Duck Boy

by Bill Bunn

  “Where am I?” she asked in a tired, confused voice. She noticed Steve standing in front of her. “Steve! What are you doing here?”

  Steve hadn’t heard the question. He had grabbed his mother in a ferocious hug. “How did you get here, Steve?” she asked, returning his embrace.

  “It’s a long story.” The ground underneath them started to tremble and growl, the ocean snarled and snapped before him. The two of them released each other, both of them realizing there was much more work to be done before any celebration. “Here’s your notebook,” Steve said to his mom, with tears in his eyes. In his hand he held her notepad that he’d pulled out from his bag. Steve suddenly felt awkward, and he didn’t know what to do, so he handed the notebook to her.

  Steve held her Benu stone. “When I give you your Benu stone, you’ll be transported back to our house,” he declared, his eyes fixed on his mother’s glowing face. “Just touch your stone with one hand and your notebook with the other, and you’ll end up back at home,” he repeated to be sure she understood. “You know how you got here with the dictionary and your Benu stone? Well, your notebook and your stone will take you back home,” Steve said, tears streaming down his face. He slipped her Benu stone into the pocket of her sweater. “I’ll see you there once I’m done here.”

  He walked towards the edge of the ocean, leaving his mother some distance back, when the mask materialized in front of Steve. “You cannot leave this world,” thundered the mask. “You are ours. You promised yourself to us. We have categories, files, and places to put each piece of you. You have violated our world twice, too. You are thrice ours.”

  Steve plunged one hand into his backpack. He pulled out his stone and held it in one hand while he fumbled to find his notebook with the other.

  Get out of here now. Get out before anything else happens.

  As he juggled his Benu stone, fumbling inside his bag, he lost his grip and watched the stone tumble—spinning from his hands into the Ocean of Pieces.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

  As it touched the surface of the ocean, it puffed into a blue cloud of fragments and added itself to the ocean of pieces. Steve opened his mouth to yell, but nothing came out.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy. I’m dead.

  Steve stood there waiting for something to happen. Nothing. There was nothing else to do but pay the price.

  “Show me what price I must pay and I will pay it,” Steve shouted angrily at the mask.

  “We must put you into the ocean of fragments, one piece at time,” the mask said.

  “You are only a scrap-yard of molecules,” Steve yelled at the mask.

  “You must enter the ocean,” said the mask. “Stand still and we will give you the gift of sleep,” said the mask with a sweet smile.

  Steve walked towards the ocean.

  “Stop,” the mask ordered. “I will disassemble you before you enter the Ocean of Pieces.”

  But the thought of standing there was too agonizing.

  Let’s get this over with.

  Without another thought to stop him, Steve dove into the Ocean of Pieces.

  He felt nothing, at first, as he floated down through the globs and bits of things.

  I wonder if this is how Richard died.

  His mind conjured a picture of Richard, wet, drowned, lying on the bedroom floor.

  As he sank deeper into the airy muck, he felt as if he’d fallen into acid. His skin began to burn. It felt like the liquid in this ocean was trying to dissolve his body. He remembered how this world had dissolved the parts of his finger.

  It’s probably trying to break me apart, Steve thought. I’m going to end up in pieces.

  But from somewhere inside of Steve, a new strength found its wings: he found something inside of him that wanted to fight back.

  I am whole.

  And then he had a thought that almost made him laugh.

  I am Duck Boy. Duck Boy floats.

  His thoughts became fuzzy, like a TV that lost its signal. Words became strings of sounds in his head. He thought of his hands and feet as himself. And as he thought about himself, the burning sensation left his skin. He thought of his own body as it might appear in a mirror. The picture of himself, with his arms and legs dissolved into fuzzy blobs of color. The color lifted from the image and mixed with the light of his mind, until Steve gave up thinking for a moment, slipping into nothingness.

  The image of his Benu stone floated into his thoughts. Its blue oval shape jolted him as it jumped into his consciousness. As it touched his thoughts, shock waves shot from his head to his toes, and a new thought shouted down the corridors of his brain.

  I don’t need to pretend I’m whole. I AM whole.

  The airy muck he was floating in suddenly felt wet. He realized he couldn’t breathe. Immediately, he surged upwards, kicking towards the surface. He thrashed upward towards that dim gray light of the dawn. With a final push, he broke through the surface, gasping for air.

  The mask hovered near the edge of the ocean, not moving towards Steve. Steve flailed and splashed to the edge of the ocean and stepped out near the mask, drenched by the water. He walked over to the mask. It seemed to be having difficulty holding itself together. It trembled and twisted as if it was fighting with itself.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” the mask said in a horrible raspy voice. “You shouldn’t have done that,” it repeated, but its voice sounded odd, as if its voice had speeded up. “You shouldn’t have done that,” it repeated a third time; this time the voice seemed unusually slow.

  Steve watched the mask, its pieces pulling apart, and then together, like it was arguing with itself.

  “I am not pieces. I am whole. There is nothing you can do to change that except to kill me. But you can’t even do that unless I agree. Your world is made of nothing—images, letters, atoms. How can you even exist? You’re snippets of things from here and there—garbage and glue. I alone recognize what you are. You are pieces held together by nothing.” He dripped with the wetness of the ocean on the shore.

  The mask trembled and twisted, though expressionless. It tried to hold itself together. Part of it fell away into a powdery cloud of fragments—swarming like gnats. Part of it burst into flames. Part of it crumbled to dust, and dropped to the ground and disappeared. And the mask was gone.

  Steve knew something about this world had changed, though he wasn’t sure just what it was. He sat down on the shiny black surface to catch his breath and think about how he might get home again.

  Mom’s home.

  Though he hadn’t slept for a long time, he felt the blaze of new life energizing him.

  The mask was gone. The mask was in charge of this world, and had disintegrated. The World of Pieces seemed to have stabilized, resting as he rested.

  Who is in charge of this world now?

  Steve yelled hello several times in every direction, trying to summon any other thing that might be in charge of this world. Someone has to be around somewhere, he thought. Nothing. Steve cupped his hands and shouted as loud as he could, “What am I supposed to do now?” He repeated this to himself several times trying to make something, or someone, help him and give him some direction. Nothing.

  As he pondered what had just occurred, he was suddenly struck by an odd and exhilarating thought.

  Maybe I’m the master of this world.

  Steve decided to put his thought to a test, so he turned to face the ocean. “Listen to me, ocean,” he said. Steve focused on the ocean. “Fire,” he said and the ocean exploded into an inferno of intense heat. Steve backed away from the edge of the burning ocean. “Water,” he said to the ocean, and the ocean flattened into a bed of calm water. Steve ran his hand through the ocean, and his hand was wet. “Grapes,” he said quietly. And a cluster of the most succulent grapes he had ever seen appeared in front of him. He reached out towards them and plucked a grape and ate it. A superb, succulent grape flavor exploded in his mouth.

  “Give me my Benu stone.”
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br />   Steve watched as the ocean rushed to push the fragments of his Benu stone together on the edge of the shore. Steve turned to pick up his backpack, which still sat on the shore. He picked up his stone and placed it in the bag.

  It’s mine. This is my world now.

  Steve had once belonged to it, now it belonged to him.

  “You are my world now,” Steve said to everything and nothing. “You will listen to me. I am a Whole One: I am the Duck Boy.”

  “Hello, Steve,” yelled a voice. Steve nearly jumped out of his skin, shocked that anyone was around at all. He scanned the horizon—at the top of a polished glass hill stood his mother. She had seen the whole thing.

  “Mom?” Steve broke into a run towards her. She didn’t return his call, but simply held her arms open wide. Steve met her open arms in a crushing bear hug.

  “You waited for me,” he declared in a joyful voice. “You waited for me.”

  “What did you think I’d do?” his mom asked. “I’m not going to leave you here all alone.”

  Steve hugged her tighter.

  “You were gone for a very, very long time, Son. I was really worried about you. Let’s go home,” Mrs. Best suggested. Steve nodded without speaking. He pulled his stone out of his backpack and placed it in his pocket. Then he grabbed his notebook.

  “Are you ready, Mom?” She nodded and grinned.

  Steve swung his backpack over his shoulder and grabbed his plaque and notepad. He kept his eye on his mom, who did the same thing with her stone and notebook. The two of them burst into spirals of bright light.

  To break the death-grip of silence hovering in the Best house, Lindsay walked to the window and looked up at the sky. She studied the stars as they burned their way through the dark night sky.

  “Beautiful night,” she said absently, hoping someone might want to notice along with her. Then, as she watched, a streak of light flashed across the sky.

  Uncle Edward sat on the couch holding Aunt Shannon’s hand, both looking lost and helpless. Aunt Shannon held her head with her other hand and wept silently. Mr. Best slouched in Mrs. Best’s chair, dark and speechless.

  Death’s pall, dull and leaden, strangled the air in the room. But then, suddenly, there was a wink of light and the air tore open above them. A huge burst of light hovered above Mr. Best, slowly spinning down upon him. Mr. Best was thrown across the floor and landed in a mound in front of the couch. Mrs. Best materialized in the chair she’d disappeared from.

  The others froze in their seats, and Mr. Best lay paralyzed with terror on the floor.

  “Silent Night!” Uncle Edward exclaimed. “It’s Susan, come home.”

  “Hello, everyone,” Mrs. Best chirped cheerily. “I’m back.”

  No one moved. Each person was too stunned by what had happened even to make a comment. They just stared at Mrs. Best.

  “What’s everyone doing here?” Steve asked as he rounded a corner and entered the living room. He’d materialized back in his bedroom and walked to the living room. Everyone in the room turned their frozen stares toward Steve, without uttering a single word—stunned back into silence.

  “What? What’s the matter?” Steve asked, as he noticed the deep lines of grief and shock on the faces in the room. “What’s going on? What have I done now?”

  “Mary and the Blessed Baby! Steve’s returned, too!” Uncle Edward exclaimed with a triumphant shout. Uncle Edward’s words seemed to free everyone from the staring trance that had held them motionless, and the room exploded into pandemonium. Mr. Best leapt from his spot on the floor into his wife’s waiting arms as she sat on the chair, and they showered each other with affection.

  The two of them opened their arms as Steve joined them in a huge hug. It wasn’t a time for words. All the people in the room flooded around the Best family, forming a huge mob of joy. Once the initial shock of the moment was over, the emotion in the room gave way to a torrent of questions.

  Lindsay hugged Steve and then held him at arm’s length, inspecting him with a puzzled look. “I thought for sure you were dead. What happened?”

  “And what happened to your hand?” asked Mr. Best, pointing to Steve’s missing finger.

  The hubbub in the rest of the room settled down as he asked the question. Steve flopped onto the floor as the group began to share their stories and perceptions of all that had happened.

  Partway through the festivities, the doorbell rang. It was Larry, in uniform. He stepped inside to address the family.

  “I’m here to convey my official condolences to the family on the passing of Steve Best,” he said somberly. His eyebrows showed his confusion as he noticed the giddy people milling around the room.

  When he saw Steve sitting on the couch, Larry fainted.

  Steve and Mr. Best lifted the detective onto the couch, and the group continued their conversations until he reawakened.

  Larry was initially quite uncomfortable with the idea that Steve was still alive and Mrs. Best had returned.

  But after a few minutes he recovered most of his composure.

  “You won’t believe how much paperwork I’ll have to do.” Though he smiled. “It’s great to have you back. Now we’ve really got a complicated mess on our hands,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m here on a matter of utmost urgency. And with you two alive, it gets much more knotted.” He thought for a moment before attempting to explain.

  “The criminals we captured are an experimenting group of alchemists who are after any alchemical secrets. They want to make themselves rich. You and your family have obviously managed to find and use several methods that would make you targets for the rest of your lives. That’s why we must keep everything that has happened a secret. No one but the people in this room must ever know what went on in this case—ever.” He paused for a moment. “I am going to have to explain how Steve managed to survive the fire, and how Mrs. Best managed to return home. This isn’t going to be easy.” He thought for a few moments.

  “How would everybody feel if I reported things like this: I’ll say that Mrs. Best went on a trip to California. I know you have a sister there. I’d like to say, um… that it was… um… well, that you were having marriage difficulties—if that’s OK with you.” Larry eyed Mr. and Mrs. Best carefully, waiting for their agreement.

  After looking at each other, they both nodded slowly.

  “Most people would believe that. Um… could we say she left a note somewhere, but that the note was lost somehow?” Larry looked around the room, making sure people agreed with him. “Mrs. Best, you’re going to have to invent a clear story about where you went and what you did. Mr. and Mrs. Best, you need to invent a marriage problem. Make sure your story is straight, all right?” Larry paused for a moment and turned to Steve. “I’m going to have to say something about how you got out of the fire, Steve.”

  Steve thought with Larry and made his own suggestion. “Why don’t you say I was hit on the head, wandered away from the scene, and was found later?”

  “That’s not bad. I think I’ll use it. How will I explain how you lost your finger?”

  “Maybe, while I was lost, one of my fingers was frostbitten and had to be amputated.”

  “That’s not too bad,” Larry said, thumbing his chin. “We’ll have to create some medical records somewhere to back this story up. It’s got to be perfect.”

  “You’re not a group of alchemists, OK?” Larry insisted as he looked around the room. “You’re just ordinary people who were mistakenly victimized by this gang, all right?” He scanned the room making sure everyone was in agreement. “By the way, I got my job back because of this case,” he pointed to Aunt Shannon and Steve. “I owe it all to you guys. Although I lost my job because of you, too.” He replaced his hat after scratching his head and staring at Steve and Mrs. Best. “Merry Christmas, everyone.”

  Larry headed out to his car under the clear night air, brooding over the tsunami of paper work now waiting for him.

  Inside Steve’s house
, around the warm light of a fire, the group recounted their various experiences, and how their lives had been changed by all of it. But it was Steve’s story that inspired them all, the story of how he had transformed from a frightened, frozen Duck Boy into the Lord of the Pond.

  At the place in between, the twilight did not change, nor did the deep solitude. No soul walked the shoreline. No boat sailed the sea. The dark, hungry water raged as things below moved to the surface and dropped below again. Waiting.

  teaches English at Mt. Royal University in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He lives out in the country where he has numerous dogs and cats and three teenagers, and keeps bees. He is the author, along with his wife, of an illustrated children’s book, Canoë Lune, and a columnist. His columns have appeared in Salon, The Globe and Mail, and elsewhere. Duck Boy is his first novel.

  The chapter vignettes are from the Tombats series of fonts, created by Tom Murphy VII (Tom7) and freely available on the Web. Thanks to Tom for making these and other designs available.