Three Good Deeds

by Vivian Vande Velde

  Howard used his beak to roll the egg farther away from the nest. Almost-Eaten-by-a-Fox had gotten out of the water and now stood by his female, looking bigger and meaner than Howard.

  "It's the won't-hatch one," Howard explained. "She said it was all right for me to have it."

  Almost-Eaten-by-a-Fox continued to glower but didn't chase after Howard, so Howard resumed rolling the egg farther away.

  Once the other two geese stopped watching him, Howard decided that must mean he had rolled the egg far enough.

  Now what? He felt foolish about sitting on the egg, but that's what geese do. Howard was about to sit, when he remembered he needed a nest. The other nests were made with the females' down feathers, which he didn't have, and from leaves and grass, which he could gather.

  He fetched enough to make a soft bed for the egg, then nudged the egg onto it. Then, very gently, he lowered himself on top.

  A goose named Whistles-When-He-Honks called over to Howard, "Hey, How-Word, what are you doing?"

  "Rescuing this egg," Howard said, since that was, after all, the long-range plan, and—he was sure—an admirable goal.

  But Whistles-When-He-Honks laughed so hard he snorted pond water out his nostrils, and he called any other goose whose attention he could get to come and look at Howard.

  They won't laugh when my good deeds get me turned back into a boy right in front of their eyes, Howard thought.

  Then he thought, I wonder how long it takes an egg to hatch?

  No matter. He could be patient.

  If he had gotten hungry before, this was even worse, because he could no longer spend his days looking for plants to eat but instead had to keep the egg safe and warm.

  Sitting on an egg was boring work—long, boring work, especially when all he could think about was how hungry he was. Every once in a while he just had to rush out to the water to graze on the plants at the edge.

  One of those times, Sunset-Dances-Like-Flames-on-Her-Feathers swam to him. Howard looked up and saw Mighty-Beak/ Bone-Crusher notice him and begin approaching. Before he could ask Sunset-Dances-Like-Flames-on-Her-Feathers to keep away lest her male beat him up any more, she said, "There are tiny plants in the water, too, How-Word. Didn't they have those in the pond you came from?" She demonstrated by sticking her head into the muddy water, then chattering her beak to strain out the tiny bits of edibles.

  Howard had seen the geese doing this before, but he had thought they were gargling. He knew enough not to say this.

  Sunset-Dances-Like-Flames-on-Her-Feathers swam away before Howard could thank her, but also before Mighty-Beak/ Bone-Crusher arrived.

  Mighty-Beak/Bone-Crusher bobbed his head up and down to let Howard know that he wasn't getting away with anything, and Howard backed away.

  But straining the water was a help, though the nourishment he got that way was even less tasty than the grasses and leaves.

  Still, it was enough to keep him going for two days and two nights while he sat on the egg.

  The third day, coming back from a few quick mouthfuls of tiny plants, water, and—of course—mud, Howard lowered himself onto his nest, and he felt something give.

  Some instinct warned him this was not The Big Day.

  He stood up. The egg had shattered, and there was no sign of a baby goose in there, just sticky, messy liquid.

  Howard sighed.

  All that time—wasted. Such a good plan—wasted.

  And more than that: He realized he'd been picturing the tiny little goose that would come from the egg, a goose that wouldn't have existed, except for him.

  But now it turned out there was no such thing.

  He went to the water to wash the egg white off his feathers and to eat, and to forget the loss of the goose who never was. And to try to think up a new plan.

  But of course he couldn't have wasted his efforts in private or had his failure go unnoticed.

  "Say, How-Word!" one of the geese honked. "Hatched that egg of yours yet?"

  Goose humor.

  Howard hoped he wouldn't be a goose long enough to come to appreciate it.

  12. Braver Goose

  Howard continued to be on the lookout for good-deed-doing, and he happened to be in the vicinity when Scared-by-a-Rabbit once again honked for help.

  Hoping it wasn't a badger, but growing desperate enough to think he might be persuaded to take on a badger (if it was a small one) Howard rushed to the anxious mother's side.

  But it was neither badger nor clump of grass that had threatened her; it was a robin who had fluttered too close over her head. Even though robins never bothered geese, Scared-by-a-Rabbit explained to Howard that you could never tell: This might be the first robin that would turn vicious and would try to steal an egg.

  "And why are you standing so close?" she demanded once she'd finished explaining. "Back away from the eggs."

  Howard backed away.

  Two days later, there was another attack at Goose Pond, but it wasn't reported by Scared-by-a-Rabbit, and this time Howard saw it all.

  It was just coincidence that he happened to have glanced upward and noticed a black dot in the sky; and while he was still wondering what it was and why it was hurtling earthward, one of the other geese honked in terror, "Falcon!"

  Moving faster than anything Howard had ever seen before, the falcon swept out of the sky and grabbed a just-hatched fledgling from the nest of a pair whose names Howard didn't know. Then, with mighty beats of it's wings, it angled upward before any of the geese could catch their breath. The parents honked in protest, bobbing their heads and hissing, but neither of them took to the air.

  They're afraid, Howard thought.

  Well, no wonder. A falcon was big. It was a meat eater, with a sharp beak and mighty talons that could puncture a poor goose's body.

  But Howard was getting mightily tired of his own goose's body.

  I will fly after that falcon, he thought, and because I am so desperate to prove myself, I will be the fastest-flying goose there is, and I will catch up to him, and peck him until he lets that little fellow go, then I will catch that gosling midair....

  But the first part of Howard's plan was I will fly after that falcon, and for some reason that didn't seem to be working.

  Howard flapped his wings; Howard thought of himself as a goose, born to fly; Howard tried to throw himself up into the air.

  Howard remained in the water.

  Something was wrong with him.

  The old witch! he thought. She wanted to keep him from doing that third good deed so that she wouldn't have to change him back into a boy.

  "Help!" he honked. "Help!"

  Some of the geese gathered around him. They could tell what was wrong with the family that had lost the gosling; they'd all seen goslings lost to predators before. But they couldn't tell what was wrong with him, so that was more interesting.

  "What's the matter, How-Word?" they asked.

  "It's not fair!" Howard slapped at the water with his wings. "The old witch has taken away my ability to fly, so I can't rescue any more of you."

  The geese looked at one another. A soft noise started, which—for one brief moment—Howard thought was a murmur of sympathy.

  It erupted into laughter. Hardly being able to keep a straight goose face, Sunset-Dances-Like-Flames-on-Her-Feathers said, "How-Word, you've molted."

  Angry with her for not being more sympathetic, after he'd helped her—after even the old witch acknowledged that he'd done a good deed by helping her—he said, "Yeah? So I've lost some feathers."

  "You've lost your flight feathers," Sunset-Dances-Like-Flames-on-Her-Feathers explained.

  "Because of the old witch?" Howard asked in horror.

  "Because of the time of year." She flapped her wings.

  Howard considered. He remembered thinking that the goose parents were too afraid to pursue the falcon, that he was braver than they were. "You mean this happens to all of you?" he asked.

  The other geese were having a
good time with this. "That How-Word," they honked. "Either he's the biggest joker in the poultry kingdom, or he's as dumb as mud."

  This was an especially stinging remark since he thought they were slow-witted.

  "What did you want to chase that falcon for, anyway?" Mighty-Beak/Bone-Crusher asked. "That wasn't your gosling."

  Howard's head drooped. "I wanted to do a good deed," he muttered at the water.

  The geese spread away from him, chuckling to themselves. "That How-Word," they honked. "He's both a joker and dumb."

  He didn't think he was either. But he was, still, a goose.

  13. Bravest Goose

  More days passed.

  Some of those days the old witch came out to visit with the geese; some days she didn't.

  What kind of caretaker was she? Howard thought peevishly. If he accomplished that third good deed, he wanted to make sure she was there to see it.

  More of the eggs began to hatch—hatching order being a source of competition among the mothers and a matter of pride for the fathers. The fuzzy little goslings took to the water obviously born knowing how to swim. And how to call Howard "How-Word."

  Then, one sticky afternoon, when it was too hot to move, Scared-by-a-Rabbit began screaming. "Thief!" she honked. "Thief! Thief! Thief!"

  Howard hadn't seen another falcon, so he wondered if it was vicious-looking grass or another robin Scared-by-a-Rabbit thought was plotting to steal her eggs. Always-First-to-Molt slowly headed back to shore, and Howard—much closer—almost stayed where he was.

  But, ever hopeful, he swam toward her. As he climbed up onto the bank, he came face-to-face with a rat—a rat with big long teeth and nimble fingers.

  "Get away! Get away!" Scared-by-a-Rabbit shrieked, bobbing her head and flapping her wings at the fierce-eyed creature.

  A threat. A real threat. Smaller than a badger, and unable to fly like a falcon.

  Even knowing the rat could bite him, Howard lunged.

  But instead of biting Howard, the rat bit the egg.

  Howard tried to peck at the rat, but—either Howard wasn't as fast as Mighty-Beak/Bone-Crusher, who never had trouble connecting his beak with the top of Howard's head, or the rat was more skillful about dodging than Howard was. The rat clung to the egg, chewing away at the shell, gnawing, crunching, and sucking away at the inside.

  Howard was able to peck the unrelenting creature once, a glancing blow. Still, it was finally enough to cause the rat to let go of the egg. But then it shifted it's attention and teeth to Howard. It leaped, landing on Howard where his beak met his face. It bit. And it kept on biting. Holding on with it's teeth, the rat dangled from Howard's face, kicking at Howard's throat with it's sharp-clawed back feet.

  Howard shook his head and flapped his wings, but the rat wouldn't come loose.

  There's a rat on my nose! Howard screamed to himself. But he was too hurt and frightened to make any more sound than a hiss. Then he remembered: He was a goose. A goose who lived by a pond. Howard ran and stuck his head under the water.

  Finally the rat let go.

  Before Howard could decide if he was angry enough to go after the rat or frightened enough to never want to see it again, the rat paddled to the edge of the bank and disappeared into the weeds.

  By then Always-First-to-Molt had made it to his mate's side.

  "See?" Scared-by-a-Rabbit honked at him. "See? Didn't I say something was going to come after our eggs?"

  Despite the throbbing in his face, Howard waddled up to them and winced at the remains of the egg, cracked wide open, with most—but not all—of the in-sides gone. "I tried to help," he said. He could feel the trickle of his own blood running down his beak. If he could only keep from fainting, surely the other geese would realize how brave he'd been.

  "Go away, How-Word," Always-First-to-Molt ordered. "We have our other eggs to protect."

  His tail drooping, Howard went to the old witch's cottage. He would have pecked at her door, but his beak was too sore for that, so he just honked until she came to investigate.

  "Ooh," she said, "what's happened to you?"

  "I fought off a rat," he told her. "Big rat." He held his stupid, flightless wings out to show how big.

  The old witch was rummaging around through little pots and containers in her kitchen, which he would have thought meant she wasn't interested, but she asked, "After eggs, was he?"

  "Yes," Howard said.

  "Did he get one?"

  Howard considered saying no, but he figured she would check with the other geese, making sure before she worked her magic on him. "Yes," he admitted.

  The old witch found what she was looking for. "Come closer," she said.

  Howard came forward, waiting to be changed back into a boy, though he wondered why, this time, she apparently needed some witchly potion.

  She put something greasy on his beak. Something greasy that smelled like a bad combination of fir trees and fish. Something greasy and smelly—and that stung.

  "Ouch!" Howard cried. "Is that supposed to turn me back into a boy?" He would be a greasy, smelly, sore boy with—he suspected by the feathers he was still losing—very little left of his clothing.

  But he didn't turn back into his former shape, and the old witch said, "No, this is a salve to help you heal and to keep your nose from scarring."

  "Well, that's very nice," Howard said, though—now that the excitement was over—he thought a little scar might make him look manly and bold. "But you mean you aren't going to turn me back into my real self?"

  "Howard," she snapped at him. "Three. Good. Deeds. Not one. Not two. Three."

  He supposed it was her way of saying that trying to save Scared-by-a-Rabbit's egg wasn't enough—even with injuries. "That's not fair!" he honked plaintively. "I tried. Trying should count."

  "But what was your intent?" the old witch asked. " Why did you try?"

  "To do a good deed!" Howard shouted at her.

  "Yes, yes. That's my point." She shooed him out of the cottage. "Go away, I need to take a nap."

  14. A Change in the Wind

  The days grew longer and warmer as spring bloomed into summer.

  Those eggs that were going to hatch, hatched.

  The goslings that came out of them grew from little balls of fuzz into geese just slightly smaller than their parents.

  The adult geese, used to Howard or mellower now that there weren't young ones to protect, grew less territorial. Not friendlier, just less territorial.

  And once in a while, with his belly full and the sun warm on his feathers, Howard would realize that a whole morning had passed, or a good part of an afternoon, without him worrying about his gooseliness—and that was the most worrisome thing of all.

  What if, he asked himself, I forget I'm a boy? What if I forget to keep looking for a chance to do something to break the spell?

  He could spend the rest of his life as a goose, and not even know anything was wrong.

  Or, worse yet, he might—by purest coincidence—do a good deed then, and then the old witch would turn him back into a boy, just when he'd forgotten how to be one.

  Scared by moments like these, Howard would get out of the water and sit on the bank, since that seemed more boylike than swimming aimlessly in the pond.

  The goslings proclaimed him Not-Fun-How-Word and Stuck-up-Worse-Than-a-Swan-How-Word and had no more interest in him than their parents did—even Can't-See-As-Well-Out-of-Her-Right-Eye-As-Her-Left's youngsters, whom he'd saved from Roscoe and Alina.

  One day one of the geese, Always-First-to-Molt, suddenly began to flap his wings. "Flight feathers are back!" he announced.

  Other geese began to flap their wings. "Flight feathers," they honked, discovering their own. "Flight feathers!"

  In a burst of joy, they took to the air, adults and younglings alike.

  Caught up in the excitement, Howard joined them, before he realized what he was doing.

  I am not a goose, he reminded himself. And he flew contrary to
everyone else to settle back down on the grassy bank.

  The old witch was in the yard, sitting on a stool, just enjoying the sunshine. "Not going to join the others?" she asked mildly. She shaded her eyes and murmured, "It's spectacular."

  "I am a boy," Howard honked at her. "Boys do not fly."

  "Your choice," the old witch said.

  But it wasn't. Not really.

  The days that had grown long now grew shorter, and sometimes the evenings were chilly. Sometimes the water was warmer than the air.

  Certain flowers no longer bloomed.

  The vegetation by the pond developed a distinctive taste—not better, not worse, just different—a taste Howard's goose sense labeled autumnal.

  The leaves on the trees faded, not the light-but-bright green of first spring, but tired pale green, fraying into yellow—then almost overnight bursting into gold and orange and red.

  And Howard was still a goose, with one more good deed to accomplish, and no idea what to do or how.

  Now the pond was as chilly as the days almost always were—days of gusting winds that pulled the leaves from the trees, and dark clouds that threatened storms, which might be rain or might be something worse.

  One afternoon, the old witch was tossing bread crumbs to the geese—which she had not been as good about doing as she'd been other years, or so the older geese had been complaining.

  Some of them nibbled at the treat, but there wasn't the usual frenzy of gotta-get-some/gotta-get-some-now. Many of the geese were unsettled. Howard felt anxious, too, though he didn't know why—just restless and jittery. Many swam in tight circles, murmuring among themselves.

  Passing by him, Can't-See-As-Well-Out-of-Her-Right-Eye-As-Her-Left asked, "Is it time?"

  "Time for what?" Howard asked.

  But she hadn't waited for an answer from him and was already headed toward some of the others. "Is it time?" she asked.

  "Is it time?" they answered back.

  Lackwit geese, Howard thought.

  The murmuring grew louder.

  Then shifted, from question to statement: "It is time. It is time."

  "Time for what?" Howard demanded.