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Between a duck and a hard place
Jantallian
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Tap – tap
Pause.
Tap – tap – tap - tap.
Pause.
Tap – tap - taptap.
Pause.
Tap – tap – taptap – taptaptap!
Pause.
Silence of tranquil night hung unmoved over the Sherman Ranch and Relay Station with the utter persistence of an out-of-season Christmas carol. Yet the tapper persisted.
Tap – tap – taptap – taptaptaptaptap!
Napoleon the mighty mallard stirred reluctantly in the box, made cozy by a number of battered shirts, which now constituted his indoor nest. Advancing old age had finally gifted him with the right to sleep inside the ranch house, but the box, placed on the window seat, was a poor substitute for his pet's shirt drawer. This, however, was as far as he got, seniority or no. Advancing old age also made him distinctly disinclined to get up and see what was the matter with whichever one of his progeny was currently banging with his beak on the window above.
Ducks do not sigh – or at least, not often. Instead, Napoleon took his head out from under his wing and glared at the curtained window.
Tap – tap – taptap – TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP!
Some kind of emergency - obviously.
Napoleon reared up to his full height and stretched his wings. Then he seized the curtain in his beak and jerked with all the considerable strength he had left.
There was a rending sound.
Jonesy was not going to be pleased.
But at least he now had enough of a gap to be eyeball to eyeball through the pane with his favourite son … or maybe grandson … it was difficult to keep track of them after a while. Napoleon just thought of them all as 'Junior'. This one, however, had inherited a goodly portion of paternal (or grand paternal) DNA, not to mention derring-do and never-say-die tactics.
One set of beady black eyes appealed fiercely to another.
Beyond the window, jewelled wings beat a tattoo in the air, echoing the one which the external mallard had struck on the windowpane.
Napoleon spared a moment to give thanks that the youngster had not broken a hole in the glass. Mallard beaks were sharp and steely. Stronger substances had been known to shatter under their administration. Fortunately Junior, having attracted the attention he wanted, now flew briskly in the direction of the ranch house door.
Napoleon was expected to go out and sort out the problem – obviously.
Despite being perfectly capable of opening locks, and even doors, the mighty mallard opted not to go into this emergency alone. After all, what was the point of having a capable and obedient human pet if you didn't use them to make life easier? Especially when you were less young and nimble than you had been. Not, of course, that Napoleon would admit to anything of the kind …
He therefore scrambled over the edge of the box and launched himself in the direction of the bunkroom door.
It was firmly shut. The rest of the household had declined to have a mallard – however venerable - permanently sharing their sleeping accommodation. Even Jess had made it clear to his feathered friend that this decision was non-negotiable, regardless of the persuasive appeal and devious cunning of Wyoming's premier duck.
But this was an emergency. No time for tactful pauses.
"QUA – A – A – RK!"
Tap – tap – TAPTAP – TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP!
'Tap' hardly does justice to the impact. It sounded as if someone had taken a small but extremely sharp and sturdy axe to the door.
On the other side of it there erupted the cacophony of several unexpectedly awoken humans. The resulting dialogue was muffled and sleepy but distinctly acerbic and, shorn of imprecations, could be briefly summarised as:
"It's your duck!"
"Get up!"
"And shut it up!"
Napoleon rightly interpreted this as indicating that his pet would shortly be joining the action. But just to make sure, he gave the door a final and decisive 'TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP!'. The effect of this on the woodwork of the door was, unfortunately, rather visible, but Napoleon figured that, unlike the curtain, it was below human eye-level. At least, he hoped so, as the combination of the two was likely to bring down the wrath not only of Jonesy but of the self-styled (but delusional) boss of the ranch.
There was, of course, only one boss and that was Napoleon.
He waited, reared up with his wings half spread for flight. This was the mallard equivalent of arms akimbo. From the other side of the door came the sound of a considerable thud, possibly of someone being hauled out of an upper bunk. A single duck foot tapped – yes, that does do it justice – on the wooden floor. A further thud suggested a boot had been thrown across the room. Napoleon's head tilted to one side and his eyes glinted dangerously as he considered another assault on the door. He was forestalled by a long-suffering groan and the rustle of clothing being hastily dragged on.
A few seconds later the door opened. A dishevelled Jess Harper staggered through it and, after a sharp reminder from behind him, pulled it closed again. He showed every sign of having dressed – or half dressed – with his eyes closed. His shirt was incompletely buttoned with several buttons in the wrong holes. There was the inevitable rip on the placket which probably arose from undue force being applied in closing the said buttons. He was still fastening his pants and attempting to do so under the gun belt he had already put on. One foot was booted and kicking the other boot in front of it. His hair was standing on end.
The last feature of his appearance might have been caused by the frosty, albeit short-lived, atmosphere which followed him out of the bunkroom. While Jess was pulling on his other boot, the usual sounds of muted breathing and the occasional snore were swiftly resumed.
Clearly no one else was going to help with Napoleon's emergency.
"What's up, little fella?" his pet asked sleepily. Despite being the world's worst riser in the morning, he did not seem to resent having been summoned from his rest in the middle of the night.
"Quack!" Napoleon explained, making a duck-line for the door.
"The problem's outside?"
"Quack!" "Quack!"
The mallards on either side of the door were a uniform and urgent duet.
Jess grabbed his jacket from the peg, figuring that whatever the mallard duo had in mind could well take till dawn. He unlocked the door, opened it wide, and stood back to let Napoleon out. After all, it was his problem. He followed the mallard out and shut the door, resisting the urge to take revenge on the somnolent by giving it a good bang. He looked down at the two impatient Anas platyrhynchos.
"Oh, it's you, Hamlet, is it!"
Hamlet had acquired his human name while Andy had been delving into the stories of Shakespeare. He considered it quite appropriate for a descendant who had deep respect for his patriarchal example.
Jess should have known which duck it was. The current boss of the duck pond was rather larger than his sire (or grandsire), as is often true of succeeding generations. Jess would probably have had difficulty fitting into his own great grandfather's shirt, which would undoubtedly acquire rips in the process. The mighty mallard's successor on the pond had also inherited his progenitor's considerable force of personality, although not the latter's escapologist's skills. There was, indeed, no need to escape. Mallards of Napoleon's family had complete freedom to come and go as they pleased. It was an unwritten law of the ranch that neither the ever-changing residents of the pond nor their eggs formed any part of the human diet, although ducks in the wild, unless exhibiting identifiable friendliness, were fair game.
"What's up?" Jess enquired again, without much hope of the problem being easily solvable.
"Qua-ar-rk!" Hamlet replied briefly and took off from the porch.
Napoleon and his pet exchanged glances.
Napoleon's said "Kids!" and Jess's, rather smugly, "Your kids!"
"Quack – quack – quackle!" Which, being roughly interpreted and taking account of the twinkle in those bright eyes, retorted: "Just wait till you've got your own!"
Notwithstanding daily wrangling of Mike and Andy, Jess shrugged and muttered, "Guess I'm gettin' plenty o' practice with you 'n yours."
Hamlet, unlike his namesake, was impatient with these philosophical maunderings and circled back, sweeping dangerously over Jess's head beneath the porch roof.
"OK, OK, we're comin'!"
The trio set off into the soft early summer night. Above them the canopy of stars glittered with less razor-edged brightness than they had done all winter. The wind was warm and gentle. The only sound was the faint susurration of grass blades and fledgling leaves.
Except for the footsteps.
Footsteps which came pounding in their wake before they had gone more than a few hundred yards beyond the bend in the road which led towards the river. Young, impatient footsteps which Jess had no difficulty in identifying, even before Mike's sturdy shape came flying round the corner.
"Jess! What's up?" the youngster panted. He was clad only in his nightshirt, shoved hastily into his pants, and had forgone his jacket in need of haste, but remembered to put on his boots.
"You. Obviously." Jess told him, supressing an understanding smile. "Why ain't you in y' rightful bed?"
"I heard Napoleon wake you up. So something exciting's gotta be going on. Obviously!" Mike replied with a cheeky grin. "I ain't gonna miss out on an adventure!"
"I'm not going to," Jess corrected automatically, since neither Slim nor Andy was there to do the office. Actually, it was probably a good thing they weren't there. Things were getting crowded as it was.
Mike shook his head. He was not going to be deterred. In this, as in a number of other aspects, he was so like Jess as to suggest they were actually related. Jess meanwhile was figuring that Mike certainly gave him plenty of practice in parenting.
"Quack – quack – quack – quarck!" Hamlet saw no reason for idle chat in the middle of an emergency: he could have taught Shakespeare's hero a thing or two about getting on with the action.
"QUARCK!" Napoleon flew up to his favourite perch on Jess's shoulder and gave his ear a far from subtle nip.
"OK, OK!" Jess was being to feel just a little bullied and more than liable to incur a mallard mob attack if he stopped to take Mike back to the house. Besides, his idea of proper child development and upbringing included a seasoning of nocturnal escapades. "Come on, Mike!"
"What's up?" Mike asked again as they followed Hamlet's swift flight towards the water. It was a question they had both posed and neither had an answer so far.
"No idea." Jess didn't shrug out of deference to his passenger. "But I guess it has somethin' t' do with one of Hamlet's wives. I think she's been missin' a while."
"Nesting," Mike suggested confidently.
"Yeah. Normally she'd just get on with it. If Hamlet's makin' a fuss, I guess he's found the nest some place that ain't safe."
"Hurry!" Mike grabbed Jess's arm and pulled it with all the urgency he sensed in the mallard father.
"OK! OK!" Harried by boy and ducks, Jess felt they were not taking his co-operation with the trust it deserved. He quickened his pace as much as the bright starlight allowed.
'Unsafe' proved to be all too accurate a description of the nesting place. They followed Hamlet as he led them up the river bank a short way and then turned aside where a smaller stream joined it. The banks became steeper and the bed narrower where the tributary waters had worn a course downhill. Soon the banks reared up in little cliffs like a miniature gorge and the bed was scattered with rocks worn into smooth step-like shapes. Around them the water swirled and eddied, forming little pools and miniature cascades.
Hamlet, of course, flew straight on up the defile. Napoleon launched from Jess's shoulder and followed him. Jess and Mike looked at each other.
Mike was still full of urgent excitement. Jess was resigned to getting wet. Wading up the stream had other hazards and he wanted Mike to realise that precautions applied to them both equally. As he began to roll up the legs of his pants, he said: "Better keep our boots on. No knowin' what's underfoot an' we could find ourselves slidin'. Keep close an' we'll take it real slow. We may need t' help each other."
Fortunately they did not have far to paddle and the water, although fast, was quite shallow. The French Emperor and the Danish Prince were hovering as best they could above a ledge just under the lip of the bank, high above the water. On it rested a pile of grasses, leaves and downy feathers, which the mother duck would have plucked from her own breast. As she rose briefly to greet her avian kin, they could see half a dozen or so eggs protected by the nesting material.
"She looks very thin," Mike observed anxiously.
"Yeah. I guess if Hamlet's only just found where she's nesting, he won't have been able to help her with feedin'."
"He can help her now, but he's still really upset." Mike could read duck language quite well. "It's been fun, but I can't see why he got us out of bed in the middle of the night."
Jess looked down at his boots and the cold water washing over them. He wasn't sure that 'fun' was the best description of the night's activities so far, but he was in no doubt about why Hamlet had called on his father (or grandfather) to enlist Jess himself.
"It's the position of the nest, Mike. The eggs must be about t' hatch and there ain't no way out but down f' those ducklings."
Mike looked up at the ledge, high above the swirling water. "It's a long way down and the water's pretty fast," he admitted, "but they're ducks. They don't have to learn how to swim, do they?"
"No. You've seen enough ducklings on the pond to know that. But they can't survive in the water straight away. Their feathers ain't waterproof at first. If they go in, they're all gonna die."
"No they ain't!" Mike declared sturdily. "They've got us now. What are we gonna do to save them?"
Jess looked up at the ledge too. He could just reach it if he had to. He was listening hard as well, but the noise of the water obscured any sounds he would otherwise have heard when the eggshells began to crack.
"We're gonna wait."
"Wait?"
"Yeah. Once they're hatched, the little 'uns need a long time, maybe ten hours or so for their feathers t' dry and t' learn to stand on their own feet."
"Ten hours!" Mike gulped.
"We can't move 'em till we're sure they're dry. But it'll help when the sun comes up. Now let's find somewhere t' sit which ain't damp an' empty our boots an' dry our feet." Jess was giving thanks silently that it was a warm night and they were only a little damp.
Once they had achieved as much comfort as was possible given the location, Napoleon glided down and landed on Jess's lap. A duck didn't have much body heat to share, but the mighty mallard was a father and it was his job to provide care and aid whenever possible. He did not intend his pet and the young human to suffer if he could do anything to help them.
Jess was not a father, but he had just as much care for Mike. He had no intention of keeping the boy sitting on a rock for the whole of the long wait, but all birth is a miracle to witness and to share. In the meanwhile, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it round the two of them.
"I don't think Hamlet would've roused us if the eggs ain't ready to hatch. Once we know the ducklings have all arrived safely, y' can dash back t' the house, get dried an' fetch us some supplies t' make campin' out here more comfortable." A good plan, but one which might not meet with universal approval in the ranch house.
"OK." Mike snuggled under Jess's arm, feeling the surprising warmth radiating from his lean muscles. He settled down with admirable patience to keep watch and listen. He was pretty sure Hamlet would rouse when the hatching took place. For now, the worried father had settled nearby; even if his avian heart was filled with relief that a rescue was possible, he declined to perch on humans, however trustworthy Napoleon thought they were.
Silence of the night smoothly overlay the background murmuration of water and rock. From the nest there was no sound at all. From the watchers, avian and human, only the very quietest and gentlest of breaths. The stars poured down their pure radiance upon the little group and the awaited birth ... just as they had done centuries ago in a far land and another season ... just as they had purified every birth which had ever been experienced on a starlit night.
Somehow things suddenly got even quieter.
Jess lifted his head expectantly. Napoleon roused to his full height from his perch on Jess's knee. Hamlet spread his wings momentarily and glided the short distance to land on the rock as close as he could get to the other three. Mike looked at Napoleon and Hamlet and Jess in wonder. Then he turned his own deepest attention in the direction all their eyes were fixed.
A couple of the eggs were wobbling – vigorously enough to suggest that the inmates had inherited Napoleon's robust attitude to life. Soon the first hairline cracks began to run across the smooth surface of one. Then a tiny hole appeared. Not tiny for long. A small sharp beak made short work of hammering a hole big enough to allow a little yellow head with bright beady eyes to emerge and survey the world for the first time.
Mike drew in a sharp breath and felt his eyes stinging all of a sudden. The duckling was so small and fragile, yet so determined and valiantly unaware of all the dangers it would face in this new world. He longed to help it as it struggled, with more pecking and a good deal of wriggling, to free itself from the remains of the shell, but he knew better than to interfere. Napoleon, Hamlet and the mother duck were all making soft, encouraging noises, more like chirrups than quacks. That apart, there was nothing any of them could do except wait and pray the process would go well.
"I ain't never seen a duckling hatch before," Jess whispered softly, almost to himself.
Mike looked at him in surprise. "Never?" he whispered back.
Jess shook his head. "Seen plenty o' things born, but not the ducklings. Napoleon's got a big family, but they've mostly been born in the duck house. Or some place so safe, they ain't needed our help."
"But they do now ..." Mike's voice faded into silence.
The first duckling was standing, wobbly but proud and not, to the relief of the watchers, both avian and human, too near the edge of the ledge. Around him or her more eggs were showing increasingly large holes as brothers and sisters broke their way into a new world. Soon the ledge was crowded with damp ducklings and the eggshells which had protected them were so much debris under webbed feet.
Mike kept his eyes firmly on the first one which had emerged. He said, still softly but intently, "Jess, d'you think I could name him?"
Jess smiled, recognising the bond which the miracle of birth had forged. "I guess y' might have t' wait t' find out if it's a him or a her first, Mike."
There was no doubt in the boy's mind that the first-born had to be male. "I could be like a godfather for him."
This brought another smile, but Jess shook his head thoughtfully: "It'd be an odd idea t' the Reverend Jenkins, that's f' sure."
Mike grinned too. "So ... I'll be an oddfather instead!"
At this, Napoleon gave his characteristic chuckle and flew up to perch once more on Jess's shoulder. Hamlet stretched his wings and flicked over to stand between Jess's feet, where he too gave a series of deep quacks. Even the mother duck added her own soft contribution. All of which seemed to affirm the connection between humans and birds.
"Guess that makes two of us," Jess observed. He was silent for a moment, watching the new-borns stretch their tiny wings to greet the low rays of the rising sun. He added practically, "Cut back to the house now, Mike. Get dried an' dressed. Then bring us somethin' t' eat and drink. And see if y' can sneak a couple of pillows out without Jonesy seein'. It's gonna be a long wait!"
"Will they be ok? What happens if they fall off the ledge?" Mike asked anxiously.
"Then I'll catch 'em in m' hat!" Jess told him. "Now get goin'!"
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# - # - # - # - #
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"We're oddfathers!"
Mike burst into the ranch house kitchen with a joyful shout.
Jonesy looked up from his position crouched before the stove, to which he was in the process of adding fuel. "If y' get any fatherin' this mornin', it should be a leatherin' with a belt f' goin' off in the middle of the night and scarin' us all!" he remarked drily.
"Aw, Jonesy, you know I went with Jess!"
"I know y' went after Jess," Jonesy corrected. "What've he an' that darn'd duck bin up to now?"
"Hatching eggs," Mike told him.
Jonesy grinned. "I know Jess'd do just about anythin' f' that bird, but the bird ain't stupid. Jess ain't got enough feathers t' hatch eggs."
"We watched. Can I have some breakfast?" Mike's mind was on the practical aspects.
"When it's ready."
"OK, can I have some bread an' cheese then? I need to take it up to Jess."
"Up a tree?" Jonesy suggested sardonically.
"Up the river. The nest's in a real bad place. We're waiting till the ducklings are dry, then we can rescue them."
Jonesy regarded him sternly for a few moments, but he, like Jess, did not believe in squashing the spirit of adventure, not to mention the instinct for good deeds. "Git dressed. I'll make y' a pack t' carry."
"Thanks, Jonesy!" Mike gave him an exuberant hug and dashed off, nearly bowling Slim over as he shot through the living room.
"What's up with Mike?" Slim enquired sleepily, as he put his head round the kitchen door.
"Ducklings," Jonesy responded succinctly.
"Oh."
Slim continued blithely on with his morning routine and was washing outside when Mike passed him again, this time carrying a pack over his shoulders and two cushions from the rocking chair under his arm.
"Where are you going with those?" Slim demanded quickly.
"A rock's hard to sit on," Mike informed him without pausing, "an' I ain't gonna let Jess suffer."
"I'm not going to," Slim corrected automatically, then realised he was far from fully informed. "Hey, wait! What's going on?"
But it was too late. Mike was already racing in the direction of the river.
Slim finished his ablutions, for he was a methodical man and reckoned that, unless there was some obviously life-threatening crisis, it behoved him to present the reasonable and reasonably well-shaven face of the relay station. Mind you, if Jess and Mike, a duck, a rock and two purloined cushions were involved, the situation, if not exactly a crisis, was certainly in need of clarification. This he naturally sought from the resident source of nearly all wisdom and most information. Accordingly, he made haste to consult Jonesy in the kitchen.
"Did you say ducklings?"
"Sure did."
"What's that darn'd duck dragged Jess into now?" Slim was, despite considerable experience, still unreconciled to Napoleon's influence on events. "If I had a dollar for every bit of mischief that feathered menace has caused ..."
"It'd about equal the dollars he's saved the ranch." Jonesy was no great fan of Napoleon, especially after spotting the ripped curtain, but since the mallard did not interfere in his domain, (apart from the odd swim in the sink), he was inclined to take a more positive view of the drake's activities, some of which had indeed helped to save the ranch inhabitants and even the odd dollar or two.
"So what are they all up to now?" Slim asked as he heaved a sigh of resignation.
"Well, I guess they're up the river, 'cause that's where Mike was headin'. An' I guess there ain't gonna be a deal o' work done if him 'n Jess're waitin' for the ducklings to dry."
"Waiting for ...?" Slim did a rapid calculation. "That'll take all day!"
"Like I said." Jonesy turned his attention back to cooking breakfast. He'd started, so he might as well finish the meal for those members of the family who were still around to eat it.
"Ducks? River? Jess?"
A bleary-eyed Andy was leaning in the doorway, trying to make sense of the information. In this, he certainly resembled his elder brother.
"Sitting on a rock up the river with that darn'd duck, waitin' t' move the latest additions t' the duck house," Jonesy explained wearily. He was getting tired of repeating himself.
"Why didn't someone wake me!" Andy demanded in aggrieved tones. "And you know Jess can't start any day without at least a pint of black coffee!"
Before the other two could blink, he had seized a canteen, filled it with hot coffee from the pot on the stove and wrapped it a couple of handy towels.
"See you later!"
He was gone faster than the door could swing shut.
There was a pause, filled only by the crackling of bacon in the pan.
"I made enough t' feed a starvin' Harper, like usual," Jonesy said as he surveyed his preparations with a jaundiced eye.
"Don't worry. I'll eat his share!" Slim said grimly. "And his dinner if need be."
He helped Jonesy carry the food through to the table, sat down and calmly poured himself a mug of coffee. Then he proceeded to consume an unhurried and almost normal breakfast, except for eating as much as was commensurate with the increased physical labour he would shortly be doing. Not that he couldn't do his and Jess's work – both of them had shouldered the full load when the other was needed away from the ranch. Even with Jess, however, routine didn't always go smoothly. Especially not when Jess and Napoleon joined forces.
But when he made his way out to the barn, feeling rather over-full, he also felt a twinge of conscience. Jess was already there, dishevelled but functioning with his usual single-minded determination – the kind he employed for getting work out of the way when something more alluring was in the offing. He'd completed a lot of the routine tasks already. The black coffee had obviously succeeded in galvanising him into activity. And he'd been up exceptionally early, with only bread and cheese (or whatever picnic Jonesy had provided for Mike to carry) to sustain him while Slim had been enjoying – or at any rate consuming – most of the Texan's breakfast.
"There's more coffee on the stove," Slim informed him quite unnecessarily. Since Jess had moved into the relay station, there was always coffee on the stove.
Slim's conscience needled him a bit more. He knew perfectly well Jess wouldn't starve, but he was also used to the enthusiasm with which that young man greeted regular meals. "Jonesy might have some bacon left."
Jess paused for a moment, leaning on the shovel he had been wielding vigorously. A happy grin lit up his face. "Good. I can take some sandwiches up t' Mike. He could do with somethin' warm inside him. It's been a long night."
Nonetheless, he finished his work before raiding the kitchen, heating up the bacon, and wrapping the sandwiches he'd made in yet more of Jonesy's rapidly decreasing pile of clean towels. Then he hastened back to the rocks, hard though they were even with the purloined cushions, duly fed Mike a sandwich and then sent the boys down to the ranch with instructions to get their share of the second hot breakfast Jonesy had automatically started cooking.
So it continued, turn and turn about, as they kept guard over the new arrivals. Soon Slim too could not resist the imperative urge to care for and protect the weak and helpless. Accordingly, he left Jess to handle the morning stage and made his own way up the stream to the site of the nest to do his share of watching. Even Jonesy walked as far as the opening of the defile, ostensibly to bring the watchers their noon repast, but also carrying with him a bag of duck-appropriate food, just in case sharing the human food, as they undoubtedly would have, had not been enough.
Ten hours is a long day when it starts before daylight and is spent mostly perched on a rock. Yet it definitely had its positive aspects.
Slim was pleased and impressed with the conduct of the two boys, who showed commendable patience during the long wait and considerable restraint in not trying to help or handle the new arrivals. The boys were pleased to be key members of a rescue team, not to mention delighted at the new arrivals. Jonesy was pleased that everyone, human and avian, had been fed under trying conditions and that the crisis had not resulted in the need for any patching up. Jess was pleased and not a little amused to see the entire ranch family pulling together to support Napoleon and his family. Napoleon, of course, was pleased but unsurprised that his pet had managed this assistance very efficiently. Hamlet was pleased that his father (or grandfather) had taken his crisis seriously. The mother duck was undoubtedly pleased that her ducklings had hatched safely and would not plunge unprotected into their true element.
Finally came the moment when the small, fluffy bundles were dry enough to be transferred to the much safer environment of the Sherman Ranch and Relay Station duck pond and duck house. Slim, being the tallest, had the task of picking them off the ledge and placing them gently in Jess's hat. Then Napoleon and Hamlet escorted the mother duck, leading the way ahead of Jess, carefully carrying his precious avian cargo, with the human members of the rescue expedition forming a jubilant but still reasonably restrained rear-guard.
At the pond itself, the parent ducks took to the water at once, ready to encourage the youngsters to join them. Napoleon stood quietly on the bank. This was Hamlet's moment, which the elder mallard was glad to have been able to engineer but in which he would take no part. Napoleon knew well the pride and the protectiveness a father felt when his young took their first steps – or in this case, paddle – into mortal life.
Jess knelt down and placed his hat on the ground.
"Mike?"
The boy came at once and knelt beside him. Together they looked down at the mass of yellow fluff filling Jess's battered hat.
Mike reached out confidently and lifted up one of the ducklings. "You're home, little fella. And I'm your oddfather and I name you ... Chris Columbus. Now go and explore!"
Chuckles greeted this pronouncement, not all of them human.
"Quack!" – "Quack!" The French Emperor and the Danish Prince obviously approved. The mother duck just kept her eyes on her offspring, whom Mike now placed gently on the grass at the edge of the pond.
Equally carefully, Jess lifted out the others and set them down in a row. "Seven. That's the lot, then, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Mike breathed, still in the grip of the wonder of it all.
The mother duck gave an encouraging quack and Hamlet paddled a little further into the pond, ready to lead the way to the duck house. Without hesitation, the ducklings wobbled to the brink on unsteady legs, yet launched themselves confidently into their proper element.
As the little family floated serenely away together, the human family raised a spontaneous and heartfelt cheer.
Napoleon regarded his pet and the youngest human with approval: they had done all that was needed with all the commitment of true fathers, however odd. In fact, the other two had played their part as good auxiliary oddfathers as well. The mighty mallard gave his characteristic quack of approval, which sounded so much like a chuckle. Good fathering material in all of them – and Jonesy, of course, had got grandfathering licked long ago!
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Acknowledgement: For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors.
NOTES:
On the naming of ducks:
Napoleon has a large and active family, who are free to go off into the wild and return to the pond as they choose, which makes it difficult to distinguish between them. Only the chief drake, the pond boss, is given a human name.