Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas

by Linda Banche

  Robert stretched, his tense muscles relaxing. He was more tired than he thought. But he had one last task before he retired. Light from the tapers in the wall sconces cast his shadow as a wavering black form as he strode along the corridor to the library.

  The library. His favorite room. Once he had made the mistake of telling that to a wine-sodden group of town cronies, and then had had to weather the lackwits’ ribbing. But he would never give up books in order to please idiots.

  A wedge of light spilled into the room as he opened the door. Large and paneled in the same dark wood as the dining room, the library ate up the illumination from the corridor. Orange flames leaping high up the chimney crackled and spit, their glow painting the two leather wing chairs before the grate with alternating brightness and shadow. On three walls, shelved books reached to the ceiling. His desk and a sideboard laden with an array of tumblers and decanters stood at the side of French doors that opened to a terrace. A large sofa sat on the side of the room opposite the hearth.

  He lit a candle at the fire and then touched its flame to the wick of the desk lamp. After setting the candle on the mantle, he wandered to the French doors and brushed back the burgundy velvet drapes covering them. Starlight glinted off the lawn, the boundary woods, and the aviary’s tallest pole, which extended above the screening trees.

  Birds, birds and more birds. Birds were everywhere in his life. The plush Turkey carpet cushioning his feet had a pattern of flying and nesting birds, with the same design on the drapes. His collection of natural history books were almost all about birds.

  He released the curtain. A piece of paper protruded from an empty space on one of the natural history shelves. Must be from Borland. Robert permitted him to borrow books, and the man always left a note, although Robert had assured him the note wasn’t necessary.

  Lamplight glinted off a painting of ducks in flight that hung over the hearth. More birds.

  “I have brought you a companion piece, my friends.”

  He skirted the desk toward the large wooden carrying case leaning against the corner wall. He dropped onto his knees and pried open the cover, from which a servant had already removed the fastening nails. Then, with great care, he lifted out a rectangular bundle sheathed in brown paper and secured with twine. After propping the item against its container, he unwrapped the article, ignoring the roll of foolscap that fell out with the packaging material.

  He sat back on his heels. At last. The painting looked even better now than when he had originally seen the work. Holding the canvas before him, he slowly rose to his feet.

  Last week he’d walked down Bond Street, barely glancing at the luxurious items in the shop windows, when he stopped short. With only one glance, The Picture had ensnared him as tightly as a net over a rabbit. He’d bolted into the shop, muttering a brusque apology to the annoyed patron he’d jostled, and demanded The Picture. He hadn’t even blinked at the outrageous sum the gallery owner proposed, much to the merchant’s delight.

  He nudged the desk chair out with his foot and then set the canvas on the seat. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stepped back for a better view. The Picture was worth every farthing.

  The painting portrayed a nesting mallard hen. She roosted on the shore of a pond, the background trees fuzzy green with sprouting new leaves. The water beside her shimmered pink and ochre in the rays of the rising sun. The hen herself, drab brown as all female ducks were, sat as if she were a queen presiding over a royal court.

  Only an artist of consummate skill, and also one who loved birds, could have rendered monotonous brown feathers in such exquisite detail as to produce this regal hen.

  For many years he’d searched for an artist to paint pictures of his birds, and had never located one he liked. Until now.

  He twisted his lips. Unfortunately, he hadn’t found this artist, either. Even when he insisted, the gallery owner refused to divulge the painter’s name or direction. Probably because he wished to keep the sales commissions to himself. Still, he had agreed to allow Robert first choice when another canvas arrived.

  Hands on knees, he bent over the painting. Writing he hadn’t noticed before lay tucked in the lower right corner. His pulse speeded up. The artist’s signature? If so, what a stroke of luck. He pushed the lamp closer, and then raised the quizzing glass that hung from a ribbon around his neck to his eye. Squinting at the tiny letters, he spelled them out. W-A-H-S. “Wahs”? With a crabbed initial in front he couldn’t identify. He released the glass and slowly straightened. Unusual name, and one he had never heard before.

  He gave a silent chuckle. He really must stop calling the painting “The Picture”. The artwork did have a proper name. After rummaging through the packing materials, he scooped up the roll of papers jumbled within them. The paper crackling, he thumbed through various documents until he found his receipt. Yes, here was the title, partially obscured by the “Paid in Full” the merchant had scrawled over the letters.

  Morning Mallard.

  Chapter 4

  Machiavelli yawned as he stepped outside his hut. Darkness, raw and cold, shrouded the land, although pink and gold tipped the crest of the North Downs. Time to set out for the Tyndall estate.

  Through the woods.

  He shivered. Grisly visions of sharp-toothed beasts dining on a goose carcass—his—blackened his thoughts. But there was no help for it. Brave the woods and the possible goose-eaters within, or of a certainly become dinner in the Shaw house.

  Setting his bill, he let himself out of his pen and then trudged toward the North Downs. Still, why tempt the goose-eaters unless he had no choice? So, he kept to the open fields as much as possible. Overly exposed, but no one could sneak up on him, and the flat ground was relatively easy to traverse. When he reached the forest, he kept to the edge, running between clumps of brown underbrush as much as possible. He would walk in the open if he must, but he would also take whatever cover he could find.

  Then he huffed and puffed his way up the Downs, halting about halfway to catch his breath. He really had to lose weight. How much easier this excursion would be if he dragged less poundage up the slope. Might not have been necessary, either. No one wanted to eat a skinny goose.

  To his great good fortune, and to the happiness of his beleaguered legs and lungs, the total distance was not far. Early morning quiet still blanketed the land as he emerged from the forest. Ahead, his quarry, the aviary, soared high. Large, very large. Indeed, much bigger than he had guessed from the glimpses he had seen from the farm.

  For a while, he skulked just inside the border of the woods as he circled the structure. Various cheeps, squawks and chirps heralded the stirring of the structure’s inhabitants, and even better, no one was around.

  After one last look to ensure the coast was clear, he ran to the aviary, unlatched the gate and scurried in. Feathers fluffed, he paraded down the main path. Look as if you belong, and no one will notice you. But he couldn’t stop himself from staring. Everything here was new and admirably maintained. Much nicer than his barnyard. Mayhap he should take up permanent residence.

  He shook his head. He would never give up mastery of the Shaw barnyard. But a holiday here wouldn’t be amiss.

  Several hawfinches and reed buntings hopped across his path. Appealing things, songbirds, and their melodies were pleasant. But these tiny little birds wouldn’t make a good Christmas dinner. He needed a larger bird. One prettier than he himself, too, as an added attraction.

  He trudged onward and then slowed. Here was a possibility. The unfamiliar bird in the pen was large and colorful, cloaked in shades of blue and green. From a stalk on his head grew a feather, which swayed gently with the bird’s slightest motion, and he dragged an extremely long tail. A second bird also occupied the pen, this one smaller and a dull brown. The female, most likely.

  Then the colorful male emitted a screech so piercing Machiavelli jumped. The hen didn’t bat an eye. The male fanned his tail into a full feathery hemisphere, shimmering blu
es and greens interspersed with white eyes. Holding up his tail, which was twice as tall as he was, the bird displayed all his rainbow-hued glory for his mate.

  Machiavelli’s jaw dropped. The bird must be a peacock. Machiavelli had heard tales of such splendor, but hadn’t really believed them. The bird’s feathers were beautiful, but how could he lift such a huge tail and remain standing? Whatever was such a monstrosity for?

  The hen perked up. She tipped her head to the side and examined the tail. And smiled, if you could call that curve to her beak a smile. She drew closer to the male.

  He fluffed his tail out more.

  She rubbed her beak against his. The tail came down in a flash, and the two birds moved behind a large bush.

  With a snap, Machiavelli shut his gaping bill. So, that’s what the ridiculous tail was for. Peacock, my web. Pea brain, rather. Stupid male, to go through all that trouble for a female. But the display did work. Mayhap the peacock was on to something.

  Machiavelli flapped his wings before furling them on his back. The peacock wouldn’t do. Too many feathers. He needed a meatier bird.

  He passed several songbird pens, before slowing at the next enclosure. The male Ring-necked Pheasant might serve his purposes. Golden brown and long-tailed, with a green neck, red face and a bright white circlet around his neck, he was certainly prettier than Machiavelli, and large enough for a meal.

  The pheasant turned. With an ear-splitting squawk, he rushed at the fence, and then stomped back and forth along its length, snapping and hissing at Machiavelli.

  Machiavelli gulped and ran ahead. Not that one. The pheasant looked the type to attack first and ask questions later. I am a conniver, not a fighter.

  When the pheasant’s pen had passed out of sight, he stopped to catch his breath. Absently, he smoothed his feathers. He needed a bird with pretty feathers, abundant flesh and, of utmost importance, a placid disposition.

  He nodded to the large black, white and brown bird next door. A fellow goose, although the species was new to him. The goose’s feet and tail were black. His wing feathers and lower breast were a streaked brown, and his breast was white, the white abruptly ending at the black neck. His head and bill were also black, except for large white cheek patches.

  “Good day, sir.” Machiavelli spoke in Goose. Each species possessed its own language, which the members used to prevent other species from eavesdropping.

  “Good day to you, too, my boy.” The bird spoke Goose with an odd, nasal twang.

  Machiavelli sniffed. Obviously a foreigner. But he would be polite. “If I may introduce myself, I am Machiavelli, from Shaw Farm next door.”

  The goose’s black eyes narrowed. “And I am Julian.”

  Machiavelli waddled closer. “Please pardon my curiosity. I know you’re a goose, but I have never seen your like before.”

  “Of course you haven’t. Except for my mate, there are none others like me here.” He raised his head, showing that his white cheek patches met under his chin. “I am a Canada goose, from the wilds of North America.” He spread his strong, brown wings, displaying their six-foot span.

  Machiavelli stepped back. Impressive, if a little forward, to flaunt himself like that. Although he did have a fine figure. “The journey from America is very long. I admire your stamina.” All muscle. Too stringy for dinner.

  Julian resettled his wings. “We all have stamina, if we have no choice. A great storm caught me over Canada, and didn’t disperse until reaching this island. I was so exhausted, I could barely land. In my condition, I might have become a fox’s dinner, but, luckily for me, The Keeper found me and brought me here.” He swung his head from side to side. “Don’t see him. Usually, he’s around.”

  Time to move on. Machiavelli inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you.” He forced politeness into his words, even as he ground his bill at his last sight of Julian’s muscular form. He sucked in his stomach. He really had to shed some poundage.

  He wandered next door and stopped dead. The two medium-sized birds within the pen stared up at him. They were ducks, but like nothing he had ever encountered.

  They were small, smaller than the green-headed mallard that waddled by, quacking loudly. The drake had a large crest composed of white, brown and green feathers, and eyes of a brilliant red. Three different colors streaked his bill: red at the side edge, white inside and beside the red stripe, and black at the center and the tip. His head was brown, his chin and upper neck white, and a white patch adorned his cheek.

  Brilliant hues abounded all over this feathered masterpiece. His breast was brown mottled with white, his sides, yellowish brown, and two vertical streaks, one white and one black, separated the breast from each side. He wagged his square, black tail and then flapped his wings, their blue and green feathers sparkling in the sunlight. White down feathers and spurred orange webs completed his avian ensemble.

  Never had Machiavelli seen such a splendid duck. The other duck, the hen by her drabber feathers, stepped closer to the drake. Garbed mainly in shades of brown, she had large white rings around her eyes and a crest like her mate. Her bill was multicolored, too: brown at the outer edge, then yellow within, and then black at the inside and tip. White colored her chin and upper neck, and flecked her brown sides and breast. She shared her mate’s wing colors of blue and green, in addition to the white down feathers and spurred orange feet. Both birds, with their iridescent feathers, glistened.

  These ducks were gorgeous, more beautiful than any others in Machiavelli’s experience. He might be master of all he surveyed, but he was by no means lovely, not even pretty. Compared to these elegant ducks, he was dowdy.

  He narrowed his eyes. He had found his victims. Both of them. Plucked of their fine feathers, they would be just two scrawny fowls, together barely enough for a meal.

  “Good day, sir and madam.” He inclined his head first to one, and then the other. He would put them at ease, and then he would beguile them with so many glorious lies about Shaw Farm that they would beg to accompany him back. He would have them literally ripe for the plucking.

  Sparkling and shimmering as the sun glanced off their feathers, they approached the pen fence.

  Machiavelli gritted his bill behind his smile. Why can’t I be that pretty?

  “And good day to you, too.” The drake answered in the same flat accent as the Canada goose. Truly a barbarous way to speak.

  “My name is Machiavelli, and I have come from Shaw Farm next door.” He forced his tone to sweetness, although he ached to peck the birds to death.

  The drake answered. “I am Woodie, and this is my wife.”

  Machiavelli tipped his head toward the previous pen. “I just spoke to your neighbor, Julian. If you don’t mind my saying, you have the same accent as he.”

  “That’s because we all come from North America.”

  “Did a storm also blow you here?”

  “No, His Lordship brought us over on a ship.”

  “And do you like your new home?”

  “Yes.” The hen nodded. “This countryside is similar to Massachusetts, where we come from.”

  “Yes, similar,” her husband added. “But not the same. Back home, winter is colder, and by now plenty of snow would have fallen.”

  Machiavelli shivered. He hated winter and snow. Even though he wore a permanent down coat, he still despised the cold. “I had never seen a Canada goose before Julian, and I have never seen your like before, either.”

  “We are North American Wood ducks. And you are?”

  Machiavelli straightened to his full height. “I am a Goosus Vulgaris Barnyardus.” They didn’t have to know the made-up phrase meant “Common barnyard goose”.

  Woodie scratched his head with his web. “I’ve never heard of that type of goose.”

  “Because there are none such as I.” Machiavelli puffed out his chest. “But, be that as it may, I have come here with a mission. We have a large bird company at Shaw Farm, and the Head Goose sent me to invite you to a
party.”

  Mrs. Woodie’s forehead creased. “How could anyone at Shaw Farm know about us?”

  “We birds all talk to each other. The local songbirds fly everywhere, and they spread the news. They told us about you, and the Head Goose is curious. Never heard of ducks like you, and he wants to meet you, so he sent me over with an invitation. Since this is holiday time for the Humans, we have our own celebrations now, too. The Head Goose would like to have you for dinner.” Yes, definitely have you for dinner.

  Woodie looked at him sideways. “Tell us more about the farm. Where is it?”

  “The farm is in the valley at the bottom of the hill. About two miles. We can easily walk there in a few hours.”

  “Walk? Didn’t you fly over?”

  “Alas, I hurt my wing, so I am temporarily grounded.” Machiavelli had a devil of time becoming airborne. How he liked to eat. He had overindulged often before His Mistress ran out of money.

  “Just as well.” Woodie nodded. “My wife broke her wing, and cannot fly.”

  Mrs. Woodie opened her bill, but her mate nudged her and she fell silent.

  “Well, then, will you come? I assure you, you will have a wonderful time.” Until the ax falls.

  “Psst!”

  The ducks turned. Julian motioned with his head for them to come over.

  They looked at each other, and then at Machiavelli.

  Woodie urged his mate before him. “Please excuse us for a moment.”

  Machiavelli inclined his head in a regal gesture, as if he were granting a favor to the peasants. He had found his pigeons—er, ducks. Success is mine!

  The task had been easier than expected. He could crow with joy, even though he despised crows. Another year as King of Shaw Farm awaited him.

  The sun descended in the western sky. Shadows lengthened and the chill deepened as the short December day drew to a close.

  Machiavelli drew in a deep breath and stretched his wings while he kept an eye on the ducks. The time was too far advanced for them to return to Shaw Farm tonight.