In a city, stone-grey and foot-trodden in the rolling moors of the north, there was a park. The park was verdant and beautiful, filled with great rustling trees and hardy grass and sweet heather - sometimes. In this cold winter, however, the trees were bare, and snow lay over the grass and the heather in a soft blanket that muffled sound and left the air empty and still in that way that only snow can. In the center of the park, a still pond reflected only clouds overhead, the same color as the cobblestones of the path that encircled it.
In that pond floated ducks.
They were mallards, females speckled in white and brown, and males sporting a proud, iridescent green mask that, in warmer times, would have shimmered beautifully in the sunlight. With the first days of winter long past and the solstice fast approaching, the ducks’ feathers hung drab. The worms had been the first to go, the tasty wriggling things all eaten or driven underground quickly after the first frosts. Then the insects from the rotting piles of autumn leaves, then the pondweed, cleaned so thoroughly from the bottom of their pond that the stones, if dredged and wiped clean of mud, might have positively sparkled. Now, they had lichen and little else, and it did not satisfy. They grew thin. They hungered.
One duck quacked. They had no names, but their quacks did carry a language of a kind. This particular male spoke sorrow, and a hint of despair. The winter was far from over, and already some had begun to starve, feathers coming loose and skin hanging limply over shrinking flight muscles. They would deteriorate fast, and, weakened, would be easy prey for the other animals of the city - if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, they would suffer the agony of starvation for many weeks more, until one morning they floated belly up in the grey waters of the pond.
Another duck quacked in response, a female, even more despondent. Even if some survived this winter, their flock would be greatly diminished. Once, the flock had been larger. Now, they were a bare twenty. Come spring, perhaps a quarter that. Who knew what the next year would bring? If starved for too long, the females might not be able to lay eggs in time for them to hatch before the next winter. Soon, the flock of the stone-grey city might come to an end, and the pale sun would rise without them.
A murmur of agreement came from the flock. Perhaps this was it. The flock would starve quietly, softly as the snow fell, without a soul to notice or care.
But someone did notice. They did care. And they came.
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Something fell into the water with a plop.
The duck nearest woke from his torpor and looked around, panicked and bewildered. He tried to fly away from the sudden noise, the disturbance, the sudden huge presence by the bank of the pond, bare feet away. But hunger had made his legs and his wings weak, and the most he could manage was a pathetic scramble through splashing water, getting barely a few feet before muscles gave out and he lay panting in the water. Death had come to him, and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to descend and take him for his flesh.
Nothing happened.
Warily, heart still beating in a frenzy from exertion and fear, the duck turned in the water, looking back at the source of the unexpected sound.
A great figure sat by the side of the pond, folded onto itself as it stared at him with two piercing eyes. Predator eyes. It was one of the great-tall-ones that strode about the city. Normally, these did not bother the ducks. There were many in the city, and in the warmer months many of them wandered the park with great, ponderous steps as the ducks splashed in the water and ate juicy worms and pondweed. But it was winter now, and this duck was hungry and tired and afraid, and the great-tall-one was bare feet away and staring right at him.
The duck might have tried to flee further into the middle of the pond, where the rest of the flock was now awake, gathered and watching his tribulation in silent dread. But he did not. For his eyes had wandered downward, and in the water before the great-tall-one, bobbing up and down slightly, floated… something. It was the thing that had fallen into the pond, that had made the noise. Something that the great-tall-one had put there.
It looked… edible. The duck breathed in. It smelled edible. It was a large chunk of something and it looked and smelled like food.
Terror. Terror from the great-tall-one, terror from the torpor of starvation, terror from his own still-racing heart, terror from his very bones and the back of his brain at the unknown and unexpected. Ducks were not a race known for their bold or aggressive instincts.
But he was so hungry. And the hunger and the ultimate fear of death overrode them all.
Slowly, trembling, the duck swam forward on tired legs. The great-tall-one stared down. The duck reached the chunk floating in the water. Closer, he could tell. It smelled good. It smelled so good. The duck reached forward… and then all at once, fearful now of this salvation being taken away, scooped the delicious thing into his mouth and swallowed.
The duck froze. His brethren and sistren looked on in silent fear, frozen in place, waiting.
It was warm. It was warm and soft and fluffy as it slid down his throat. It settled in his stomach and, for the first time in a month, the gnawing pain… faded. The duck sat in the water, stunned.
Plop, plop plop.
Three more plops in the water. The duck did not flee.
Three more chunks of warm, fluffy bread floated around him. The great-tall-one stared down. Ducks did not have facial expressions, but he could see that this one’s face had shifted, changed. If he had known anything about the great alien things that towered above him, he would have known that this one was smiling.
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That day, the flock of the grey-city gorged themselves on a bounty of bread showered from on high, brought by a huge, unknowable being that stared with predators eyes but brought only salvation. After its bag was empty, loaves picked apart and tossed into the water to be gobbled up by starving mouths, it stood, limbs and body unfolding to its full towering high, blocking out the weak rays of the sun. Then it left.
The ducks rested blissfully in the center of the pond, bellies blessedly full, swollen with delicious bread. The hunger was gone. There were things to think about. Things to discuss, in their limited way. But not now. Now, the flock descended with a collective sigh into their first ever food coma.
The hunger was gone.
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Several days later, the ducks had recovered themselves enough to wonder. Duck metabolisms being what they were, the glorious bread had digested quickly, and the hunger had returned in force, perhaps all the greater for having so recent a memory of satiety. It gnawed at them again, and they sat in the center of the pond and talked.
A duck quacked, a large one, a male. What, he seemed to wonder, had happened?
The ducks stirred and considered this question. It was a good one. What had happened? It seemed so strange as to beggar belief, that salvation should descend from above in the depths of their despair. Too convenient. Such things did not happen, not to them.
Another duck spoke up despondently, a single short quack swallowed up quickly by the snow-muffled air. An isolated event. A moment of satiety in the depths of wintery despair. It would not occur again. The world was simply mocking them one last time before their death came.
Agreement resounded, quietly, within the flock. This was their final hour, their season of despair. One day of miraculous abatement would not forestall their end, only prolong the suffering, make death more poignant when it finally came.
Silence fell over the flock as the snow began to fall once more. The waters were growing ever-colder as midwinter approached, and flakes floated on top for a few seconds before slowly melting into it, each one stealing one more tiny drop of heat for each added drop of water.
Amidst the gently falling snow, one timid voice spoke up. The smallest duck, born late in the year and not fully grown before the hunger came. She quacked hesitantly, with a different tone than the rest. Perhaps… not. Perhaps there might be things in their future other than starvation and despair. Perhaps the great-tall-one would come again, and banish their hunger.
The other ducks had no energy to scoff. But no rustle or quack of agreement came. The smallest duck quieted, head downcast, and the flock descended into stillness and silence once more. Waiting for the end.
Plop.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
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A week passed. Twice more the bread-giver came, bearing their bounty of divine sustenance. Twice more the flock was sated, and soon even the most cynical and worn-down began to feel something stirring in their breast. To feel… something, something that perhaps no duck of the flock had felt before. A rising feeling, like the sun if it were not small and pale. Timid, just barely peeking over the horizon. But it was there. The hunger was gone. The bread-giver had come again. For the smallest duck, it was strongest of all. She basked in it, knowing with certainty that this first year of her life would not be the last. She trusted in the bread-giver. She knew they would come again.
Only one refused to accept this new reality and the tide of rising hope. She huddled on the other side of the pond, where reeds had once grown before being killed by the frosts, away from the others and their happiness. She was old, one of the eldest of them, and she had seen many small ones die. She knew the ways of this world. She knew how this would end, and her heart remained dark and empty as the snow-silenced air and the stone-grey clouds above. She knew that this would be her last winter.
But for most, a great change had occurred. Freed from hunger by the bread-giver’s beneficence, their minds began to unfold, slowly, timidly from their curled-up despair. They imagined a new year. New eggs. Peeping chicks, and a larger flock. The next time the bread-giver came, they gathered around them, quacking loudly, with something almost like their energy of brighter days now past. And when the bread-giver knelt down to scatter their ambrosia upon the water, one duck, the smallest, reached out with her beak and nibbled affectionately at the edge of the great-tall-one’s hand.
Snow fell across the water as the days grew ever colder and the sun rose ever lower in the sky. Midwinter approached. But the ducks did not feel the cold. For with every day the bread-giver came, that unknown, unnamed thing burned ever brighter. It tided them over in the long days between visits, warming them from the inside as much as the bread did.
They did not know it, but the ducks of the stone-grey flock had faith.
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The conclave of ducks sat once more in the middle of the pond, rustling and quacking contentedly. Over the weeks of the bread-giver’s visits, their muscles had filled out again, skin no longer hanging loose over their chests, and their feathers had begun to regain some of their former luster. They were not healthy as they were during the summer times, but they were on the mend, and come spring they would be as good as new, ready to take on the new year. Despair was gone. Hunger was but a fleeting inconvenience, to be borne without complaint, for they knew that soon it would be banished. The smallest duck quacked happily, chasing two others in circles around the middle of the pond while the others watched. They could afford to do that now, waste energy. Splash in the water. Play. The hunger had begun to come again for some of them, but the bread-giver would come today.
No great and portentous discussions came from this conclave. The older ducks simply sat, padding slowly around in the center of the pond, watching the young ones splash and enjoy the taste of life, even as the snow fell and the weak sun sank toward the horizon. Midwinter would come, the dark night that heralded death even in the best years, but they would survive it. They would be preserved, and they would enter the new year together. They knew this, because the bread-giver loved them, and they returned that love twenty-fold.
One duck sat to the side, alone, in the spot when reeds once grew, watching, heart still stone-grey as the darkening sky above.
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The bread-giver did not come.
They waited into the night, long past when the sun had set and the moon and stars twinkled coldly in the clear sky above. They waited until they fell asleep, thinking that surely they would awake to the sight of bread scattered on the water, their beloved deity having come sometime between then and the sunrise late the next morning.
They awoke, and the bread-giver still had not come.
But one day was nothing, they said in quacks and rustles. The bread maker always came, every few days, certain to them as the rising of the sun and moon. A difference of one day mattered little. They had faith. The littlest duck quacked stridently to this effect, and the flock rustled in agreement. They would wait, and the bread-giver would come.
The old duck sat alone, to the side, watching.
The bread-giver did not come.
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Days passed, and the bread-giver never came.
Midwinter was almost here, now, only a few days remaining before the sun, as tired as the rest of the world its light touched, would dip below the horizon and, for one terrifyingly long and frigid night, remain there. Snow fell thickly now, the clouds returned in force and covering the sky.
The flock began to hunger again, the aches and pangs returning. Two feedings had passed now with no bread, and they were beginning to slip back to the way they once were, what seemed now like so long ago. The old despair began to creep back in, around the edges of their faith. Their quacks, quieter, less frequent, were filled with doubt. The bread-giver had not come. Perhaps they had been wrong. Perhaps… they would not come. Was that bright future that they had seen nothing but an illusion? Had they been right from the start, in thinking it but a cruel trick of a cruel world before that inevitable end that now seemed so much more terrifying?
Perhaps, they rustled. Perhaps that is so. Perhaps that is just the way the world is. How could we forget? It was too convenient. Too good. Things like that simply don’t happen to us. How foolish we were to believe otherwise, for even a few shining weeks.
A voice quacked in loud, strident dissent. It was the smallest duck.
No, she quacked. How could you? Is your faith so easily broken as this? Is your love so easily forsaken? The bread-giver came to us, when we were starving and full of despair. They fed us, and gave us that hope in those shining weeks. Now you scorn it? You fools, indeed. You can do better than this. The smallest duck had faith. She would not break. The bread-giver would come, and they would be full again. They would greet the new year together, by the bread-giver’s love. She had faith.
The flock rustled. The faith in their hearts flared, weakly at first, then more strongly. Yes. That was right. How could they be so weak? A few days of starvation, and they returned to despair? How pathetic. No, the smallest duck was right. The bread-giver would come. They would scatter their bounty across the water, and the flock would eat again. There would be spring, and sunlight, and little yellow chicks. They would never see those things if they gave up.|
The bread-giver would come. They knew it. They quacked, resolutely, hardening themselves to the cold and the dark and the gnawing hunger twisting in their guts. They just had to be strong.
The bread-giver would come.
And one old duck watched from the side of the pond.
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The night of midwinter came, long and dark and cold as it had ever been. Storms lashed across the midnight sky, and ice formed atop the snow and the surface of the pond, creeping in slowly from the edges. The flock huddled, hungry and afraid, in the middle of the pond. The bread-giver had not come, and the night was upon them. But they had faith. They would not forsake it again. On it burned, in their small hearts, as the storms raged on through the long night, until the day came.
That night, the first of them died.
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It came steadily after that. Energy sapped by the deadly cold, each new morning found one more ragged body floating on its side in the water, dead eyes staring ahead into oblivion. In those that remained, the hunger bit and clawed ever-harder. They were weak. Barely able to move. Some, in their final moments, despaired, knowing themselves lost. They went to their deaths with hearts heavy as stones. Some kept their faith. Even as the last breath left their lungs, they knew, knew, that the bread-giver would come. Just not for them. They never understood why. They went to the water’s cold embrace with hearts even heavier. The days stretched on, the flock dwindling. First nineteen, the night after the long dark, then seventeen. Fifteen. Thirteen. Nine. Five. Three. Frozen, emaciated corpses filled the water.
One.
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Two weeks later, after the worst of the biting cold passed, a great, tall figure strode down the cobblestone path of the park. In their hand, a basket full of bread filled the air with a savory aroma. Their eyes were fixed ahead, past the shin-high piles of snow still covered in a layer of shimmering ice. Breath puffed in the air, the scene illuminated by the weak sun of cloudless winter morning.
The great-tall-one came upon the pond, looking and listening for the familiar sounds of the flock. None came. They looked at confusion upon the water, nearly all frozen over now. One duck floated in the center, where the ice had not yet spread. And below the ice, dark spots. Dark spots just about the size… of…
The old duck, last of the flock, roused herself from torpor. The end was close now, even for her. She had conserved her energy in those bright days, knowing what was coming, and so out of all of them, she had lasted the longest. There was just one final thing to do, before sleep and the final end took her. She swam slowly, laboriously, to the edge of the last spot of unfrozen pond, and clambered out onto the ice.
The great-tall-one watched the last duck, feathers grey and bedraggled, dragging itself slowly across the ice toward them. Below it, sunken beneath the ice, floated the frozen corpses of the rest of the flock. Nineteen bodies. They had died, hungry, in the dark and cold.
The last duck dragged itself forward, and the great-tall-one’s eyes traced down, towards the edge of the point. There, bare feet from where it stood, a smaller form floated beneath the ice. The smallest duck. The one that had splashed in the water, and came close, and nibbled its fingers when they tossed out the bread. It had waited, here, at the edge of the pond where the bread-giver always came. It had sunk beneath the dark water in the night, still waiting. Chest still burning with love and faith. And now it lay there, dark. Lifeless. Trapped beneath the ice.
The last duck finished its journey, standing on the chill ice before the one who the others, if they could, might have called God. She looked up, one last time, at the crystal-blue sky above. Truly, the world never changed. The day she had foreseen had come. And then she too collapsed upon the ice, before the one who had not come, and her heart beat its last.
The great-tall-one stared down at the corpse at its feet, eyes as stone-grey as the city and the gathering clouds on the horizon.
