Duckling Ugly

by Neal Shusterman

  I took only a moment to rest and breathe in my relief at finally being home. Where should I go first? I thought. Should I find Aaron? That’s what I wanted to do, but I decided that I needed to pay respect where respect was due. My first stop would be Abuelo’s mansion. I would bow before him. No—I would get down on my knees and beg for his forgiveness. I would cry, sincere tears of repentance, and the anguish of a lesson painfully learned.

  There, there, Abuelo would say. No tears here in the valley. The Caldero sheds all the tears we need—and they are all tears of joy. He would touch my chin, and I would look into his handsome, ancient eyes, and he would smile. Welcome home, Cara, he would say. Now come and create our own sweet language.

  The valley stretched out before me, hidden beneath a blanket of low, soft clouds. Filled with a joy I hadn’t felt since before I left, I descended the hillside, into the cloud bank.

  When I emerged from the clouds, the rest of the valley was there before me…but something was very wrong. This was still the town of De León, but it was not the way I remembered.

  The hills that had been so gloriously green when I had left were now the color of mud, and the beautiful homes were no longer white. In fact, they seemed not to have any paint on them at all.

  As I got closer I could see the warping, aged wood of each building, as gray as the homes I had left behind in Flock’s Rest. The gazebo in the center of the beautiful park had fallen apart.

  I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Decay had crept into this beautiful valley so quickly, it looked like it had been abandoned for decades.

  “Hello!” I called out. “Aaron! Harmony! Anybody!”

  But no one was there to hear me. The town was deserted. At the far end of the stone path, Abuelo’s mansion was gone. It had burned to the ground, and all that remained were black cinders and the charred memory of beams.

  Then, as the clouds lifted just a bit, I saw the hillside above the ruined mansion, and my heart, as sick as it was, found a glimmer of hope—because there, high on the hill, was a patch of green!

  It was near the spot where Aaron and I had picnicked, at the entrance to the cave that led to the fountain.

  Of course, I thought to myself, that’s where they’ve all gone. The fountain must be fading, and they’ve all gone down there to nurture it.

  With renewed strength, I climbed to the plateau. The grass there was yellowing, but for every yellow blade, there was still a blade of green. There was still beauty here.

  I found the entrance to the cave, stumbled in the darkness until I found a torch and matches to light it. Then, following the path Aaron and I had taken once before, I wended my way down, down, down, into the heart of the mountain, where the air was stale and hot.

  I heard no skittering sounds of creatures around me this time, and as I neared the cavern Abuelo called the Cauldron of Life, I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my soul.

  Because I didn’t hear any voices.

  When I finally came to the great cavern, the truth hit me as hard and as heavy as my first sight of the dead valley.

  There was nobody here. It was without question the loneliest moment of my life.

  The cavern itself was as dark as any other, with no gentle shimmering glow from the stones. The only light came from my torch. The place was dead. Panic welled up inside me. It locked my joints in place, and there were no words I could spell that could push me forward. In the end, it was the fear of my torch burning out that got me moving.

  As I neared the dangling stalactite, and the stone basin into which the fountain had dripped, I saw something white on the ground in front of it.

  It was a dress. My dress, folded into a perfect square, its swan-gossamer fabric shimmering with the light of my torch. It was the only hint of the beauty that had once been here.

  On top of it was the ink brush they had made for me, and a letter with my name on it.

  Sticking my torch into the dying, mulchy ground, I knelt down and opened the letter. The handwriting was not the sweeping flourishes of Abuelo’s hand. It was Aaron’s handwriting.

  Dear Cara,

  It’s been two weeks since you left. Where are you? Harmony says something must have happened, that maybe they didn’t let you leave Flock’s Rest. Or worse, that you died on your way there or back—but I won’t let myself believe it. You can’t imagine how much I miss you—and how frightened I am for you.

  The fountain is drying up. Everything around us is dying. Abuelo says not to worry, that he senses in his bones where the fountain is going next, and everyone says he’s always been right before. He won’t tell us where we’re headed, but he does say to prepare for a long journey. We’ve been bottling water from the fountain to take with us. Enough to last us until we get to wherever we’re going. He’s furious at you for leaving, Cara—but I know if you come back to us, he’ll forgive you. Abuelo never stays angry for long.

  The monks have already left to prepare our way, so I’m leaving this by the fountain, because it’s the only place I know for sure you’ll look. We leave tomorrow at dawn, but I’m not giving up hope. Wherever we go, I’ll be waiting for you. Find us, Cara.

  Love always,

  Aaron

  My tears wet the pages and the ink began to run. Carefully, I folded the letter and put it in my pocket, took my Aaron-hair brush, my dress, and picked up the torch.

  Clinging to the slim hope that Abuelo was wrong, I held the torch high to see the tip of the stalactite—maybe there was still life dripping into the fountain, and they’d all come back. But as glistening wet as the stalactite had been before, it was now dry as a bone. In the basin beneath it, there was a single spot of moisture. I reached toward it with my finger, but even as I did, the moisture was sucked up by the stone. Then the basin cracked and started to crumble.

  I stepped back, and I felt the ground around me begin to shake. Little bits of stone fell from above. Sensing what was coming, I leaped back, but not quickly enough. The massive stalactite broke off from the cavern roof and crashed to the ground, shattering into a million pieces, burying me beneath the rubble.

  I was bruised and battered, but not broken.

  I picked up my torch, which was almost out, fanned it until it was full flame again, and made my way back to the surface.

  They had left without me.

  I could have been with them, if only I had kept my promise and returned. The truth of it hurt more than the cuts and bruises from the fallen stalactite, and I cried until there were no tears left inside me, and my eyes went as dry as the ruined fountain.

  I stepped out of the cave, into the light of a gray day, and stood there on the plateau, desperately trying to get a sense of direction. Where had they gone? Back when the fountain had been strong, I’d been able to feel it pulling me, coaxing me up in the middle of the night, leaving me facing northwest—but that was when the fountain was close by. Perhaps Abuelo could still feel it in his bones, but I wasn’t Abuelo. I felt no pull, no gravity, no sense of direction at all. Wherever the fountain had gone, it was out of my reach.

  As I stood there, I watched as the last of the green grass turned yellow, then brown.

  And in my hands, my beautiful dress, woven from the gossamer down of swans, disintegrated into strands that blew away like cobwebs in the wind.

  “Hello, pretty lady.”

  I didn’t go back the way I came. Instead I continued west across the mountains and ended up at the same gas station where I had first been dropped with the garbage. Now the same gangly gas-station attendant greeted me. Greasy hands, goat hair sticking out of his Adam’s apple, but right there, right then, he seemed like Prince Charming.

  “Second time I seen you here with no car,” he said. “I’m startin’ to think you’re just comin’ to see me!”

  And as I looked at him I thought, This boy is not so bad. I could find a place for myself in this tiny rest stop of a town. He wasn’t Aaron. He wasn’t even Marshall or Gerardo. But
after what I had left behind, I would rather take dumb and homely over bleak and hideous any day.

  Then, to my horror, I quickly came to realize that there would be no rest for me here, or anywhere else…because as I looked at him, I could see the features of his face already beginning to change. His Adam’s apple, already large, started to bulge forward like a buzzard’s neck, the hairs in his nose began to grow, curling outward—and I knew if I stayed here any length of time at all, it would be Flock’s Rest all over again. This place would just become a creepy roadside attraction where no one would dare stop, even for gas.

  He smiled at me, and I swear I could see his teeth starting to twist out of line. “Look at you,” he said. “I do believe you’re getting prettier by the second!”

  I backed away from him quickly.

  “I can’t stay,” I said. “I’ve got to get out of this place. I’ve got to get out now!”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “The Greyhound bus stops at the Denny’s down the road a bit. You can still make it if you hurry.”

  And so I did. Scrounging together what money I had in my pockets, and what money I could beg from people coming in and out of Denny’s, I got myself bus fare and rode that bus as far as it would take me.

  That was a long time ago. I’ve been riding ever since, crisscrossing the country, zigzagging the world, searching for a hint of where they might have gone. My only belongings are the clothes on my back, a journal in which I write the words of a new language that no one has yet to speak, and the brush I use to write them, made from the hair of my one true love.

  I will find them.

  They could be anywhere. It’s a big world to cover—but I’ve got an eternity to do it. It may take me a thousand years, but I will find them.

  Until then, I will ride buses, and stow away on trains, and steal plane fare as I weave my way through the world, leaving every place a little less beautiful with my passing—although I may catch the faces of my fellow passengers when they get on board, I won’t dare look at the monstrosities they’ve become once they get off.

  So if, by chance, your travels happen to leave you seated beside the most beautiful girl in the world, don’t ask questions, don’t make small talk—just leave your luggage, tear up your ticket, and run.

  Because I am one of the beautiful people, and my beauty is the blackest of holes.

  Don’t make me spell it out for you.