Probably afraid of the wolves¸ he thought as he drifted off to sleep.
A small female duck waddled along a sunny dirt path. It looked up and saw the noon sun shining through a few passing clouds.
The duck proceeded on its path towards the giant box where the people lived. As she approached, she saw the door swing open and close. The banging sound as it shut gave her a start, but she bravely continued her approach and announced her arrival.
“Wacka,” said the duck.
Marge looked down at the sound. A large grin spread across her face. “Katie,” she called, her eyes not leaving the duck. “I think you have a visitor.”
A muffled response came from inside the cabin. Kate emerged rubbing her eyes. “A what?” she said, looking exhausted. “Who’s here, Grandma?”
Marge nodded in the direction of the duck.
“Wacka,” said the duck.
Kate brightened. “Wacka! It’s you! Hi, Wacka!” She crouched on her knees and greeted the duck with a pat on her head. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
“Wacka,” repeated the duck.
“Did you come looking for me? Oh, what a smart duck…” gushed Kate.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked Marge.
“Oh, Grandma,” said Kate. “This is Wacka. We met last night. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Marge smiled. “Stunning,” she said. “Do you suppose she’d like a crust of bread?”
“I’m sure she would.”
Kate sat with Wacka on her lap, feeding her bits of bread and stroking her feathery back.
“And what about you?” asked Marge. “Can I get you some lunch? I imagine flying and swimming work up an appetite.”
“Would you?” asked Kate. “I’m starving.”
“Sure. But you’ve got to tell me everything about last night.”
“It was so fantastic, Grandma!” exclaimed Kate. “It was just—” She searched for the right word. “Perfect.” Kate talked on as Marge fueled with her sandwiches and cups of tea.
“And you enjoyed the goo, did you?” interjected Marge at one point in the story.
“I wouldn’t say ‘enjoyed’ is the right word,” said Kate. “But….”
Marge laughed. Kate kept on, repeating whole sections of her story as more members of her family emerged from the cabin.
“Kate, you are the cutest duck,” laughed her aunt. “Not everyone can wear feathers, but my girl, you work them.”
“Hey, what became of you last night, Bea?” asked Lisa. “One minute you were with us, the next you were gone. Where’d you go?”
Bea blushed. “Oh, I was around.”
“Around where?” teased Brian.
“Oh, you know,” stammered Bea. She looked more than relieved to find a distraction from the conversation as she spotted Marcus striding into the campfire clearing.
“Good morning,” said Marcus. He settled in close beside Bea on the bench. Kate thought he looked awfully comfortable at her side, and Bea didn’t seem to mind.
“Well, let’s get down to it, then,” said Brian, clearing his throat. “What happened last night? How did a werewolf end up turning into a duck?”
All eyes turned to Kate.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I just quacked.”
“It’s amazing,” said Lisa. “I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it.”
“Me neither,” said Marcus.
“Have you ever heard of something like this, Mum?” asked Lisa.
“No,” said Marge. She paused and pursed her lips. “Maybe.”
“Another wereduck?” asked Kate.
“No, definitely not that,” said Marge thoughtfully. “But your grandfather told me a story once. It was a story his mother told him, and her mother told her.”
The group fell quiet as Marge started her story.
“There was a pair of sisters. Their mum was a wolf; their dad was not. When they were kids, no one was sure if they’d become wolves at all.”
Marge watched the fire as she spoke.
“The older sister became a wolf, which was a relief to them all. As the younger girl got closer to thirteen, she became terrified that it wouldn’t happen. She just didn’t feel the wolf in her like her sister did. She was afraid her family would send her away if she didn’t become a wolf. One day, after a rain, she went looking in the woods for a set of wolf tracks.”
“Wolf tracks?” said Brian.
“I’ve heard of that,” said Marcus. “Drinking water from the footprint of a wolf is said to turn you into a werewolf. That’s a northern European legend.”
“Well, she found footprints all right,” added Marge, “and she drank the muddy water.”
“Gross,” said Bobby.
“When the full moon came,” Marge continued, ignoring Bobby, “instead of howling, the girl started making an odd sound. Like yipping or yelping.”
“What happened?” asked Kate.
“She turned into a fox,” said Marge. “A red fox. As soon as she grew her red coat and black socks she scurried off into the woods. They never saw her again.”
Marge picked up a stick and poked at the coals in the fire pit. “I always thought it was just a story, but there it is.”
“Well,” said Marcus, “legends usually begin with a piece of truth. I don’t think Ducky here has been sipping from any webbed footprints. Have you?”
Kate shook her head.
“But if the girl in the story didn’t feel like she was a wolf,” continued Marcus, “maybe she was meant to be something else. And maybe we’re looking at the same thing right here.”
He nodded to Kate.
“So, does this mean any of us can turn into whatever we want?” asked Bea.
“Who can say?” said Brian. “I still feel like a wolf.”
“Me too,” said Marcus.
The discussion continued. A yawning figure emerged from the woods and approached the fire. John ran a hand thought his messy hair. He had obviously just woken up.
“What’s going on?” he asked, stretching.
“Just trying to figure out our little duck mystery,” said Marcus. “What’d you get up to last night?”
John rubbed a tender spot on the bridge of his nose. “I got attacked by a duck,” he said.
“Kate!” exclaimed her mother.
“She was just playing,” said John with a grin. “But that was so much fun that I decided to sleep the rest of the night.”
“Again?” exclaimed Bobby.
John shrugged. He plopped on the ground next to Kate and Wacka.
“Nice duck,” he said to Kate.
“Yup,” she said, not looking up.
“A friend of yours?”
“Yup.”
Kate fed Wacka a piece of bread.
“I was going to go exploring south of our camp,” said John. “Your dad said there are some old caves and stuff along the bluffs. You want to come?”
“Nah,” said Kate. “Wacka and I were going to spend some time at the lake.”
“Huh,” replied John. “Can I come?”
Kate shrugged.
“I want to go to the caves! That’d be awesome!” said Bobby. “Mum, can I go?”
“Sure,” said Lisa.
“Cool! Let’s go!” he said.
“All right,” said John, still watching Kate. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
“I guess,” she said.
Kate ignored the boys as they left. She pulled a long blade of grass from the ground and teased Wacka with it.
“You were a little cold, don’t you think?” said her grandmother quietly as the others continued their conversation around them.
“Mmm,” said Kate, not looking terribly concerned. “Maybe.”
Kate didn’t feel great about being rude to John, but she didn’t feel like making an effort to be friendly, either. If he was only interested in chatting with her now that Aunt Bea was otherwise occupied, she didn’t feel obliged to be charming in return.
Bea raised an axe above her head and brought it down with one fluid motion. A length of wood split in two pieces with a crack and fell to the ground.
“You still haven’t said when you’re heading back to Ontario,” said Marge. She picked up the pieces and set them on the growing pile of firewood beside them.
“Not sure,” said Bea, setting another piece of wood on the block. “I kind of like the idea of spending the rest of the summer here. Maybe I’ll stick around a while.”
She split the wood with a single chop.
“Because of us or because of Marcus?” asked Marge.
“Mum, he’s nice,” said Bea. “I wish you would give this a rest.”
“I just don’t understand what they’re doing here. I think you should keep your distance.”
“Mum, I’m a grown-up.”
Bea leaned the axe against the block and walked away. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the sweat from her face.
Kate lay face-down in the water, peering through the murk to the muddy lake bottom. Clumps of grass swayed in the current. In the shallow sections, the tips grew to within a few inches of the surface. Kate tried to imagine plunging further into the water to grab bits of grass with her teeth.
She raised her head to take a fresh breath of air and found herself staring into the face of Wacka. “Hey there,” she said, treading water.
Wacka tipped her bill into the water, letting her bottom dangle in the air. She came back up and shook the water from her face before dabbling again below the surface.
Kate drifted on her back with her eyes closed. She loved the feeling of the sun on her face while the rest of her body was immersed in water. Her ears heard nothing but the low rumble of the water around her.
She opened her eyes to watch clouds pass overhead. One looked like a horse’s head. Another looked like Newfoundland. Or was it Cape Breton? Just as she was trying to decide, something emerged from the water next to her. Kate gasped.
“Wacka,” quacked the duck as she climbed onto Kate’s body and made herself at home on her chest.
“I’m not a boat!” laughed Kate. She let the duck hitch a ride for a few moments before tossing her playfully into the water. Wacka made a big production of flapping and quacking, but she was clearly having a good time. Kate smiled and wished that humans were as easy to get along with as ducks.
She rolled over and swam with slow strokes toward the shore. Sometime in the last few minutes, her aunt had arrived at the lakeside.
“Oh, hi,” said Kate.
“Hey,” said Bea, forcing a smile.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kate, stepping out of the water.
“Nothing,” replied Bea. “Just parent stuff, y’know?”
“Tell me about it,” said Kate, rolling her eyes. Bea handed her a towel.
“Some other time, maybe,” said Bea. “Hey, you want to do something with me tonight?”
“Sure, what?” asked Kate.
“Marcus wants to go bowling.”
“Okay,” said Kate suspiciously. “Just the three of us?”
“Yes,” said Bea. “The three of us, and John.”
“Oh,” said Kate. She swallowed hard.
“Is that a problem?” asked Bea.
In the weeks since the full moon, Kate hadn’t spoken more than a few words to John. Frosty relations can be habit-forming; she was getting used to ignoring his attempts to make friends. As the days passed, his attempts had become fewer. She didn’t really want to spend time with him, but just now she couldn’t think of a good reason not to.
“No,” said Kate finally. “I guess not.”
“Good,” said Bea, getting up and dusting herself off. “Be ready for 7:30.”
Kate sat in silence on a cold plastic bench beside John. The sounds of laughter and chatter around them was interrupted every few seconds by the hollow crash of a bowling ball knocking into a set of wooden pins.
“There’s a cheery couple,” said Bea approaching from the front desk. She handed John and Kate their rented bowling shoes. “Marcus and I are going to go over to the snack counter. You guys want anything?”
“No thanks,” said Kate. She unlaced a pair of old brown and black leather shoes as Bea and Marcus walked off.
John kicked off his sneakers and picked up one of his bowling shoes. “You ever stop to wonder how many people have worn these?” he asked, holding it up. “I bet hundreds, if not thousands.”
Kate said nothing. John sighed and pushed on.
“Have I ever told you my theory about bowling?” he asked. He waited a moment for the response he knew wasn’t coming. “It’s pretty complex. You ready? People hate bowling.”
“That’s it?” said Kate flatly. “‘People hate bowling’?”
“Yup,” said John. “Pretty fabulous, eh?”
“Genius,” she said, tying her shoes.
“Look around,” said John. “See the evidence. Why do most people come bowling? Because they have nothing better to do, and they forget how much they hated bowling the last time they went.”
“Okay,” said Kate. “What about those people?”
She pointed at a family bowling two lanes over. They were laughing. They were smiling. A teenaged girl threw a strike to the great applause of her family.
“Poor slobs,” said Kate. “They look miserable.”
“Ah, but they’re obviously playing their first game. The first game always goes great,” said John. “Look at the people in the next lane. They’re showing classic second-game symptoms.”
He was right. This party was decidedly less enthusiastic. The father sat at the desk, scowling in deep concentration at the score sheet.
“See? No one bowls as good in their second game as they did in their first. They’re a little bummed out, a little cranky. At least one person starts to get obsessed with the score, and another person tries to keep it fun by being silly.”
As John finished his sentence, a boy attempted to roll the ball backwards through his legs.
Kate smiled. “What about those people?” she said, motioning to a family at the end of the alley.
“Game three,” said John. He shook his head. “Everyone is tired. The night has dragged on longer than they expected. Most of the group wants to go home, but the person obsessed with the score keeps saying that they ‘paid for three games, so they’re going to play three games.’”
The kids in this group sat slumped on their seats. A girl about Kate’s age had already changed back into her street shoes and looked ready to leave.
“People hate bowling,” repeated John as Bea and Marcus arrived with an armful of snacks.
“Okay!” said Bea with great enthusiasm. “So, we’ve paid for three games! Let’s do this!”
Marcus grabbed the score sheet, studying it intently. He held the tip of the tiny pencil to his lips.
Kate put her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Her cheeks turned bright red.
“What?” asked Marcus. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” said John with a grin. He looked at Kate. “We’re just really excited about bowling.”
“But we paid for three games,” Marcus was arguing two hours later.
“Okay, Dad. We got it,” said John. “We just want to go, all right? You guys enjoy the rest of your night.”
“Oh, let them go,” said Bea. “They’re tired.”
“Well,” said Marcus, looking from Bea to John. “Okay.”
John yanked off his shoes and wiggled his toes. “Sweet freedom,” he said.
“I just need
to stop at the bathroom before we go,” said Kate.
“I’ll join you,” said Bea. She grabbed Kate’s arm and pulled her toward the bathrooms.
Marcus sat across from his son and watched him lace up his sneakers. “You like this girl,” said Marcus.
John shrugged.
“Yeah, well, we’re not going to be around here forever,” said Marcus.
“I like it here.”
“It’s only a matter of time. You know that.”
John sat still for a minute. “When?” he asked finally.
“I don’t know,” said Marcus. “Soon.”
“What about Bea?” said John.
“What about her?” said Marcus.
John stared at his dad a moment. “It just seems, like, maybe you like her,” he said. “And maybe that’s enough reason to stick around.”
Marcus sighed. “We’ve been over this a million times. We can’t stay anywhere. Ever.”
“But I don’t get…” began John.
“No. No, you don’t,” said Marcus as Bea and Kate approached from across the bowling alley. He lowered his voice. “And maybe it’s time you were grown up enough to start getting it.”
“Such serious faces,” said Bea as she arrived, looking back and forth between Marcus and John. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Nothing,” said John. He turned to Kate. “You ready?”
She nodded. “Let’s go.”
Bea sat next to Marcus on the bench. She leaned into him as they watched Kate and John walk out the front door and into the night.
“They’re sweet,” said Bea.
“Yeah,” said Marcus. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. His mouth smiled but his eyes didn’t.
“It’s so dark,” said Kate. She could just barely see John walking beside her on the gravel road. Had Kate not walked this way hundreds of times, it would have been nearly impossible to find where they were going.
“No moon,” pointed out John. “It won’t rise for another hour. It’ll be full in a few nights,” he said. He thought a few moments as they slowly walked on. “We never talked about last month. What happened?”
Wereduck Page 5