The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly

  Sprout felt even more alone because Straggler had found a mate. For quite a while now he never went anywhere without a white duck by his side. The first day she followed the brace of ducks to the reservoir, Sprout saw Straggler playfully splashing the white duck and hopping on her back. Sprout was happy for her friend. But his former loneliness had leached onto her like an infectious disease. Straggler, in turn, changed when he found his best friend. He didn’t tag along at the end of the line of ducks, and some nights he didn’t come back to the barn. On those nights Sprout couldn’t fall asleep, nervous as she was for her friend.

  One day, as she was eating breakfast in the fields, Sprout spotted the ducks waddling single file toward the reservoir. Straggler wasn’t with them. Sprout watched them disappear around the hill and followed them, hoping to spot the mallard. She thought she would rest easy if she caught a glimpse of him. But he wasn’t at the reservoir; nor was the white duck. Did he leave? Sprout had thought they were friends. Would he leave without saying good-bye? If she’d known he was going to disappear, she would have said good-bye, even if only in her heart. I should be the one to leave. I want to leave the yard. For the first time ever, Sprout found herself missing the coop. At least she was able to lay eggs there. Life wouldn’t be so lonely and tedious if she had just behaved like every other hen. She didn’t know what to do. She turned to look at the path she’d taken. The yard suddenly seemed so far away. I don’t want to go back to the yard. It wasn’t because of the mallard that she had wanted to live in the yard, but now that he wasn’t there she didn’t feel like going back. She wanted to escape from the heat and go to sleep for a long time. Nobody likes me. She didn’t want to live under the acacia tree anymore; she looked longingly at the barn.

  She noticed a thick briar patch she’d never paid attention to growing on the skirt of the hill. It would provide good shelter against the heat. A nest didn’t have to be in the yard. Sprout was almost upon the briar patch when she heard a piercing scream. Her feathers stood on end. The fields quickly regained their calm, but something ominous scuttled past Sprout’s field of vision. Something that looked like a stubby tail blended into a thick cluster of ferns, then disappeared. The ferns rustled a bit, but that was all. Sprout couldn’t hear anything else. She stood frozen in place for quite some time, the screech ricocheting in her heart. She felt dizzy and closed her eyes; everything turned red. She opened her eyes cautiously to rid herself of the reddish glaze and looked carefully around her. Straggler! She shuddered, just like she had in the Hole of Death. Even though she knew she had to leave this place immediately, she continued toward the briar patch. Telling herself to stay alert, she put strength into her claws and opened her eyes wide to shore up her courage. It’s okay. Nobody can hurt me. On she walked, one step at a time. She was convinced it was Straggler who’d screamed. She’d never heard such terror in any animal’s voice. But she was prepared to stand her ground, even if she were to come face-to-face with the weasel. If it was her friend in trouble, there was no way she would back down. But she couldn’t see a thing. She didn’t find even a stray feather, let alone the weasel. All she saw was tall grass and thick branches. She must have imagined it. Feeling relieved, she stuck her head into the briar patch. It was a lovely spot for a nest, surrounded by a thick tumble of ferns. But something was there.

  “My goodness, what is that?” Sprout pulled her head out of the patch in confusion and blinked. She shoved her head back in. “How pretty!”

  In the middle of the patch was a white egg with a slight bluish cast to it. An egg that hadn’t yet been wrapped by feathers. It was large and handsome, but there was no sign of its mother or that it was being incubated. Sprout looked around to see if the mother was nearby. Her heart thumped wildly. Whose is it? What do I do? What do I do? Clucking, she paced. She couldn’t leave it behind. If she didn’t look after it, it might never hatch. Sprout decided to stay just until the mother returned. She entered the briar patch and lay carefully on top of the egg. It was still warm; it had just been laid. You almost got into trouble, little one. I’ll keep you warm. Don’t be scared. Instantly her fear lifted, and peace descended over the briar patch. Joy bubbled up inside her. Closing her eyes, Sprout reveled in the warm mass tucked under her breast. The inside of the briar patch was surprisingly cozy. As evening fell, it became dark more quickly than it did under an oak tree, and the sound of the breeze fell away. “I know I can’t lay eggs anymore,” Sprout said to herself. “But it’s okay. I’m sitting on an egg! My dreams are coming true. It’s only one egg, but that’s fine with me.” She wanted to believe she had rediscovered one of the many long-lost eggs she had laid in the past. But she couldn’t help staring into the darkness in case the mother returned. As the buzzing of insects died down, Sprout plucked the feathers off her chest to better feel the egg. A lump hardened in her throat. This is my egg. My baby that I can tell my stories to! Already Sprout loved the egg. Even if the mother came back, she wasn’t sure she could give it up. She concentrated solely on keeping the egg warm; she could feel the tiny heart beating inside the shell.

  Morning dawned. Everything was different from the day before. Sprout covered the egg with the feathers she’d plucked off her chest and emerged from the briar patch. She nibbled on a bit of dew-soaked grass. She couldn’t go too far while she was sitting on an egg, so she had to make do with what was nearby. The ducks were waddling along the waterway, headed to the reservoir. The leader was at the front, and the youngest duck took up the rear. Straggler was not with them. Once again Sprout wished she’d had a chance to say good-bye, but she didn’t feel as alone as before. She searched around for dry grass that would keep the egg warmer. As she headed back toward the briar patch with some blades of grass in her beak, she heard something behind her. Straggler! She was so stunned that she almost dropped everything. He looked exhausted and sad. She was glad to see him, but she stopped in her tracks so he wouldn’t catch her with her egg. He gazed quietly at Sprout’s plucked chest before sitting down. Eventually Sprout went back into the briar patch and settled over the egg. She wondered what had happened to her friend. He didn’t tell her anything, but from time to time he moved his head out from under his wing and looked at her with sad eyes. Sprout wondered why his expression was so dark. She wondered where the white duck was.

  Straggler didn’t leave until dawn. She felt for him, but she was grateful he didn’t ask her any questions about the egg. As the mist-shrouded sun came up, Straggler headed to the reservoir with the other ducks. A while later he returned, a fish hanging from his bill. He placed it in front of the patch and left again.

  A FAREWELL AND A GREETING

  Straggler brought Sprout a fish every day. Thanks to him, she was able to sit on the egg without getting hungry. Why didn’t he go back to the barn? Why was he feeding her? Why did he pace around the patch all night? She was curious about everything he did but didn’t have a chance to ask. Other than to bring her food, he didn’t come near her, and she had to sit on the egg without moving. She whispered to the egg, “Baby, Straggler climbed up the hill and is looking someplace far away. I think he’s looking beyond the reservoir.”

  On nights when the moon was particularly bright, Straggler ran around flapping his wings. This was new—he’d never done that in the yard. The first time she witnessed Straggler waddling around as fast as he could, Sprout told the egg, “Baby, Straggler’s right wing doesn’t open fully. I wonder what happened. But his left wing is bigger and more powerful than I thought. His wings don’t look like the other ducks’ wings.” On the nights Straggler ran around like that, Sprout told the egg numerous stories. Or she sang lullaby after lullaby in case the egg was startled by Straggler’s loud quacks ringing through the hills. Straggler looked like he was dancing, and Sprout couldn’t help but be concerned. His behavior was becoming more and more erratic. But she didn’t ask him about it. She didn’t want to embarrass him, especially when he was so kind to bring her food each day.

>   As the full moon started to wane, Straggler’s dancing became more frequent, and Sprout’s worries more pronounced. Sprout had been sitting on the egg since the moon was a crescent; the baby inside was almost all grown, its heartbeat strong. Soon the shell would crack, but Sprout worried the mallard would frighten the baby. A few more days passed. Straggler skipped some nights, but his odd dance continued. Sprout watched patiently.

  One night, Straggler kicked up a fuss nonstop. He didn’t sleep a wink. He ran about as though he were being chased. It was worse than ever. Sprout, kept awake by the ruckus, decided to have a talk with him. Straggler was a dear friend, but this was really too much. Sprout managed to close her eyes and rest in the morning, when the mallard went to the reservoir. A little later he brought her a fish. Sprout pried open her sleep-laden eyes and shook her head. “Please don’t do that again. I wish you wouldn’t be so noisy at night.”

  Straggler didn’t answer. He seemed very tired.

  “You’ve been so good to me,” Sprout continued. “I’m so grateful. I’ll never forget everything you’ve done for me. But as you know, I’m hatching an egg.”

  Straggler remained quiet. Sprout must have hurt his feelings. All she did was complain—when he’d saved her from the Hole of Death, when he’d stood up for her so she could stay in the barn, when he’d brought her food. Straggler gazed at the reservoir, deep in thought.

  Apologetically, Sprout said, “I’m fine now. My claws are strong and my beak is hard. I won’t go down without a fight if the weasel comes back. So you can go and do your own thing.”

  Straggler looked at her, the feathers on his neck trembling. Sprout shouldn’t have mentioned the weasel. “When the egg hatches, maybe when the dark moon . . .” he murmured. Sprout wondered why he was waiting for her egg to hatch, but he didn’t explain. Before returning to the reservoir, he said cryptically, “If I could swim just once more with . . .”

  That night went by quietly. Sprout carefully considered the waxing and waning of the moon. A crescent moon had filled out into a full moon, and now it was waning each night, soon to become a dark moon. Incubation was taking longer than she thought, but the heartbeat was still strong. Straggler brought her food as always. Sprout wanted to apologize for what she’d said earlier. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you just took it down a notch. With your wings spread wide like that, it looks like you’re dancing. Like you’re flying away, beautiful and free.” Sprout opened her wings and shook them in appeasement. But all she did was create dust. Her wings weren’t for flying; they were just for show.

  “Flying away?” Straggler asked quietly. He looked out sadly over the reservoir and murmured, “If I could fly again . . .”

  “Your wings look different from the other ducks’. Although your right wing is a little strange.”

  “Right, I bet I look silly. My right wing . . .” Straggler was quiet for a long time, watching Sprout peck eagerly at the loach he’d brought. After her meal, Sprout dug at the ground for exercise and bathed herself with dirt. Her itchy body felt much better. “It’s almost time for the egg to hatch, right?” Straggler asked gently.

  “It must be overdue. It should have hatched already.” Sprout enjoyed sitting across from him and chatting.

  “Um, so, later, when the egg hatches—you’re a hen—” Straggler stammered, nervously tapping the ground with his bill during the pauses.

  Sprout was a little exasperated. “You know, I have a name,” she confided. “I gave it to myself.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard it.”

  “Because nobody knows it. Will you call me Sprout?”

  “Sprout? Like grass and leaves?”

  “Right. There’s nothing better than a sprout. It stands for doing good.”

  Straggler pondered Sprout’s words. From time to time he used his bill to rub the oil from his tail into his feathers.

  “A sprout is the mother of flowers,” Sprout explained. “It breathes, stands firm against rain and wind, keeps the sunlight, and rears blindingly white flowers. If it weren’t for sprouts, there’d be no trees. A sprout is vital.”

  “Sprout . . . that’s a perfect name for you,” Straggler agreed. Sprout was pleased. She knew she should try to understand his nocturnal commotion instead of resenting it. Straggler turned serious. “Even without a name like that, you’re a really great hen. I wanted to tell you that.”

  Sprout felt guilty. She was flustered, wondering what Straggler would think if he knew the truth. He would be shocked and appalled. Unable to look him in the eye, Sprout returned to her nest and settled over the egg. She couldn’t do anything about it now. She wasn’t going to tell anyone, not even her dear friend. It’s my baby! I’m sitting on it, and I’m going to raise it. Surely that makes it my baby. She changed the subject abruptly. “What happened to your right wing? And where’s the white duck?”

  Straggler raised his head. His gentle demeanor changed in a flash. “Don’t you dare mention it!”

  Sprout was taken aback. She didn’t know what she was forbidden to mention. Straggler’s neck feathers were bristling, the way they did when he spotted the weasel. He tensed and looked around quickly as though he had forgotten something important. Sprout hadn’t meant to make him angry. “I thought you left the barn with her,” she said gently. “I know the others don’t like you. Even though you lived there you were always a loner. Oh, I mean, what I mean is . . .”

  Straggler said nothing.

  Sprout tried again. “The white duck is your mate, right? I’m your friend, but I—”

  “I told you to stop it!” snapped Straggler, cutting Sprout off. He sprang up and stalked away, fuming, waddling even more than usual. Sprout didn’t understand why he was so angry. He soon returned, still fuming. He lowered his voice and said stiffly, “The moon’s grown slimmer. That means the egg will hatch soon.”

  “Right, it’s past time.”

  “Sprout, you’re an intelligent hen, so you’ll know what to do. I just want to tell you a few things. When the egg hatches, leave this place. And go to the reservoir, not the yard, okay? Don’t forget that when the moon is waning, the weasel’s stomach is empty.” Straggler spoke as though he were going to leave. Was he angry at her? And he was telling her so many things at once. Things she didn’t quite understand.

  “What do you mean the weasel’s stomach is empty?” Sprout asked.

  “It should be okay. But I’m telling you just in case. Don’t go to the yard, go to the reservoir.”

  “Why?”

  Straggler didn’t respond. He paced, glancing around, then climbed the hill and looked far off into the distance. Sprout was tense, uneasy at the mention of the weasel. After coming across the wild briar patch, she had put the weasel out of her mind. She hadn’t seen his glinting eyes once while sitting on the egg. If the weasel had found her, she would have been in grave danger, and her baby would have been harmed. It was an awful thought.

  Night fell. Sprout couldn’t shake the thought of the weasel. Her heart sank each time the night breeze blew through the grass or the moonlit leaves rustled. Straggler was right outside the briar patch with his head tucked under his wing. That made her feel ill at ease. She would be less frightened if he performed his odd little dance.

  A thought suddenly occurred to her. Did Straggler create a fuss at night because of the weasel? To scare him away? Sprout was now completely alert, frightened to the bone. Why would he protect her, going to such lengths for just a friend? I’m not even a fellow duck. . . . She looked up at the sky. The stars were hazy and the moon was faint, a sign of rain. Suddenly she thought of the Hole of Death.

  It had rained that day, too.

  Unable to push away her fear, Sprout stood up. She was going to face the weasel bravely. She planned to raise her claws and peck him mercilessly while flapping her wings. She would holler and put up a fight. She peered into the darkness. The wea
sel might already be there on the other side of the darkness, that hunter with his slitted eyes glaring in this direction, licking his chops, his stomach empty.

  “Wake up, Straggler!” Sprout shouted.

  Straggler raised his head in surprise. “Did it hatch?”

  “No, but it might as day breaks. Judging by how long it’s taking, he might be a full-grown rooster!” Sprout laughed out loud on purpose, but she was still afraid. “I’m getting really worried. What if the weasel comes?”

  But Straggler didn’t seem to share Sprout’s anxiety. “Good!” he exclaimed. “As soon as day breaks. This is great!” He shook his feathers to wake himself and looked around cautiously.

  Sprout decided to come clean. She felt bad about lying to her friend, who’d looked after her from the beginning. “Straggler, I have something to tell you. I had a wish. I wanted to hatch an egg and see the birth of a chick. That was an impossible dream in the coop. I didn’t want to lay any eggs anymore—I thought I would never be able to—”

  Straggler interrupted her. “Sprout, you’re a wonderful mother hen.”

  “I’m not fishing for compliments.”