by Sun-mi Hwang
“Mom, get up!”
Sprout felt a breeze overhead. She blinked. Greentop was hovering in the air, flapping his wings. He was struggling to stay aloft, but he was definitely flying. “My goodness! What happened to your wings?”
“Isn’t it amazing? I just needed to get away, and then I floated up. I can fly!” Greentop shouted with elation. Sprout couldn’t speak. She just smiled. It was a miracle, the third she’d witnessed since leaving the coop and hatching Baby. This was the cherry on top! “Mom, let me see. Are you in pain?” Greentop spread his wings and embraced her. Sprout’s throat closed up in gratitude. She set her beak firmly to hold back her tears, but that day it was impossible.
As summer waned, a dry wind began to blow. The sun’s strong rays streamed from above, and the reed flowers began to wilt. This was a lonely time for Sprout. Greentop, caught up in the joys of flying, spent entire days at the reservoir. Sprout would walk along the reed fields or go up the slope to watch him swim and fly. The weasel didn’t show himself. Perhaps he was back to peering into the chicken coops for chicks or hunting chickens on the brink of expiration in the Hole of Death, as he should have done all along. It was silly to salivate over Greentop. How could he think snatching a flying wild duck from the sky would be as easy as nabbing a fledgling in the yard?
Greentop loved flying. Not only did he stop worrying about the weasel, but he could also go from one end of the reservoir to the other in an instant. And he could coast above the reed fields to pick out a good sleeping place. His world expanded, from the ground and water to the sky. While Sprout envied Greentop, she missed him. He was her baby, but he was also a wild duck. We chickens gave up on our wings. How is it that we are proud only of the fact that we are members of the comb? Combs are useless against hunters.
Greentop was lonely like his mother. His mother was a hen, and yet he couldn’t cluck. The barnyard ducks looked down on him. They refused to come near him or even acknowledge him. At the very least Sprout and Greentop’s nights were nice—two lonely beings away from their kind, falling asleep pressed together. Sprout ate the fish Greentop brought every night and thought about the mallard, especially when her baby’s sleek feathers glistened in the moonlight.
“Baby,” she said one night, “even when you’re sleeping, always keep your ears open. The hunter comes under cover of night. He will come at some point. He never gives up.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m worried about you, Mom. You can’t fly or swim.”
“I’m fine. He isn’t interested in me. I’m so lean he sees nothing appetizing about me,” Sprout joked, touched that Greentop was concerned about her.
Greentop was silent for a moment. “Mom, I’ve been thinking,” he said with difficulty. He was quiet again for a while. Sprout grew nervous. “How about we go back to the barn? I don’t like being by myself all the time.”
Sprout’s heart sank. This was the first time he’d said something like that. He must have been wrestling with these feelings for a long time. “Back to the barn?”
“I’m a duck anyway. All I can do is quack.”
“So what? Even though we look different, we cherish each other. I love you so much.” Sprout parroted what the mallard had told her a long time ago. She’d understood the mallard, so she hoped Greentop would understand her.
But Greentop shook his head. “I don’t know, Mom. What if the ducks never accept me? I want to be one of them.” He started to weep.
Sprout didn’t know what to do. She rubbed his back. “Baby, we’ve been fine so far. You’re so smart, you learned how to swim and fly all on your own. . . .” Sprout knew her words didn’t help. Maybe she’d overreacted to the farmer’s conversation with his wife. If his wings had been clipped, Greentop would have been one of the ducks. Perhaps she should have sent him along with the other ducks when the leader asked her to give him up.
“I know you love me. But we’re still not the same kind,” Greentop said.
“Right, we look different. But I’m so happy to have you. No matter what anyone says, you’re still my baby,” Sprout said, feeling sad.
Greentop moved away. “Mom, we need to go back. I’m going to join the brace.”
“Then I’ll be headed to the chicken coop. . . .” Sprout’s heart sank. She didn’t have the heart to scold him. Long ago, when Greentop fearlessly skipped across the lily pads and swam, Sprout realized he wasn’t her kind. “Baby, I was a hen who had to lay eggs in a coop,” she said gently, trying to dissuade him. “I’ve never been able to hatch my own egg, even though all I wanted to do was to sit on an egg and see the birth of a chick. When I couldn’t lay any more eggs, I was taken out of the coop. I was fated to die. But when I met you, I finally became a mother.” Greentop buried his head under his wing and didn’t move. The soft moonlight glimmered on the water. “Baby, we don’t have any reason to return to the barn. I’m not wanted there, and you’re much better than any of those animals.” Sprout stroked Greentop’s back. Greentop didn’t open his eyes or raise his head, although he heard everything she said. He had grown too big for her to embrace, even if she spread out her wings. Her baby had grown up too fast.
Sprout was restless all night. She didn’t know what to do. She was useless now, even as a protector, since the weasel didn’t come looking for them anymore. And even if he did, Greentop was strong enough to flee on his own. At dawn, when Greentop left for the reservoir, she didn’t raise her head. She was afraid he would insist on joining the brace of ducks. From the slope she watched him sidling up to them. They were cold to him. They yelled at him. The leader even attacked him. But Greentop kept hanging around. As the sun set, the ducks returned to the yard. Greentop trailed them. It was like watching the lonely mallard all over again.
“Baby, come back!” Sprout called. But nobody looked her way. “You’ll be lonely in the yard. You’re so special! The yard animals won’t accept you.” She followed him from a distance.
TRAVELERS FROM ANOTHER WORLD
Sprout settled in the hills where she could see the yard. Nothing had changed—the faint light that seeped out of the chicken coop where the hens clucked loudly, the wheelbarrow of feed, the animals in the barn. Actually, there was one new thing: a cockerel. He was the one young chicken who had managed to avoid the weasel. Sprout couldn’t see what was going on inside the barn, but she could guess. The ducks would be arguing about Greentop. Since the leader of the ducks didn’t seem too thrilled to welcome him into the brace, Greentop might be chased away. Sprout thought that might be for the best. She wanted to take him back to the reservoir. Even if he was alone, at least he wouldn’t be humiliated, and he would be able to fly freely.
The night passed. Greentop wasn’t kicked out. The brace of ducks stuck their heads in the trough to eat, and Greentop ate from a smaller bucket. The farmer’s wife had arranged that for him. It was clear she wanted him there. Anyone would, with his glistening feathers and beautiful form. If she wanted him, the rooster and the leader of the ducks would be forced to let him live in the barn. The ducks went off for a walk, with the leader at the head and the young ones trailing behind. When Greentop went to follow the young ducks, the farmer’s wife grabbed him. He quacked in fright and flapped his wings. Sprout sprang to her feet. The ducks ignored the ruckus and continued on toward the reservoir. The farmer’s wife tied Greentop to one of the wooden stilts elevating the chicken coop. He tried to escape but couldn’t. He burst into tears, as did Sprout. No matter how hard he flapped his wings, he couldn’t free himself from the cord. Sprout should have told him why they’d left the yard in the first place. Then he wouldn’t have gone back. She couldn’t sit still. Struggling to free himself, Greentop refused all food. The rooster family strolled into the garden, and the dog snoozed. In the evening the ducks returned, and everyone went into the barn to sleep.
Sprout hung around the perimeter of the yard. She wanted to go up to Greentop and stroke his back.
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br /> “Still alive? You’re a tenacious one,” the dog growled through his bared teeth.
Sprout glared at him fiercely. “You think I survived out of luck? I’ve experienced it all. You better not bother me.”
“Ha! So confident. Well, you did raise a duckling. But don’t even think about coming into the yard. I’m a strict gatekeeper, so I have the habit of biting first.” He sauntered back into his house.
From under the acacia tree, Sprout called to Greentop, “Baby, Mom’s here. Don’t cry. We’ll figure something out.”
“Mom, don’t leave me here! My leg, it hurts!”
Her nerves on edge, Sprout paced around. The farmer and his wife hadn’t tied up Straggler. So why Baby? Still pacing, she approached the Hole of Death without realizing it.
Sprout sensed something insidious. In the darkness, something glared at her. The weasel. But he had only one glinting eye. Sprout puffed out her neck feathers and tensed her claws. Her blood boiling, she was ready to go on the offensive. The weasel had a dying chicken between his jaws. Sprout could detect the twitching of a wing. The weasel approached her slowly, and she didn’t retreat. He wouldn’t get her while he had dinner in his jaws. He set the chicken down but didn’t crouch to attack. Sprout puffed out her chest and glared at him.
“A delectable duck,” the weasel sneered. “I’ll get him before long!” He laughed menacingly.
“You’ll never get him!”
“No? Even though he’s tied to that stilt? Soon he’ll be so fat he won’t be able to fly. That’s how they get tame.” Again the weasel laughed. Sprout suddenly understood. Straggler wasn’t tied down because his wing was damaged; he couldn’t fly away. “And you!” the weasel hissed. “You blinded me in one eye! I’ll get you back. Both of you, soon enough.”
Sprout was astonished. That piece of flesh in her mouth had been the weasel’s eye! “I’d rather drown in the reservoir than let you devour me,” she shot back.
“Don’t do that. I don’t like eating dead chickens. Stay alive and just watch what I do to your baby!” The weasel laughed yet again. He grabbed his chicken and disappeared into the darkness. Sprout stared after him. She had goose bumps and was trembling. The weasel had put a curse on her. She shook her head to clear it and left the Hole of Death. She couldn’t forget his words. Would he come into the yard, even with the gatekeeper there? The dog would go crazy, and so would the other animals. He’s going to attack my baby. But Greentop was tied up; the weasel couldn’t possibly snatch him away. He’ll bide his time until Greentop is too plump to fly, and wait for the farmer’s wife to untie the knot.
The next day the weasel sauntered into view and went directly to the Hole of Death. But he returned empty-jawed. He crept toward the yard where the cockerel was digging in the compost pile. The weasel knew Sprout was watching from the hill. Tauntingly he turned toward her. Sprout was frozen in place. She wanted to yell and warn the cockerel, but nothing came out. The dog didn’t sense anything; his nose and ears must have become dulled with age. Sprout was sure the weasel was trying to intimidate her. Suddenly Greentop started to holler. With his good hearing he had sensed danger before anyone else. Everything happened all at once. The dog barked in the same instant the weasel shot forward like an arrow and the cockerel shrieked. Barking furiously, the dog chased the dark shadow, and the animals scurried out of the barn. The farmer and his wife came out last. The cockerel was nowhere to be found. The rooster couple clucked and clucked, looking everywhere for their baby. Quacking with alarm, the ducks joined the chorus.
“That damn weasel!” said the farmer. His wife, who was trying to herd the ducks back into the barn, answered, “We need a bulldog—that dog’s too old. Otherwise the native chicken seed will dry up.”
“The weasel came because you tied up that duck!” snapped the farmer. “It’s like inviting him to a dinner party. Go tie it up in the barn!”
Sprout paced nervously as she watched the farmer’s wife untie the cord then drag Greentop, quacking and squirming, into the barn by his foot. Sprout couldn’t keep an eye on him if he was tied up inside. She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. “Let go of my baby!” Sprout clucked as she barreled toward her. The farmer’s wife was astonished at the sight of a hen flapping at her. Like a fighting cock’s, Sprout’s feathers stood on end as she pecked at the farmer’s wife.
“Ow! Ow! This damn chicken’s going to kill me!” the farmer’s wife hollered. All the ducks came out of the barn, quacking. Another huge ruckus ensued. In trying to shoo away Sprout, the farmer’s wife lost her grip on Greentop.
“Baby! Fly away!” Sprout shouted, and Greentop lifted off powerfully. With the cord still dangling from his leg, he disappeared behind the hill. The other ducks stared in awe. Sprout ran off, just cheating death as the farmer’s wife swung a broom at her. The path to the reservoir was long and dark. But Sprout had nothing to fear. In fact she was so delighted she couldn’t help humming. The poor cockerel had filled the weasel’s belly, and Greentop would no longer want to stay in the yard. He’d learned a valuable lesson. Just because you’re the same kind doesn’t mean you’re all one happy family. The important thing is to understand each other. That’s love! Sprout ran on, elated, bursting into song.
Sprout was thinner than ever. She ate only to stave off hunger and spent all her time running around looking for Greentop, so she’d gotten as small as a reed warbler. After escaping the yard, Greentop chose to nest alone. He didn’t come back to Sprout, not even at night; he stayed at the reservoir. Sprout was able to see him from afar, but she didn’t know where he was sleeping. She missed falling asleep nestled against him and talking to him. But there was nothing she could do about the situation—she knew it was hard for him to accept that they were not the same kind. But Sprout wanted to help him get rid of the cord tied to his foot. It trailed him wherever he went, and he looked downcast, as though it was sorrow that trailed him. Greentop didn’t want Sprout near him, but Sprout made her bed where she could see him. Although the weasel lurked now and then, Greentop had excellent hearing, as did Sprout, so they always knew when he was near.
Autumn passed slowly. In the reed fields Sprout began to spot dragonflies who had laid eggs on the water plants in what would be their final flight. After they landed, their wings stiffened, and their many eyes gazed up at the blue sky. Their eyes still moved, but they didn’t harbor fear when Sprout approached to eat them. She didn’t particularly enjoy eating these large-eyed, slender dragonflies, so she helped herself only when famished. The sun began to set earlier, causing the ducks to return from the reservoir sooner, leaving only the sound of the wind and the dry rustling of grass to echo in the reed fields. Greentop swam until late, then dragged his long cord into the reed fields. Sprout slowly followed him as the cold autumn night settled in.
One early morning the wind blew mightily, shaking the reed fields. Something was in the air. Sprout trembled as the wind cut into her feathers. She became worried about Greentop, who was within shouting distance. “Baby, are you okay?”
Greentop was looking around nervously, his neck outstretched. He suddenly shouted, “Mom, be careful!” and flew into the air. Sprout tensed up. Greentop signaled that the weasel was near, then circled the reed fields making a ruckus. “There are three—wait, there’s another! Why are there so many?”
Sprout panicked. One was enough to deal with, but now there were four! She cautiously emerged from the reed fields. Out of nowhere the one-eyed weasel appeared. He snorted at her. Sprout glared back.
“You’re not what we’re looking for—unless there’s nothing else to eat in the fields,” the weasel said with a mischievous smile. He turned around.
Sprout snapped back: “Only an excellent hunter can catch him. For a one-eyed hunter like you, it’s got to be hard enough just to keep him in view. You came with three others, but look, he’s up in the air! Or maybe you haven’t spotted him yet because you’re
missing an eye?”
Annoyed, the weasel crouched and bared his teeth. But he didn’t attack. “It’s hunting season. Finally! We’ve been waiting for this!” And off he ran.
Sprout looked around. It was overcast. Each time a gust of wind blew, the reeds collapsed and then wearily staggered up. The rough wind that felled the reeds left a large footprint. Something extraordinary was about to occur. Greentop called to Sprout, and Sprout called back. Having completed a loop around the reservoir, he landed next to her. For the first time in a long while, they stood side by side and looked down at the reservoir together.
“Mom, it’s strange. I’ve never felt like this before. Something is about to happen.”
“Hunters?”
“No, not that.”
“Is it something more frightening?”
“Mom, this is different. It’s covering the entire sky. Can’t you feel it?”
“Baby, what are you talking about?” Sprout couldn’t tell what Greentop was seeing through his squinted eyes or what he was hearing.
“Wow, that sound! Mom, it’s amazing. So many of them are flocking this way!”
She couldn’t tell what was about to happen, but she knew it was going to be entirely new. As she waited, she started to feel it. The noise reverberated between the sky and the mountains far away. It gradually expanded, getting louder. And finally black spots appeared.
They were birds, countless birds that soon covered the sky. The entire world filled with birds, and Sprout couldn’t hear anything else. The birds circled the reservoir and started landing on the water. Sprout and Greentop gaped at the travelers from another world.
