Duck
May 1997
This morning, as soon as I got up, I went outside with the dogs. I wanted to see what had happened to the garden since I had last seen it. That had been only twelve hours earlier, but in the spring the garden is an astonishing place, and each day it must be examined for revelations.
It was around seven o'clock when we walked up the path through the meadow to the pool. The grass was heavy and wet, and the shadows long. The light was pale and thrilling, and it streamed across the meadow in great horizontal sheets. At the top of the hill I opened the gate and stepped inside the fence. Beneath the high filigree shade of the ash trees, the blue water of the pool shimmered coolly in the early morning air. The pool is square, with a wide flat edge of bluestone, and on the far side, standing quietly on the stone edging, stood a young wild duck. She was in brown tweed, trim and very chic. There was a dark narrow stripe leading from her eye, and a horizontal blue band across her wing. As we came through the gate she stood poised and still, attentive.
At first the dogs paid no attention to her, and I walked quietly toward her. When I reached the near edge of the pool, the duck, with economy and aplomb, settled into the water. She glided swiftly into the center of the pool, where she stayed, regally treading water. I knew both that she was a lady duck and that she was very young because, on the flat stone edge of the pool where she had been standing, looking slightly haphazard, was a single pale egg.
Seeing the duck surging through the ripples, the dogs became excited. They are Standard Poodles, which are water retrievers. This scene - Bird on Water - now meant something to them. The older one, Milly, turned disingenuously coy, and capered to the far side of the pool. The duck gave an anxious squack and swivelled, heading back toward me. Milly turned, too, and the duck stopped and squacked again, no visibly fearful. The pool is not large, and the duck had just understood that she was not safe in it, even in the very center of the water. I held the other dog, Lacey, beside me, and sternly called Milly. Milly frisked over, prancing, pretending that this was a game. Of course it was not a game; dogs will kill ducks if they can. I held them while I thought of what to do. The duck had made a mistake, coming here. She was in danger; she had to leave.
I couldn't bear for her to leave. She was beautiful, and her dark wild presence did us honor. She had chosen us, our quiet pool at the edge of the woods. Her appearance seemed like a miraculous visitation. It was a fortunate event, like the apparition of a god. I loved having her there, moving across our shimmering blue, her sleek silhouette quick and vivid. I loved seeing her standing, quiet and composed, on the bluestone in the early slanting light.
She had to leave. She was wild, we were not. The chasm between us was bottomless, her error in judgment was infinite in its consequences. Bare bluestone is not a nest, a swimming pool is not a pond. I pictured the ducklings in a ragged line, careening desperately after their mother, dodging the pull from the filter, fighting over grass clippings and drowned worms, fleeing from the dogs. She had to leave.
Holding the dogs, I walked around the pool. I had never seen a wild duck egg before, and I crouched before it. It lay whole and perfect, its ovate curve surreally smooth against the rough texture of the stone. It was animate but motionless, charged still. It seemed larger than a hen's egg, and fatter, less tapered. Its color was strange, unearthly, a pale, livid grey, the sky before dawn. I touched it: faintly damp, oddly warm. The duck watched me steadily, swimming in a tiny circle in the center of the pool. Her dark silhouette was clear against the wavering blue of the water.
"You can't stay here," I told her. "It isn't safe." I picked up the egg.
Head high, the duck eyed me, treading water. Her eye was bright and black.
"I'm sorry," I said.
Keeping the dogs close, I began to retreat across the lawn, still watching her. I felt like a criminal. From the center of the water she watched me go.
In the kitchen I set the egg down on the butcher block counter. Its pale oblong shape rolled slightly, then stopped. I thought of the mother, silently watching me pick up the egg. Up there by the pooll, beneath the high branches of the ash trees, I had told myself that I was being responsible, unsentimental. Nature is ruthless, unsentimental. I knew that. Up there I had some idea of the law of the jungle, that I was being cruel to be kind. Now, inside the safe white walls of my kitchen, I felt only cruel. What was I doing with this wild duck egg on my counter, still warm from its mother's downy feathers?
But what should I have done instead? If I had frightened the duck away from the pool she would have abandoned the egg. She couldn't have carried it to a safe place, and the dogs would have eaten it in savage gulps, leaving pale fragments of the shell scattered messily on the grass, like vandalism. Should I have kept it from the dogs and thrown the egg into the trash? Put it on the compost pile for the raccoons? Those seemed insults. At least this way I was honoring the egg. I was celebrating its excellence. I felt like a cannibal.
The shell was tough, and hard to crack. When it finally parted, the egg was mostly yolk, a deep glowing orangey-yellow. Suspended in its thick transparent aura, it slid into the bowl, slow and viscous. I beat at it with a fork, churning the yolk and the translucent casing into a pale froth. I poured it, foamy, into a hot iron skillet. At once the edges frilled and bubbled, the transparent mizture clouded, dulled. The froth turned opaque, formed clumps, turned thick and solid. I slid it onto a plate and ate it standing up, feeling strange. Its flavour was rich and exotic, faintly gamey, heavy with guilt. Was I respectfully paying tribute or wolfishly enjoying the spoils? With each mouthful I apologised silently to the duck, who had chosen my place among all others, who had trusted me with her most valuable accomplishment.
Much later, I went back up to the pool. The sun was high now in the ash trees, and the light was ordinary, pallid and diffuse. The grass was dry underfoot. At the top of the hill I kept the dogs behind me and opened the gate. I moved quietly, hoping - for what? Hoping to see her there again, of course. Hoping to find her silent elegant presence - quick, vivid - in our small blue pool.
But the duck, with her sleek compact form, her grave black eyes, was gone. My plan had been successful. I had taught her what we were like. The blue water shimmered in the sunlight, empty.
This morning, as soon as I got up, I went outside with the dogs. I wanted to see what had happened to the garden since I had last seen it. That had been only twelve hours earlier, but in the spring the garden is an astonishing place, and each day it must be examined for revelations.
It was around seven o'clock when we walked up the path through the meadow to the pool. The grass was heavy and wet, and the shadows long. The light was pale and thrilling, and it streamed across the meadow in great horizontal sheets. At the top of the hill I opened the gate and stepped inside the fence. Beneath the high filigree shade of the ash trees, the blue water of the pool shimmered coolly in the early morning air. The pool is square, with a wide flat edge of bluestone, and on the far side, standing quietly on the stone edging, stood a young wild duck. She was in brown tweed, trim and very chic. There was a dark narrow stripe leading from her eye, and a horizontal blue band across her wing. As we came through the gate she stood poised and still, attentive.
At first the dogs paid no attention to her, and I walked quietly toward her. When I reached the near edge of the pool, the duck, with economy and aplomb, settled into the water. She glided swiftly into the center of the pool, where she stayed, regally treading water. I knew both that she was a lady duck and that she was very young because, on the flat stone edge of the pool where she had been standing, looking slightly haphazard, was a single pale egg.
Seeing the duck surging through the ripples, the dogs became excited. They are Standard Poodles, which are water retrievers. This scene - Bird on Water - now meant something to them. The older one, Milly, turned disingenuously coy, and capered to the far side of the pool. The duck gave an anxious squack and swivelled, heading back toward me. Milly turned, too, and the duck stopped and squacked again, no visibly fearful. The pool is not large, and the duck had just understood that she was not safe in it, even in the very center of the water. I held the other dog, Lacey, beside me, and sternly called Milly. Milly frisked over, prancing, pretending that this was a game. Of course it was not a game; dogs will kill ducks if they can. I held them while I thought of what to do. The duck had made a mistake, coming here. She was in danger; she had to leave.
I couldn't bear for her to leave. She was beautiful, and her dark wild presence did us honor. She had chosen us, our quiet pool at the edge of the woods. Her appearance seemed like a miraculous visitation. It was a fortunate event, like the apparition of a god. I loved having her there, moving across our shimmering blue, her sleek silhouette quick and vivid. I loved seeing her standing, quiet and composed, on the bluestone in the early slanting light.
She had to leave. She was wild, we were not. The chasm between us was bottomless, her error in judgment was infinite in its consequences. Bare bluestone is not a nest, a swimming pool is not a pond. I pictured the ducklings in a ragged line, careening desperately after their mother, dodging the pull from the filter, fighting over grass clippings and drowned worms, fleeing from the dogs. She had to leave.
Holding the dogs, I walked around the pool. I had never seen a wild duck egg before, and I crouched before it. It lay whole and perfect, its ovate curve surreally smooth against the rough texture of the stone. It was animate but motionless, charged still. It seemed larger than a hen's egg, and fatter, less tapered. Its color was strange, unearthly, a pale, livid grey, the sky before dawn. I touched it: faintly damp, oddly warm. The duck watched me steadily, swimming in a tiny circle in the center of the pool. Her dark silhouette was clear against the wavering blue of the water.
"You can't stay here," I told her. "It isn't safe." I picked up the egg.
Head high, the duck eyed me, treading water. Her eye was bright and black.
"I'm sorry," I said.
Keeping the dogs close, I began to retreat across the lawn, still watching her. I felt like a criminal. From the center of the water she watched me go.
In the kitchen I set the egg down on the butcher block counter. Its pale oblong shape rolled slightly, then stopped. I thought of the mother, silently watching me pick up the egg. Up there by the pooll, beneath the high branches of the ash trees, I had told myself that I was being responsible, unsentimental. Nature is ruthless, unsentimental. I knew that. Up there I had some idea of the law of the jungle, that I was being cruel to be kind. Now, inside the safe white walls of my kitchen, I felt only cruel. What was I doing with this wild duck egg on my counter, still warm from its mother's downy feathers?
But what should I have done instead? If I had frightened the duck away from the pool she would have abandoned the egg. She couldn't have carried it to a safe place, and the dogs would have eaten it in savage gulps, leaving pale fragments of the shell scattered messily on the grass, like vandalism. Should I have kept it from the dogs and thrown the egg into the trash? Put it on the compost pile for the raccoons? Those seemed insults. At least this way I was honoring the egg. I was celebrating its excellence. I felt like a cannibal.
The shell was tough, and hard to crack. When it finally parted, the egg was mostly yolk, a deep glowing orangey-yellow. Suspended in its thick transparent aura, it slid into the bowl, slow and viscous. I beat at it with a fork, churning the yolk and the translucent casing into a pale froth. I poured it, foamy, into a hot iron skillet. At once the edges frilled and bubbled, the transparent mizture clouded, dulled. The froth turned opaque, formed clumps, turned thick and solid. I slid it onto a plate and ate it standing up, feeling strange. Its flavour was rich and exotic, faintly gamey, heavy with guilt. Was I respectfully paying tribute or wolfishly enjoying the spoils? With each mouthful I apologised silently to the duck, who had chosen my place among all others, who had trusted me with her most valuable accomplishment.
Much later, I went back up to the pool. The sun was high now in the ash trees, and the light was ordinary, pallid and diffuse. The grass was dry underfoot. At the top of the hill I kept the dogs behind me and opened the gate. I moved quietly, hoping - for what? Hoping to see her there again, of course. Hoping to find her silent elegant presence - quick, vivid - in our small blue pool.
But the duck, with her sleek compact form, her grave black eyes, was gone. My plan had been successful. I had taught her what we were like. The blue water shimmered in the sunlight, empty.
posted by Roxana Robinsonat
1:42 PM 0 Comments
