AN: Written for a challenge on SAYS (GubraithianFire's duck, duck, goose challenge)
Herbert Chorley, the junior minister who had a run in with an imperious curse and began to think he was a duck, must have had imaginary memories – logically (or not, depending who you believe when it comes to my brain), he would not have believed he had just popped into being. So, what memories would he have had? Were-ducks, shovels, were-teddies and general silliness is guaranteed to follow.
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When you are a duck (specifically, Mallard; Anas Platyrhynchos), there is not a lot going on in your life. Usually.
Herbert, green head, bronze tail, was currently standing in the middle of London's CBD, surrounded by a crowd of people.
You would think that they had never seen a duck before, Herbert thought in annoyance, as a group of schoolgirls pointed and laughed. He huffed and squawked, which, for some reason, caused the slowly growing crowd's laughter to escalate. He glared at them, beady black eyes glinting angrily.
Honestly, could a duck not have any peace? So he was a city duck. What of it? People could not deal with difference; it was one of the many reasons Herbert was glad he was not human. Ducks were by far the superior species, though humans would never admit it.
Ducks were stronger (in the wings), smarter (if you went by human behaviour, which, really, was just nonsensical), prettier (ducks were different colours, and their tails were much handsomer than those of a human), kinder (have you ever seen a warring duck?) and more creative by far. They were, in short, quite perfect. At least, that was Herbert's view on things. Unfortunately, not many shared his views.
He was a bit of a loner duck – choice, completely by choice. It was his choice that the other ducks flew away when he came along (Herbert had, unfortunately, had a minor incident with a spade some years ago and was now unable to fly more than a few limping centimetres. Some might also call this jumping.)
That the other ducks did not speak to him was also his choice. He was a lone wolf…duck. He had even found, five interesting years ago, that he was a were-duck, which certainly added to his air of mystery, but didn't go down very well in first-date conversation. Or second date conversation. Not that he had any second dates. Which was, again, his choice. Obviously.
He had taken to terrorising the country streets, gnashing the teeth he grew once a month, and generally being much scarier than a duck is usually expected to be. That was when the incident with the shovel had occurred.
Herbert had been called out by the full moon; teeth pushing out from his bill, eyes turning a faint reddish-pink which complemented the orange of his bill wonderfully. His webbed feet sprouted claws (which, admittedly, made it a little difficult to walk) and he grew at least two centimetres in height, which, for a duck, is quite substantial.
He was waddling down the road in a very clumsy fashion (claws did not a catwalk waddle facilitate) and baring his teeth at random outcrops of shrubbery (there wasn't really anyone around at that time of night), when a light up ahead made him stop dead in his tracks.
After sufficiently recovering from his light-related shock, Herbert moved towards the light, ignoring all previous warnings he had never read about in all those books that told you not to go towards the light, because, being a duck, were- or not, Herbert just didn't have the capacity to read.
So there he was, moving toward the light in typical idiot protagonist fashion, and trying to figure out what was emitting the light. As his eyes were quite weak (duck eyesight is notoriously bad, because they fail to eat their carrots, don't you know) he could only really make out a dim outline of something large-ish and house-shaped behind the light, and even though most people would have guessed by the house-shape-ness of the thing that it was a house, Herbert was…how shall we put this? Not particularly gifted in the grey matter department.
Herbert kept moving towards it, thinking of things the thing could be. He was going for elephant with a flashlight at the moment, but his second choice was ironing board (quite large) with a traffic signal attached to it (for reasons unknown).
Of course, when he actually reached the light source, it turned out that it was a house, and the light was coming from a small window in the front. Herbert, hoping for a good old were-ducking, pushed open the rickety gate and waddled up the path to the door. The night was quite dark, despite the full moon, and Herbert found himself tripping on various garden implements; a garden fork, a statue of a gnome, a rather mauled dog toy (which he hurried away from rather quickly with a were-ducky shudder) and a fossilized goldfish next to a man-made fish pond, which Herbert ate, being largely unaware of various diseases caused by doing things like that, and also hungry.
Reaching the door at last, Herbert attached himself to the doorhandle with his newly sharpened teeth and tried to turn it. Unfortunately he was not particularly talented in the 'opening of things' area, and just ended up swinging despondently from the doorhandle. He let go, glared balefully at the door, and then quacked mournfully. A chorus of answering duck-calls from the sky echoed around the small yard.
Herbert looked around furtively, wondering if the dog was anywhere around. Hearing nothing more but a yawning silence and the faint echoes of the duck calls, Herbert went back to staring at the door. He was just about to give up and were-duck at some insects or something, when the door opened with a faint click and light from inside the house spilled out into the yard.
Backing into the shadows, Herbert watched the door, his heart beating excitedly. He hadn't really were-ducked anyone of any importance yet (insects and shrubbery didn't count, because you couldn't bite them with any lasting results apart from death (insects) or slight bruising of leaves (shrubbery, and occasionally the odd goozyfrapp, which were quite rare these days, but no less able to make Herbert's life annoying) and everyone knew you had to be able to impart were-duck-ness or it didn't count), so it would be a good experience. Hopefully. Herbert didn't really have good experiences.
As he was getting himself ready to jump out and quack loudly and fiercely, a teddy bear stepped out into the yard; his red eyes glowing, small white teeth poking out from his perpetually smiling mouth. Herbert groaned. Great, a were-teddy. As if he didn't have enough trouble already. Were-teddies were known for their insults. They were really very imaginative, and some even said they were worse than leprechauns, who were bloody awful.
He tried to stay quiet; pushing himself further against the wall, wishing were-ducks had the ability to turn invisible. Apparently he wasn't very good at the hiding thing either, because the were-teddy looked straight at him and chuckled.
"Not a were-duck, is it?" asked the were-teddy (whose name, incidentally, was Beauregard), his teeth gleaming almost as much as his eyes.
Herbert didn't answer, preferring to keep pushing himself into the wall in an attempt to fall straight through. It didn't work. Beauregard just looked amused.
"'t'wont work, you know. Brick walls are proven solid, and even a skinny mink like you isn't going to defy the laws of physics. You can't part atoms, dear."
Herbert glared at him. Still, one good thing was, the were-teddy wasn't as good at insults as Herbert had been led to believe. Maybe he just hadn't gotten into his stride yet.
"Warn't trying to get through the wall," Herbert said snottily, not looking at the were-teddy. Beauregard laughed.
"Yes'm you were. And not going about it very well, neither. What's you doin' in my yard, anyway? Choo never heard about private property?"
Herbert tried to look down his beak at the were-teddy, but only succeeded in going cross-eyed.
"'t'wasn't private property," he said, pretending he wasn't terrified by the were-teddy. Which he wasn't. Herbert wasn't scared of anything. Except porridge. Horrid gluey stuff.
"'t'was, you eejit. Whatchoo think that sign sayin' 'private property's on the gate for then? Deco-bloody-ration?"
Herbert made a snuffling noise and tried to get past, not being very good at retorts. Beauregard grinned and stood in his way, furry arms crossed.
"Where d'you think you're goin', mate?"
Herbert didn't answer him, pushing the were-teddy out of his way and waddling quickly down the path. Beauregard cackled and padded after him, his little claws clacking on the stone path.
"Not runnin' away, are we?" the were-teddy called after Herbert, trying to keep up and panting slightly. Herbert shook his head a little, baring his teeth at a tree which was looking at him funny.
He had just reached the gate again (which, it was true, said 'private property' quite clearly) and was about to run through, when a shovel came flying through the air and knocked Herbert in the head. He went down like a duck hit by a shovel, catching his wing awkwardly on something that could very well have been air and twisting it around.
Before he blacked out completely, Herbert heard the tick, tick, tick sound of claws on stone, and a light chuckling followed by Beauregard's voice right up in his ear.
"Don't think you'll be gettin' off without a warning, dreckface. Say 'night night'."
-
After he had woken up (in a garbage bin, with something spread all over his wings that smelled vaguely of peanut butter), Herbert extricated himself and waddled down to his own house. After finding out that he couldn't fly, he stopped for a few minutes to cry pitifully and then waddled off again, wishing he had teeth to bite things still, because he was in a very bitey mood.
And although he had never seen the were-teddy again (he steered clear of that particular house for a long time), Herbert still had nightmares about shovels and peanut butter and something called a 'sewing machine'. He had moved to London to get a bit of perspective, and that was, apparently, why he was stuck in the middle of a crowd of people who were all laughing at him.
If you knew what I had gone through, Herbert thought, glaring at them all, you would never make me suffer through this. Or then again, maybe you would. You're humans after all. You would probably do something to me because I'm a were-duck.
As he was pondering this, he saw two burly human police-men pushing their way through the crowd. They grabbed him under the wings before he could do more than let out a crazed quack, and carried him roughly down the street. Herbert glared and quacked and generally made a fuss, trying to get free. The policemen ignored him.
Finally Herbert subsided, still glaring at them, and said in a low voice, "as soon as I get the chance, I'll bite you all. And then I'll strangle you. See who likes being a strangled were-duck then, eh?"