“You go first. Then I’ll leave, too,” Sprout promised.
The weasel finally left. Sprout took another look at the babies trembling in cold and in hunger. She felt pity for a fellow mother. A mother who ran through the dark fields; a mother who had to return quickly to her still-blind babies, who couldn’t survive if she wasn’t as swift as the wind; a mother who was a bone-weary, one-eyed hunter.
ALOFT LIKE A FEATHER
Green shoots sprouted from every place touched by sunlight. Yellow flowers bloomed on the cornelian cherry trees in the back hills. Spring had come. Sprout paced the rim of the reservoir every day. But Greentop never swam over to her. She understood that the lookout couldn’t leave the pack, but she had a hard time suppressing her disappointment. It had been ages since they last spoke.
The pleasant weather took a sudden turn for the worse. The wind was cold, the sky overcast, threatening snow. Sprout didn’t feel well. She was gray and gloomy, just like the weather. Exhausted after having walked along the reservoir all day, she returned to the slope. These days she returned to the cave on the slope every night so she could watch Greentop. She wanted to slow down in her old age. She knew the weasel was around, but she didn’t have the energy to flee. Sprout started to empathize with the weasel. She knew how difficult it was to go through winter with someone to care for. Sprout crouched at the end of the slope and faced down the cold winds. Sometimes a feather would loosen and blow away. The fierce wind gouged her flesh, but she didn’t feel like going inside. Overcome with lethargy, she squinted down at the reservoir. She didn’t think she’d make it down there the next day.
In the afternoon the brace of mallards became more active. When they surrounded the leaders and quacked loudly that day, they sounded more excited and louder than on any other day. Sprout didn’t know they were preparing to leave for the winterlands up north. The wind blew harder. It cut loose from the back hills and roamed widely, raking the dry fields. Leaves flew about and reeds rustled. The mallards flapped their wings as the hungry weasel circled them, looking for an opportunity. The leader of the mallards took off powerfully into the air. The others flew behind him one by one, in rows. Sprout looked up at them as they circled the reservoir and the back hills. One broke away and flew down toward the slope. Sprout got to her feet. “Greentop, my baby!”
Sprout spread her wings to greet him, but instead of landing he circled briefly around her. Brushing her with his wings, he called, “Mom!” as if to say good-bye. The wind carried his voice into the fields. Sprout stood dumbly in the draft he’d created. She realized this was farewell. He’s leaving! She’d always known this day would come. But she hadn’t had enough time to talk to him or give him a proper good-bye. Greentop took off again and flapped powerfully to catch up to the other ducks, who were far away by now. Sprout released all the many things she had kept in her heart, waiting for the right moment to share with him. But they failed to become a single word; instead she could let out only sobs. My baby is leaving me!
The flock of mallards blanketed the sky and gradually disappeared beyond the mountains in the distance, their sound becoming faint. It was as though some unknowable world on the other side of the sky was drawing them in. Suddenly everything was too quiet. Sprout couldn’t breathe. It hurt every time she tried, as though her heart were being dislodged. She desperately wanted to go with her baby. She wanted to fly alongside the mallards. She feared being left alone; she hated what was happening.
At some point the weasel had approached. But the hunter didn’t frighten her as much as the prospect of being alone. Sprout closed her eyes. She’d had a single wish, to sit on an egg and see the birth of a baby. Her wish had come true. She’d had a hard life, but she’d been happy. That was what had sustained her. Now I want to fly away! I want to go far away like Greentop! She flapped her wings. Why hadn’t she practiced, when even young Greentop started clumsily on his own? She’d never realized that she’d harbored another wish. It was more than a wish; it was something she physically longed for. Sprout stared into the empty sky, feeling terribly lonely. The weasel’s eye was boring into her. But Sprout kept squinting and squinting, trying to look to the end of the sky. Snow began to fall. As she watched snowflakes drifting in the wind, a smile spread across her face. The acacia flowers are falling! To Sprout, the snow looked just like acacia petals. Wanting to feel the falling petals with her entire being, she spread her wings wide. She wanted to smell them. She felt wonderful. She wasn’t cold or lonely anymore.
Then, a snarl, and everything disappeared—the petals of the acacia flowers, the scent, the gentle breeze. In front of Sprout was a starving weasel. “It’s you,” Sprout said, looking into the weasel’s sunken eye. She thought about those soft babies and their delicate flesh. They were like the last egg she laid, the one with a soft shell that had shattered in the yard. Sprout remembered how her heart had broken, how sad she’d felt. Her body was stiff now. No longer could she run away. She no longer had reason to, nor did she have the energy. “Go on, eat me,” she urged. “Fill your babies’ bellies.” She closed her eyes.
Sprout was suffocating. She had imagined it would hurt, but now all she felt was bone-deep relief. You got me, finally. Everything turned black. She’d experienced this once before in the fields. When she’d heard the white duck scream. Everything had turned black, and then, very gradually, as now, she’d sensed a reddish hue. Then everything slowly became brighter.
Sprout opened her eyes. The sky was a blinding blue. She felt transparent and buoyant. And then, like a feather, she was aloft. Gliding through the air with her large, beautiful wings, Sprout looked down at everything below—the reservoir and the fields in a snowstorm, and the weasel limping away, a scrawny hen dangling from her jaws.
Sun-mi Hwang, The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly
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