The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly Read online

  “Straggler! Your family is here!” Sprout whispered. They had to be his kind, the family he’d missed every time he struggled to climb the hill to look far off in the distance. He’d been separated from such a big flock—how lonely he must have been without them!

  “Mom, why is my heart pounding so hard?” Greentop buried his head in Sprout’s wing, like he’d done as a baby. He was trembling, inexplicably moved.

  “Of course it is! You’ve never seen such a beautiful flock.” Sprout felt at peace. She smiled. Ah, old friend! Now I understand everything. She’d thought she understood when Straggler had told her to go to the reservoir with the baby. But she hadn’t. He’d wanted Greentop to grow up and fly away, following his own kind. Sprout opened her wings and held her grown baby close. She embraced him for a long time. Feeling his silky feathers and taking in his scent, she stroked his back. This might be the last time. Precious moments did not remain forever. Sprout wanted to sear all this into her memory. Memories would soon be all she had.

  THE BONE-WEARY, ONE-EYED HUNTER

  Straggler was right: The one-eyed weasel was larger and faster than the other weasels. He was meticulous and swift, sometimes teaming up with another weasel for the hunt. The weasels hung around the reservoir, biding their time. They were targeting the mallard ducks. They snatched young ducks separated from the flock or those who’d come on their maiden voyage. The mallard ducks slept in a cluster in the reed fields and swam in a group. When the leader flew up, they all followed, creating an awe-inspiring din. The quiet reservoir had awakened. Greentop left Sprout to join them, but they weren’t interested in him. Having grown up in the fields, he didn’t have to worry about smelling like a domestic duck, but the cord around his foot gave the impression that he had run away from a human, so the wild ducks were wary of him.

  Sprout didn’t leave the slope. She was safe there—the weasels targeted only the mallard ducks, and the slope was the best place from which to look down on the reed fields. Greentop tried very hard to be accepted. Even though the mallard ducks didn’t give him a passing glance, he tagged along and slept with them. He didn’t mind making his bed at the far edge of the group, where it was the most dangerous. It was difficult to have to watch Greentop sitting apart from the flock or swimming alone, but there was nothing Sprout could do to help him. To her, he had always been special, especially compared to the domestic ducks. But he couldn’t fly as well as the mallards—he was slower and didn’t have their stamina. The cord was to blame; Sprout wished she could cut it off. She spent her days searching for stray grains in the straw piles of the rice paddies, and in the evening she returned to the cave on the slope. The cave under the rock was cozy, insulating her from the frost. From there she tracked the weasels as they roamed the reed fields. She could tell those rascals were up to no good.

  By the time autumn turned to winter, the weasels had eaten all the young and weak mallards. Now, after the first snow, their hunts were less successful. Healthy mallards were formidable opponents. The hungry weasels were swift on their tails, but they were lucky to get one every other day. If they managed to catch one, they growled and snapped at one another, fighting for a larger share. Two of them left for better hunting grounds, but the one-eyed weasel remained with a friend.

  Sprout was concerned about Greentop, since he slept at the edge of the group. In a hunt, Greentop would be the first attacked. And he’d be dragged down by that cumbersome cord around his foot. Baby, sleep lightly tonight. They’ve been hungry for two days. Standing on the slope, Sprout watched the weasels as they hid in a pile of fallen reeds. The mallards were still swimming. Snow began to fall. And Sprout paced. Flakes piled on the reed fields and the dry grass where the weasels were hiding. One by one the mallards emerged to groom themselves. At the leader’s signal they all flew up, circled the reservoir, and flew over the hill. They sometimes found a good spot over there, but more often they returned to the reed fields. Sprout squinted, trying to make out Greentop. In the snow she couldn’t see the hanging cord, and without it even Sprout couldn’t recognize her baby. She knew he would keep his ears open—he was well versed in how the hunters operated—but she was still anxious.

  Sprout settled in her cave. She hoped the flock would choose to sleep elsewhere—in the straw piles of the rice paddies or the thickets in the hills. She hadn’t eaten because she was too busy monitoring the weasels, but she was okay. She was used to eating very little or nothing at all; it suited her, if not her weight and feathers. The snowfall turned heavy. A snowdrift piled up at the entrance to the cave and blocked her sight, but she could still hear everything. The weasels were half-crazed from hunger. She remembered how Straggler would stay up all night dancing and shouting. He had done everything he could to protect the egg. I’m his mother. I can’t sit back and let him get caught. Sprout pushed through the snow and stepped outside.

  The flock of mallard ducks was returning. They must have decided to bed down in the reed fields again. They would find a spot with thick reeds to escape the snow, but the weasels were already hiding there. After circling the gray sky they would settle into their sleeping spots. Sprout had to hurry. She ran down the slope, but snow poured down on her, forcing her to close her eyes. When she opened them, Greentop was standing in front of her; his strong wings had scattered the snow over her.

  “Baby!” She was thrilled. She opened her wings in greeting.

  Greentop looked tired and sad. Suddenly a ruckus started up in the reed fields, and the brace rose up at once. Greentop ran to the edge of the slope. “A hunt!” Sprout and Greentop listened attentively to the brief scream that pierced the darkness. The weasels would be full tonight. A sacrificed life meant a peaceful night for the group. Sprout was grateful that Greentop was safe.

  Greentop leaned his head against Sprout. “I can’t stand it. I just want to live with you, Mom. Other ducks my age sleep in the inner circle, surrounded by the adults. But I have to sleep on the outside, farther out than the lookout. When we fly, I don’t know where I’m supposed to be. When I’m next to an adult, I’m scolded for being rude, and if I’m behind them, they make fun of me. I’m always a loner, wherever I am. Why do I have to live like this? I’m done. I’m happiest when I’m with you, Mom. That’s why I came back.”

  Judging from his thin body, Greentop had clearly had a difficult time with the mallards. But his wings could now create wind—he really was a wild duck now. Tired, Greentop went inside the cave, dragging the long cord behind him. His footprints and the line from the cord were stamped on the snow.

  “Sleep well,” Sprout whispered as her baby curled up in a ball.

  The snow piled up and blocked the entrance to the cave once more, making it warm inside. Greentop started to snore, but Sprout couldn’t sleep. Tonight she had to rid him of the cord. All night she pecked at it. By the time morning came around she was dizzy, and her beak was so sore she couldn’t even open it. But the cord was now ragged; it could easily snap off. Greentop woke up. His eyes welled at the sight of the frayed cord. He grabbed one end with his bill, and Sprout grabbed the other. They each pulled, and the cord finally ripped apart. Because Sprout wasn’t able to undo the knot, a piece of the cord remained, like a ring around his foot, but Greentop didn’t find it bothersome. Exhausted and sore, Sprout lay down. Greentop lingered quietly before clearing the snow from the entrance to the cave and going outside. As she fell asleep, Sprout watched him fly away.

  Some time passed.

  “Mom, wake up,” Greentop said, shaking Sprout awake. Sprout pried her eyes open. Greentop had brought her a delectable fish. His eyes widened as he said, “Do you know who the victims were? Two of them. One was the guide who looks for places to sleep, and the other was the lookout!”

  The weasels must have attacked in desperation, pouncing on those who landed first rather than waiting for a better opportunity. Sprout ate the fish. If it hadn’t been for Greentop, she wouldn’t have been able to
enjoy such a wonderful meal in the middle of winter. “Thank you, Baby. It was delicious.”

  Greentop grinned. Sprout smiled, but she felt sad. “I’m so glad I was able to free you of that cord. But I can’t do anything about the ring around your foot. Let’s just leave it as a marker that you’re my baby. So that I can recognize you among the travelers.”

  “Mom, do you want me to leave?”

  Sprout looked into Greentop’s eyes and nodded. “You should leave. Don’t you think you should follow your kind and see other worlds? If I could fly I would never stay here. I don’t know how I could live without you. But you should leave. Go become the lookout. Nobody has better hearing than you.”

  “I won’t leave,” Greentop said tearfully, burying his head in Sprout’s wing.

  “Do what you want to do. Ask yourself what that is.”

  “You’ll be by yourself. And you can’t go back to the barnyard.”

  “I’ll be fine. I have many good memories to keep me company.”

  Greentop cried quietly, and Sprout stroked his back. She wanted to tell him to try harder to be accepted by the brace, but she couldn’t talk through the lump in her throat.

  “They might change the sleeping spot because of the hunters. I heard they may go to the mountains on the other side of the water, but then I may not be able to see you for a long time,” Greentop mumbled. Sprout listened quietly—she knew he would join them, and she was proud of him. Still, knowing that his heart had never completely left the brace, she felt empty. It was difficult to remain on her feet. “You and I look different, Mom, but I love you regardless,” Greentop said, then rushed out of the cave.

  Sprout stood still, unable to move. Greentop looked back. She hurried after him, but he was already flying. He circled the cave once and then headed to the reservoir. Sprout stood on the slope, watching him return to his kind. She felt like a mere shell of herself.

  Winter was nearing its end. In the shade, snow remained unmelted, but in sunny spots mugwort and daisy fleabane were starting to surface. Sprout was thrilled to taste the new greens, even though they were slightly frozen. She spent the remainder of winter on the move—the weasel had become even more desperate from hunger. She moved from the reed fields to the cave, from under a fallen tree to the straw piles of the rice paddy and then to a rotten rowboat, taking care not to cross paths with the weasel. Her favorite spot was the straw pile housing bugs that could fill her belly, but she couldn’t stay long, since many field mice and fleas lived there as well. After the old dog was sold and a bulldog was stationed by the coop as the new gatekeeper, the weasel’s hunger became particularly acute. As the number of prey declined, the other weasel left. But not the one-eyed one.

  Even after they lost the guide and the lookout, the mallards continued to make their bed in the reed fields. For the weasel stalking through the snow-covered fields, mallard ducks were a rich source of protein he couldn’t give up. The lookout was the one duck the weasel had a chance of catching. So Greentop remained the weasel’s target. He was now a respected lookout, with his thundering voice, glistening coat, and powerful wings. Nobody shunned him anymore. When the mallard ducks settled away from the reservoir at night, the weasel hunted for Sprout. Despite the lack of feathers and fat on her body, she was the best catch in the fields. But the weasel kept missing her; for some reason he had slowed down.

  The wind turned warmer. The ice on the reservoir melted, and the mallard ducks swam with vigor. Sprout ambled along the edge of the reservoir to watch Greentop from up close. The barnyard ducks came out for their first spring swim—they hadn’t been able to swim all winter, so they jumped in clamorously as soon as they reached the water. The leader greeted Sprout with sympathy. “You must have had a difficult winter—you’ve lost too much weight!” Sprout just smiled; she wasn’t all that envious of the ducks, who had grown fat in the barn over the winter. “But you look good,” the leader said in a generous spirit. “What I mean is, your appearance isn’t too good, but something . . .” He shrugged. “You seem different from our hen. It’s odd: you’re more confident and graceful, even though you’re missing some feathers.” Sprout took that as a compliment. Grooming his feathers before entering the water, the leader asked, “Where’s the duckling? Did he . . .” He was asking if Greentop had died. Sprout pointed as Greentop took flight powerfully. Surprised, the leader squinted to watch. He gave a little bow of respect. Pleased, Sprout meandered away from the reed fields.

  As she passed a small weeping willow, Sprout heard strange noises coming from the dry grass around it. She listened carefully. They were the cries of babies, weak but frantic. Sprout pushed her face into the dry grass. It was dark, and she couldn’t see anything. When her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she realized she was in a small cave. Tiny young babies were squirming, their bodies pressed against one another, not yet able to open their eyes. Who were they? Whose were they? Sprout’s heart pounded.

  They were four-legged babies.

  Sprout turned around and left. It wouldn’t do her any good if she were suspected of doing something to them. But she was curious. Where was their mother? These babies were too young to open their eyes; wouldn’t they die without her? Sprout climbed the slope and waited to see if she could catch a glimpse of the mother heading to the cave. But nobody came. It was late. The barnyard ducks left the reservoir, and the mallards flew up. But no mother headed for the babies. Sprout was worried. Was the mother dead? Then who would raise the babies?

  Sprout came to her senses when the mallards returned from flying over the mountain. They were flying close for once, and so Sprout looked out at the reed fields, hoping to spot Greentop. What she noticed was the weasel—he was hiding in the thicket, just like the day he had snatched the guide and the lookout. Sprout tensed up: Greentop was in danger. It had been a while since she’d last seen the weasel. If he’d gone hungry the entire time, he’d be desperate. The mallards circled the reservoir. Sprout didn’t have time to waste. She sprinted down the slope, flapping her wings. If only she could fly instead of having to depend on her stubby legs to run along the ground! These useless, useless wings! “You awful creature!” Sprout shouted at the weasel as she started to tumble down the slope. Dry grass and trees clawed at her mercilessly, but she didn’t feel a thing. Her only thought was to get to the reed fields before Greentop landed. “Look here! Here I come!” she bellowed. She must have looked silly, a ball of tangled feathers and straw, but her voice was beyond ferocious.

  The weasel got up immediately. He approached her, growling, his eyes glinting with rage. Sprout faced him defiantly. The weasel was so thin, Sprout almost felt bad for him. How long had he been starving? He didn’t look like the hunter he once was, who moved like the wind. Then she glimpsed his distended stomach and nipples. Oh! Sprout was stunned. In the depths of winter she’d wondered how the weasel’s belly had grown so round. And why he’d been so slow. But now she understood: the four-legged babies whining in hunger in the hidden cave—the weasel was their mother!

  The mallards were about to land. One duck landed first. Sprout saw the cord around his foot. Greentop.

  “You annoying hen! Get lost!” The weasel bared her teeth.

  Sprout had to distract her somehow. She took a step back and warned, “Watch out. I’m going to your babies!” And she sprinted toward the willow tree.

  Realizing after a moment what was going on, the weasel dashed after her. Sprout ran with her beak clenched. No matter how weak the weasel was, she was still an excellent hunter. Sprout was nearly nabbed by the neck but got to the cave under the willow tree first. With her claws, she grabbed the babies that were huddled together. They were mere chunks of flesh, still furless. Sprout really didn’t want to do this—it wasn’t right—but there was no other way. With her single eye, the weasel looked pleadingly at Sprout. They stared at each other until their breathing calmed. The babies wailed at Sprout’s feet. The weasel’s exp
ression crumpled pathetically at their cries. “Please, be merciful,” the weasel pleaded, her voice trembling. “They haven’t even opened their eyes yet.”

  Sprout shook her head. “You could have been merciful many times. But you weren’t. Not to the white duck, not to Straggler, not to me or my baby. You had many chances, but you never were!”

  “I couldn’t help it. You just happened to be around when I was hungry. I did it so I wouldn’t starve.”

  “We just happened to be around? No, you couldn’t wait to eat us up. Now I’ll hurt your precious babies! That’s only fair.”

  “No, no, that’s not fair. You’re not hungry. I hunt only when I’m hungry. To survive.”

  “I’ve spent my entire life running away from you. You have no idea how exhausted and sad I’ve been.”

  “I don’t believe it!” the weasel retorted. “You’re the luckiest hen alive! I’ve never been able to catch you. You’ve done so many things. I’m the exhausted one. I’ve got blisters on my feet from following you around so much.”

  Sprout thought for a moment. The weasel wasn’t entirely wrong. Sprout had almost died many times, but here she was, still alive. She felt bad for the young babies pressed under her sharp claws. Their soft skin would bleed in an instant. She unclenched her claws gradually so the weasel wouldn’t notice. “If you find another source of food, will you leave my baby alone?”

  “Of course!”

  “Promise? If I told you where to find something to eat?”

  The weasel nodded quickly. “I promise. If there’s something else to eat, I won’t go near your baby.”

  “I’m old, but my claws and beak are still strong,” Sprout warned. “You should know that from experience. If you don’t keep your promise, your babies might lose an eye just like their mother.” Then she told the weasel about the haystacks in the rice paddies, about the herd of field mice that had fattened up over the winter, fighting every night over their cramped quarters. The weasel’s eye sparkled with joy, but she hesitated to leave the cave, not entirely trusting Sprout.