The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly (6 page)

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.

 

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.

“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.

A
s 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.