It was three o'clock in the morning when the storm hit the farmyard, Nobody had expected a storm this severe, not in July. But even if old man Tyler had known it was coming, he would probably not have thought to move all of the animals into the strong brick barn,
Doubtless his last thought would have been for the three ducks that lived on the farmhouse pond. He'd never truly liked the ducks, but Mrs. Tyler liked the occasional duck egg, and so he'd bought two ducks and a drake last year, and had moved them in to the old
duck house that his grandfather had made over a hundred years ago.
But tonight would be it's last night, for as the storm whipped around the farmyard, a strong gust of wind hit the side of the duck house, and flipped it over and over until it lay smashed against a wall, its door hanging open at a crazy angle, and feathers swirling up into the night sky.
Tyler stirred in his bed as he heard the crash, but thought that it was a stack of apple crates that had fallen over.. He decided to re-stack them in the barn the next day, and went back to sleep.
Meanwhile, in what was left of the duck house, there was panic and pandemonium. a slow trickle of blood had started dripping from the lower side of the smashed building, at a place that used to be a side wall.
In it's cartwheel across the farmhouse, one of the ducks had been killed, her crimson blood now dripping slowly from her beak, and running down her white breast, staining the feathers a deep pink as the blood ran to the ground.
The other duck was so panicked by the smell of the blood and the storm, that she exploded from the door of the duck house, in a flurry of feathers and straw and took off into the night sky. The wind carried her higher and further than she had ever flown before, and in a moment she was no more than a tiny white speck in the night sky. Another moment, and she was gone.
The drake, also alarmed by the whole incident, flew out of the doorway, quacking loudly against the storm, and for his loss, until all of the other animals on the farm started to wake up and tried to understand what had happened.
When he realized that it was pointless calling for the lost duck, and that he had to find some kind of shelter, the drake went to the barn to find a dry place to stay. Molly, the carthorse stood in the middle of the barn, slowly chewing a mouthful of hay, when he walked in.
She turned to the Drake and asked him what had happened.
In wild and excited quacking, the drake informed her, that his house had been destroyed, and that both of the ducks were now gone, one dead, and one lost to the night. She bent her head down to his, and blew a comforting horse breath towards the young drake.
"What is your name young drake?...What do they call you?"
"I have no real name," the drake replied, I always hoped that the farmer would call me Charles, but he doesn't seem to understand me."
"Then I shall call you Charles," said Molly, as she blew him another comforting breath.
"you may stay with me, here, in the barn. but I have a few rules that you'll have to follow."
"Rules?" Said Charles.
"Well, I think it's simply awful how you talk," Molly said with a slow horse like rumble, "you simply have to learn to nicker and neigh.. I have been doing it for years, and all of the other animals love me, people simply cannot stand the cacophony that you ducks make in the morning."
Charles jumped back, surprised "me? talk.. like you... you mean not like a duck?"
Molly nodded her head in a slow carthorse nod, and drawled a slow "yes" and then went on to explain, that there should be no flapping, (as she found that somehow slightly frightening, although she wouldn't explain why) no quacking, no preening, and no coming back to the barn wet. (Although she was willing to make an exception on this night).
Charles, dejected, asked "But why, if I am a duck should I be like you?"
With surprising annoyance, Molly retorted "Because I have lived here for 10 years, and doing what I do has worked for me. That's why."
Charles resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't make any progress with Molly, said his goodbyes, and wandered back across the yard in the cold to the small hen house, to talk to the rooster. At least, thought Charles, the rooster knows what it's like to be a bird.
The rooster was far more accommodating, and woke his hens to tell them the news.. They fussed around him and dried him off with their wings, clucking assurances of sympathy.
The rooster, Chanticleer, (although most of the animals called him Colonel C.) waited until Charles was dry, and seated on the edge of one of the nests, before he began.
"You'll be up and out at 4:00 sharp with me for the morning crow, then we'll be collecting grain with the ladies, and keeping lookout for the cat. There is going to be no point in sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself with me young lad."
"Crowing....?" said Charles, his voice trailing off in disbelief.
"Yes, well, I don't expect you to completely master the thing on the first day, but as we are making you welcome here, you'll be taking crowing lessons from me and then we'll be assisting the ladies with their wing stretches and dust baths, and keeping a sharp lookout for the cat."
For emphasis, he ended his reply with a short crow, which made the hens around him sigh with admiration and respect for the old bird.
"Bbb but I'm a duck" pleaded Charles, I just need somewhere to sleep, and then I thought I would head to the pond for some wading and paddling in the mud. The cat doesn't bother me there, and I'll be no trouble here I promise."
Annoyed, the rooster clucked "But you have to pay your way here sonny my lad, we have some compassion for your immediate situation, but it's our way around here, not yours. You'll be crowing at 4:00 and that's final"
Charles realized for the second time that night, that nobody could truly understand his situation, and that charity and compassion came at a price too high for him to pay, for he was a mere duck, not horse nor rooster, and whilst by comparison with both animals, it had been shorter, it was what he had known all of his life.
Certainly he was willing to repay the kindness bestowed upon him by the other animals, yet none was willing to see him as he was.. To recognize that he was just "him" and that using the storm as the chance to change him, was unfair, and would only make him far more miserable than he was already.Doubtless his last thought would have been for the three ducks that lived on the farmhouse pond. He'd never truly liked the ducks, but Mrs. Tyler liked the occasional duck egg, and so he'd bought two ducks and a drake last year, and had moved them in to the old
duck house that his grandfather had made over a hundred years ago.
But tonight would be it's last night, for as the storm whipped around the farmyard, a strong gust of wind hit the side of the duck house, and flipped it over and over until it lay smashed against a wall, its door hanging open at a crazy angle, and feathers swirling up into the night sky.
Tyler stirred in his bed as he heard the crash, but thought that it was a stack of apple crates that had fallen over.. He decided to re-stack them in the barn the next day, and went back to sleep.
Meanwhile, in what was left of the duck house, there was panic and pandemonium. a slow trickle of blood had started dripping from the lower side of the smashed building, at a place that used to be a side wall.
In it's cartwheel across the farmhouse, one of the ducks had been killed, her crimson blood now dripping slowly from her beak, and running down her white breast, staining the feathers a deep pink as the blood ran to the ground.
The other duck was so panicked by the smell of the blood and the storm, that she exploded from the door of the duck house, in a flurry of feathers and straw and took off into the night sky. The wind carried her higher and further than she had ever flown before, and in a moment she was no more than a tiny white speck in the night sky. Another moment, and she was gone.
The drake, also alarmed by the whole incident, flew out of the doorway, quacking loudly against the storm, and for his loss, until all of the other animals on the farm started to wake up and tried to understand what had happened.
When he realized that it was pointless calling for the lost duck, and that he had to find some kind of shelter, the drake went to the barn to find a dry place to stay. Molly, the carthorse stood in the middle of the barn, slowly chewing a mouthful of hay, when he walked in.
She turned to the Drake and asked him what had happened.
In wild and excited quacking, the drake informed her, that his house had been destroyed, and that both of the ducks were now gone, one dead, and one lost to the night. She bent her head down to his, and blew a comforting horse breath towards the young drake.
"What is your name young drake?...What do they call you?"
"I have no real name," the drake replied, I always hoped that the farmer would call me Charles, but he doesn't seem to understand me."
"Then I shall call you Charles," said Molly, as she blew him another comforting breath.
"you may stay with me, here, in the barn. but I have a few rules that you'll have to follow."
"Rules?" Said Charles.
"Well, I think it's simply awful how you talk," Molly said with a slow horse like rumble, "you simply have to learn to nicker and neigh.. I have been doing it for years, and all of the other animals love me, people simply cannot stand the cacophony that you ducks make in the morning."
Charles jumped back, surprised "me? talk.. like you... you mean not like a duck?"
Molly nodded her head in a slow carthorse nod, and drawled a slow "yes" and then went on to explain, that there should be no flapping, (as she found that somehow slightly frightening, although she wouldn't explain why) no quacking, no preening, and no coming back to the barn wet. (Although she was willing to make an exception on this night).
Charles, dejected, asked "But why, if I am a duck should I be like you?"
With surprising annoyance, Molly retorted "Because I have lived here for 10 years, and doing what I do has worked for me. That's why."
Charles resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't make any progress with Molly, said his goodbyes, and wandered back across the yard in the cold to the small hen house, to talk to the rooster. At least, thought Charles, the rooster knows what it's like to be a bird.
The rooster was far more accommodating, and woke his hens to tell them the news.. They fussed around him and dried him off with their wings, clucking assurances of sympathy.
The rooster, Chanticleer, (although most of the animals called him Colonel C.) waited until Charles was dry, and seated on the edge of one of the nests, before he began.
"You'll be up and out at 4:00 sharp with me for the morning crow, then we'll be collecting grain with the ladies, and keeping lookout for the cat. There is going to be no point in sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself with me young lad."
"Crowing....?" said Charles, his voice trailing off in disbelief.
"Yes, well, I don't expect you to completely master the thing on the first day, but as we are making you welcome here, you'll be taking crowing lessons from me and then we'll be assisting the ladies with their wing stretches and dust baths, and keeping a sharp lookout for the cat."
For emphasis, he ended his reply with a short crow, which made the hens around him sigh with admiration and respect for the old bird.
"Bbb but I'm a duck" pleaded Charles, I just need somewhere to sleep, and then I thought I would head to the pond for some wading and paddling in the mud. The cat doesn't bother me there, and I'll be no trouble here I promise."
Annoyed, the rooster clucked "But you have to pay your way here sonny my lad, we have some compassion for your immediate situation, but it's our way around here, not yours. You'll be crowing at 4:00 and that's final"
Charles realized for the second time that night, that nobody could truly understand his situation, and that charity and compassion came at a price too high for him to pay, for he was a mere duck, not horse nor rooster, and whilst by comparison with both animals, it had been shorter, it was what he had known all of his life.
Truly at this point he was far more devastated and miserable than any of them had fully understood. None had seemed too interested in even trying to understand. Nobody seemed to understand genuine empathy.. Not even a fellow bird.
So once more, Charles said his farewells, after thanking the hens for thier kind words, and headed out into the cold wet night.
There was one animal that visited the farmhouse who had always been polite.. Had often told Charles that he would be welcome at any time, and had sat and talked to him from the edge of the pond, and had admired his plumage, and had always said that he wished he could swim as well as Charles did.
Charles often felt a little uncomfortable by the attention.. Something in his gaze, and in the intonation of his words had seemed a little too intense, a little too sharp.. But as he walked towards the sprawling patch of brambles at the back of the farmhouse, Charles attributed that attentiveness to sincerity, to a genuine desire to help, to become his freind.
In fact, he thought, as he wandered into the brambles, I should have come here first.. At least he will accept me as I am, unconditionally, and will understand the pain I am in.
A step or two later and he noticed a white feather on the ground in front of him. It was colored with a deep pink, as if ..... He realized that it had come from the duck who he thought had died...
His heart skipped for joy in his chest, he realized that she must have simply been wounded, and had decided to come here for shelter. He quacked again and again at his relief and then quacked a happy greeting to his old freind, and marched happily into the foxhole.
