the reed fields. Baby jumped into the water, and Sprout went to take a look at their nest. But then she saw something awful. The reed warblers had been attacked. Their nest was torn to shreds and broken shells were everywhere. The eggs had been just about to hatch! Their mother was gone. The male warbler wept as he circled above the reed fields. Sprout shuddered. As she left, she vowed not to make a permanent home anywhere. She would spot the hunter’s shadow before the hunter spotted them.

  JOINING THE BRACE

  A long stretch of summer rain brought an enormous amount of water. The reservoir was so high that the reeds were almost completely submerged. These were difficult days for Sprout. It was hard to find a dry place, and because her feathers were always damp, she suffered from a continuous cold. She had become very thin because they changed nests every day and she didn’t sleep well at night. Still, Baby was growing and looking quite duckish, a little more like Straggler every day. That pleased and amazed Sprout to no end. “Baby” wasn’t fitting for an adolescent duck, so she named him Greentop, after his coloring. But she still liked to call him Baby, as that made her feel closer to him.

  When the rains passed, Sprout finally fought off the cold that had plagued her. But it seemed unlikely that her scrawny body would ever be plump again. She was getting old. Of course she was: her baby was almost fully grown! Yet she was stronger than ever. Her calm eyes could detect the slightest movement in the darkness, her beak was hard, and her claws were sharp. Sprout and Greentop never spent more than two nights in one spot. Sometimes, from a distance, they saw the weasel returning home empty-jawed. Life as a wanderer was difficult, but it wasn’t too bad. It did break Sprout’s heart to see Greentop with a brooding expression on his face. He had become moody from time to time after the leader had visited them in the reeds. These episodes recurred more frequently after his feathers changed color. Sprout asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t confide in her.

  There wouldn’t be rain again for a while. The stars twinkled at twilight, and Sprout’s feathers remained dry overnight. With the nicer weather, Sprout and Greentop could find a place to sleep close to the water, but Sprout led Greentop up the slope to stay away from the weasel. She checked under the rock at the edge of the hill. They had slept in that small cave a few times during the rains, but Greentop didn’t like it there because it was far from the reservoir.

  “We haven’t seen the hunter in two days. I’m sure we’ll see him today. I bet he’ll go around the reed fields to try to get at least a warbler,” Sprout said, but Greentop wasn’t listening. Deep in thought again, he was standing in a field of white daisy fleabane and looking down at the reservoir. He was just like his father. Sprout curled up in the cave and watched Greentop. He was no longer a baby. Even when she imagined talking to the mallard about what was going on with Greentop, she couldn’t come up with a good solution. She was afraid the weasel would snatch Greentop like he did Straggler. It was dangerous when you let down your guard. She decided to call Greentop inside. Stepping out of the cave, she glimpsed a dark shadow slip down from a rock. It sounded like the wind but wasn’t.

  Sprout stopped breathing. It was the weasel.

  How had she made this mistake?
She had chosen the wrong spot. Until now they had managed to avoid the weasel, but he was one step ahead of them. Greentop wasn’t paying any attention. Sprout had to take charge of the situation. She was his mother; she couldn’t let this happen. Drawing in a deep breath, she sprinted out of the cave like lightning, clucking and flapping her wings, shouting, “Get lost!”

  The weasel spun around. Greentop, taken by surprise, flapped his wings and screamed. Flustered, the weasel looked back at Greentop before turning to face Sprout. He looked bigger and swifter than before, but Sprout knew she couldn’t back down. Greentop kept flapping his wings in fright. Sprout tensed her claws and raised all her feathers on end. Her eyes met the weasel’s. “Don’t you dare!” she threatened, prepared to die.

  The weasel slowly shook his head, his eyes still trained on her. “Don’t you interfere!” His voice gave Sprout the chills. The weasel wanted only Greentop, and so he wasn’t wary of her.

  Sprout glared at the weasel. “Leave my baby alone!”

  The weasel laughed derisively. Sprout felt her heart pound and her entire body inflame with rage. She was no longer frightened by the weasel’s stare. As the weasel was about to turn away, Sprout sprinted toward him like a moth darting toward a flame. She pecked viciously. The weasel screamed and sprang toward Greentop. Sprout, her beak firmly clamped on the weasel, was dragged along. She could hear Greentop making a racket. Sprout and the weasel became one and rolled down the slope. The writhing weasel clawed at Sprout’s belly. Only when they hit a rock midslope did they become untangled. Sprout began to lose consciousness. “Run away, Baby,” she coughed out. A moment later she opened her eyes. She couldn’t see or move. Something was in her mouth. When she spat it out she realized it was a piece of flesh. The weasel’s flesh. “Baby! Baby!” Sprout looked around. It was too quiet. Had the weasel gotten him? Was Greentop already dead? Tears sprang to her eyes. If Greentop was no longer, it would be harder to bear than her aching wounds. That awful beast! He should have taken me. Baby is too young to go. . . . Sprout closed her eyes. She was drained of energy, like the time she had been tossed into the Hole of Death.