by Nagle, Pati
Sergeant Fletcher saw me rejoin the line of retreat. His cold eye was on me but he said nothing, nodded once, then looked forward again.
Half our regiment fell in that field on that day, but we were not the hardest hit. That honor went to the 1st Texas, who lost four out of every five men in the Cornfield.
Candy was taken prisoner by the Yankees—one of our wounded men saw him in a band wagon and he never returned to us. At least he made it out of the Cornfield alive.
After that I never thought twice about killing a Yankee. It was part of the war; it was what we were there for. But I never joked about it again.
And I never kept count.
Ducks
Katharine Eliska Kimbriel
This one is probably my favorite of my short stuff, because it is one that has had everything from people telling me it was too dark and powerful to people not understanding it or thinking it repeated other stuff in a novel and was unnecessary. “Ducks“ started as a scene in the novel Night Calls. John Silbersack bought the book, but Chris Schelling was Exec Editor by the time we were editing, and he told me he didn’t think there was anything new in the chapter and wanted it cut. The only magic is the bird, not explained here. I wasn’t sure if this was his not getting rites of passage, or didn’t like no overt magic, or what, but I cut the chapter and carefully crafted three paragraphs to bridge from an earlier reference to the duck hunting. Years later, dealing with life issues, I wanted to give something to my fans for their long wait. I wondered if I could create a short story from the fragment. So I went to a literary convention, ArmadilloCon, and chose to read it to a small gathering. Most there knew the novel, but a few people didn’t know my work at all. After I was finished, there was a long silence, and then a well-known writer said, “Oh, I think there’s something there worth keeping.” Lots of nodding heads. So I turned it into a short story, and it became part of a small chapbook through Yard Dog Press. I think this is about the price of killing, and why no death should ever be an unnecessary one.
∞ ∞ ∞
A rising run of notes echoed through the woods, trilling like a flute, and I paused, still bent over a tussock of reeds.
I knew that bird . . . it had haunted me from the first moment I had heard its song. Sometimes in dreams I saw myself standing outside in the gloom, my shawl pulled tight around my shoulders, the withered shoots of garlic at my feet . . . the echo of music quavering from the woods beyond.
I could not hide from that bird! Why had it sung in winter? Why was it still singing in the month of Sun, long after most eggs had hatched and babies were fledging? How could I be so sure it was the same bird, when I was miles away from where we had run our trap line?
Was it a bird? I was not so sure . . .
“Hurry up, Allie,” my brother Josh said impatiently as he took my handful of rushes. “We need to get into the water. Papa expects us to get a duck today.”
As if I needed the reminder. One last glance over my shoulder, and I turned back to the water’s edge. There were four of us in this classroom of sorts—myself, my older brother Joshua, and our neighbors Shaw Kristinsson and Wylie Adamsson—but these classes were for me. I was the one with the second sight . . . I was the one who heard werewolves keening and dreamt true dreams.
A practitioner needed not only magic and medicine; a practitioner needed herbs and wood lore. But tracking and hunting were useful for any man, living as far west as Ohio and the Northwest Territory beyond. With my oldest brother Dolph dead and only the little boys following us, Josh was needed on the trap line come winter.
I’d be needed, too, someday, but probably not for trapping. I’d lost one brother to the dark on the other side, nipped by a werewolf. Death would have to arm-wrestle me for anyone else.
“Al-lee! Stop woolgathering!” Josh yelled.
Looking back, I could see that Wylie and Shaw were about finished tying on their collars of dusty green leaves. They were blending in nicely with the rim of the little lake—at least from the neck up.
You see, the idea was to look like a floating tussock. The reeds towered over Wylie and Shaw’s heads, making them look like they were standing in a field of grass. This trap was easiest for Shaw, with his dark mane—if we ever had to depend on this trick for dinner, the rest of us would need to dirty or dye our hair. Right now we relied on thick leaves and stems.
I used my new knife to cut Josh a few more rushes, and then chose a clump for my own disguise. Cutting vegetation let me forget that the practice was over . . . today Papa expected us to really grab a duck. And since I was pretty good at pretending to be marsh grass, I had no excuse to miss.
Lord, I didn’t want to drown a duck. I knew this was silly—I’d spent the winter and spring learning how to set traps that worked, and I’d scraped more pelts than I could easily count—but there was something about grabbing duck feet and yanking down . . .
It didn’t take long to have more grass than I could use, plus some cattails and a few of those sectioned tubes we’ve always called snake sticks. I carefully wiped clean my knife on the indigo tail of my cotton shirt and tucked it into its sheath. Then I started twisting and peeling reeds to make strands long enough to tie around my neck. I could cheat, of course, and tuck them into the collar of my shirt, but what if someday I needed to try this without clothes?
Not if Momma had anything to say about it. She was mad enough about Papa teaching me to swim, much less the lessons with Josh, Wylie and Shaw. She put her foot down firmly on the idea of us in the water stark naked. Granted, I don’t look much like a woman, yet, but I suppose it wouldn’t have been a good idea. So the boys wore old worn pants, and I wore a sleeveless tunic with a skirt that reached to my knees. I think Momma thought I was wearing leggings under it, but I got by with my linings. Who needed the weight on legs and feet? I mean, legs are legs.
Although the sun was still under the rim of the world, I wasn’t cold at all. In some ways the month of Sun was my favorite, because there’s all that wonderful heat, but none of the stickiness of the month of Fruit. I couldn’t see far in the dusty light, but the sound of soft ripples pushing against the shore meant that Shaw and Wylie were already in the water.
Once I had my disguise adjusted to my satisfaction, I set my knife over on a tree stump where the boys had piled their things. Papa was somewhere nearby, but he never hovered—he just told us what to do and then disappeared. That morning he’d said: “I want you four to duck blind today, and catch Sunday dinner.” In other words, be floating bushes.
’Course, the boys just had to catch—and maybe pluck—a duck. I’d have to cook and season it, too. Sometimes I thought God must be female, because life had entirely too many little things that were needful, and women were best at handling the little things.
I didn’t want to drown a duck. Sure, Cousin Cory had said the ducks had a fighting chance, and I knew what he meant—if the duck wasn’t fooled by my clump of weeds, then the duck wouldn’t come close. And if the duck was stronger than I was, it didn’t matter if the duck was fooled—it could pull away and take off. But I—well, you know my feelings on the subject.
Why didn’t I want to grab a duck? Good question. I didn’t have an answer, not at that point, but I’d been right glad that all those trap line animals had done their dying when I wasn’t around.
Wylie and Josh looked solemn, like they were going into church or something. I’d never thought of a bush as looking serious—it was almost worth a giggle. They made fairly good bushes, if a bit rigid. Both of them splashed too much when they swam, so I expected them to sneak around the lip of the lake and settle over where the water lilies grew.
Shaw and I were better swimmers, so we had the entire shallow cove to choose from. I slipped off my shoes and tossed them by the clothes. My toes were begging for some sand to twitch in, and this lovely waterway was mostly sand at our end.
It was light enough that I could see Josh creeping into the water lilies. A couple of angry quacks made me
look up, but there was no thrashing going on anywhere. Wylie’s voice floated across the cove.
“Watch out for that li’l point—there’s a momma mallard there with a mess of ducklings, and she’s in a pecking mood. Those babies aren’t worth the catching, anyway. They’re no more than a bite of fluff.”
Wish he hadn’t said that. Lord, I never want to be hungry enough to eat baby ducks.
“Baby ducks ain’t Sunday dinner,” Josh whispered loudly.
Good thinking, Joshua. I paused a moment at land’s end, letting cool water lap my toes, and then I started in. The weeds were few this close to shore, but I moved very slowly, more to keep from getting tangled than for noise. Sounds don’t count until you’re eye level with ducks . . . then they might figure out you’re not what you seem. Tall humans they avoided, but sneaky little shrubs?
The cove was shallow enough to have cooled off some during the night, but it wasn’t bad if you kept moving. Float with the waves, move with the wind. Drift with the waves . . . I let my arms move out away from me, still below the surface but near shoulder height. All I had to do was keep my weedy face above water.
I found a good spot near a few other tussocks. It was still pretty sandy, but with more weeds anchored around. I was able to touch bottom and even bend my knees, which meant good traction if I needed it. Now there was nothing left to do but watch and wait.
If I was gonna drown a duck, I was gonna get it right the first time. That duck was never going to know what hit it.
Dawn had finally arrived, glittering off water shining like polished metal. Things are sharp at the moment of sunrise. I could see Papa seated on a log back in the trees, a dark form framed by tall black pines and oaks. Looked a lot like this right at sunset, too, before Indian light set in, and everything melted into shadows of gray . . .
Fresh sunlight carved a path across the water, the tips of tiny waves flickering like struck flint. A breeze started up, curling past my ears and raising a strand of hair. My reeds whispered above my head. The water still looked dark, even though there was a mess of birds dipping for minnows and stuff on the bottom. What with wind, waves and the feeding, soon the sand would be so churned up the cove would be several shades lighter than the rest of the lake. The marsh at the mouth of the meandering creek had more mud, and held its color longer.
I’d been still so long a few little fish came up to see if the floating material around my waist was good to eat. I guess dyed cotton didn’t do much for them, ’cus they darted away pretty quick. I was worried I’d startled them until I felt something larger slide by my leg—a big perch, maybe, I wasn’t real good on fish. Just part of the scenery, I was, a very solid tussock . . .
Josh got the first duck of the day. It was quite a triumph, ’cus Wylie had just made a grab and missed. The whole flock could have shot straight up in the air over that. But Josh just stayed still and ignored all the commotion, like a good clump of weeds, and the ducks floated over his way! I found out later it took two hands for him to hang on to that duck, but somehow he kept it from breaking the surface.
Not greedy, my brother. He started floating back to shore, to hand Papa the duck. After a moment, I couldn’t see him, so I wasn’t sure if he’d come back out or not.
A group of wood ducks was floating my way, with some mallards and a few blue teals and ring-necked mixed in. I was surprised to see the mallards and teals—they don’t dive when they can dabble—but maybe the weeds were high enough here for them. All my muscles were tightening up, in anticipation, I supposed, so I tried to calm myself.
No females. I knew my markings well enough to tell the difference, and I didn’t want to risk grabbing somebody who’d left a nest for a quick snack. I could see babies bobbing with the gathering, all striped and speckled in their disguises. Surely a male would land here soon?
∞
Maybe I could grab a male. It was nothing but trouble, the whole idea. I floated until my fingers were wrinkled and my skin starting to flare from cold, but I couldn’t attract anything except females. Even the juveniles came to nibble at my weeds. Maybe my collar was too good.
The boys were having better luck. At least Shaw was—he had a knack for this trap. I was turned so I could watch what he was doing, and he grabbed first one blue teal and then, a few moments later, another one. That’s how it’s supposed to be—smooth and quiet. He made it look easy . . . but I didn’t expect it to be easy. Wylie missed again, which made him mad, but he finally caught a fat female who wasn’t smart enough to stay with the others.
I found myself wondering if she had babies, and then pushed the thought away. Made me tense up again.
Too cold . . . Papa was going to make me get out pretty soon, if the ducks didn’t stop feeding first. I had to grab a duck . . . these classes were mostly for me, so I could stay home, instead of staying with my Aunt Marta for lessons. I couldn’t take up Papa’s time for nothing.
Just when I was trying to talk myself into a female with no babies floating around her, two males paddled past. One was an old wood duck, the other a young mallard mix. It was like a gift from God, and I knew that I had to get one of them.
I didn’t think—I grabbed.
Suddenly there was a heap of motion under the water, and my arms were almost jerked off. Who in creation could have guessed I’d get hold of both? Never had I held on to anything so tight—I finally understood what a death grip was like. One of the ducks panicked and kept trying to wiggle away. That one I hauled deep, so he couldn’t get any air.
The other had leverage. I’d grabbed only one leg, so he was flapping wings and feet at me, trying to peck whatever had hold of him, beating at me like an enraged goose. I knew I’d be bruised, but I hung on for all I was worth; I was afraid I’d hurt his leg, see, and he’d starve if he couldn’t heal. If he was gonna die from my grab, it was gonna be here and now.
Time slowed, I swear it did—the thrashing changed, no longer rhythmic, but in scattered, frenzied intervals. The wood duck had exhausted itself, and finally floated limp, but I will swear to my dying day that mallard kept moving until the last bit of air was gone from his body.
Finally there was a quiver, a little twitch along his leg, and then there wasn’t any more motion.
By that time my hands were so cold I wasn’t sure I could let go, so I didn’t. Could ducks play possum? If they could, they deserved their freedom. But I had felt that mallard die . . . I knew I had. A lump started swelling in my throat.
Slowly I worked my way to the rocky beach, covered with a thin layer of sand myself. All I could think was that Momma would not be happy that I needed to wash my hair.
Papa met me at the waterline, nodding as he saw the birds. “I thought you got both of them. Well done, daughter.”
Tears welled up and over before I could get hold of myself. Suddenly I couldn’t stop shaking.
“I killed them!”
Well, you never saw such a confused bunch of boys. Josh and the others had come up to see the ducks, all full of smiles, and then their expressions sort of fell, like men whose race horse tripped at the line. That’s all I saw—then my sight was too blurred to see anything.
Somebody pried the birds out of my hands (that mallard took some work—I’d made sure of him) and someone else had an arm around my shoulders. “We were supposed to, Allie!” I heard Wylie say as he hugged me. “How else could we know if we could catch dinner, if we ever needed to?” He started plucking the reeds from my disguise.
“We won’t waste them, Allie,” came Josh’s voice from somewhere. “We’ll eat them up on Sunday, honest!” He was almost pleading with me.
I couldn’t talk, couldn’t say I knew all that, couldn’t explain worth spit. It was kinder than I’d expect them to act, what with their usual words about crybaby girls. Guess I’d proved myself enough in the past few months to merit some respect.
“We can keep the feathers, Allie, and make something beautiful from them,” came Shaw’s low voice. “So we always
remember what a meal costs.”
“Costs? These ducks were free!” Wylie said then.
The scent of Papa’s tobacco and the feel of his worn chambray shirt intruded, pulling me away from the others. “You fellows get yourselves cleaned up. We’ll be over there.” He guided my steps to a sandy ridge. Sun had already burned away the dew—I was the only wet thing left. We sat down among the reeds, and Papa pushed his red cotton handkerchief into my hand.
I cried a bit longer, a drawn out, sobby kind of thing, and then wiped my eyes with the cloth. Papa just waited, his eyes on the lake, the light breeze lifting the fair hair laying on his collar. Warm scents of growth and decay floated in off the marsh.
“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to say.
“What for? Don’t ever apologize for feeling bad about killing something, Allie. Taking life is a serious matter.”
I tried to look at him, but my eyes kept filling with water.
“That’s one reason we learn to be good with traps and weapons, daughter. So we don’t make mistakes; so an animal doesn’t suffer.”
“I . . . I was afraid to let go of the mallard. I thought maybe I’d broken its leg,” I finally whispered.
“I’d brought my gun, in case that happened,” Papa admitted. This shocked me, ’cus I hadn’t noticed. Had I been so preoccupied?
We sat there awhile, the slight breeze curling round our faces. Then Papa said: “Seems like Josh and your Momma have been killing our capons lately. I thought that was your job. You giving up eating chicken?”
I knew what he meant. “Capon” was an old word folks used for the young male birds that would never be roosters. It surprised me that he’d noticed I’d been ducking out on wringing chicken necks. Swallowing, I tried to find an answer for him. “I felt that duck die, Papa. I felt the life drain out of its body. Chickens . . . well, chickens aren’t good for much but eating, but they must feel it, too. Know when they’re going to die, I mean.”