The Grey Bird

The eggs in the barnyard nest had been warm for weeks. One by one they cracked, and one by one the yellow ducklings tumbled out, blinking at the wide grey sky. All but one.

“That big egg is taking its time,” said the mother duck, shifting her weight on the straw. “I have sat here so long my feet have gone numb.”

The last egg wobbled. A beak poked through, then a head, then a body the colour of rain clouds. The duckling stood up and shook himself. He was tall. His neck was long. His feathers were not yellow at all.

“Oh,” said the mother duck. She said nothing else for a moment. Then she said, “Well. Come along.”

She led them to the pond, and the yellow ducklings paddled in a neat line. The grey one swam behind, and his strokes were strong. But when they climbed out, the other birds were waiting.

“Look at that one,” said a hen. “Something went wrong there.”

“Too big,” said a rooster. “Too grey.”

A duckling pecked him on the neck. Then another did. Then the whole yard was around him, and every beak was quick and sharp.

“Stop that,” said his mother. But she stood a little apart when she said it.

That night the grey bird slept in the corner of the shed, away from the warm huddle. He could hear them whispering.

“The cat will get him,” said one.

“Let the cat get him,” said another.

He pressed his beak under his wing and tried to sleep. Morning came grey and cold. When he walked to the pond, the other ducklings turned their backs. When he tried to eat, a hen pushed him away from the grain.

“Why do you stay?” asked a sparrow, perched on the fence.

“I don’t know,” said the grey bird.

“Then go,” said the sparrow. “There is more world than this.”

So he went.

***

The marsh lay at the end of a long field. Reeds grew tall there, and the water was brown and still. The grey bird pushed through the stalks and found a little pool ringed by grass.

“This will do,” he said, though there was no one to hear him.

Autumn came slowly. The leaves turned and fell, and the wind pulled them across the water. He learned to find seeds in the mud and beetles under stones. He learned to sleep with one eye open. Some nights he heard wings overhead, and once a flock of wild ducks landed nearby.

“May I stay with you?” he asked.

“You’re not one of us,” said the leader. But she did not chase him off, and for a few days he swam near them. Then the cold came down from the hills, and the flock rose into the sky without a word.

He was alone again.

“Hello?” he called into the reeds.

A frog blinked at him from a stone. “You’re loud,” said the frog.

“Sorry,” said the grey bird. “I was only saying hello.”

“Nobody here to say it back,” said the frog, and slipped into the water.

The rain fell for three days. The pool rose and touched the grass. He sat under a bent willow and watched the drops make rings on the surface. He thought about the warm huddle in the shed. He thought about his mother standing apart. He did not cry, because there was no one to see, and somehow that made it worse.

One evening a heron stood at the edge of the marsh, thin and still as a fence post.

“You’re far from any yard,” said the heron.

“I don’t have a yard,” said the grey bird.

“Then you have the whole marsh,” said the heron. “That is not nothing.”

She lifted her wings and was gone. The grey bird looked at the wide brown water and the reeds bending in the wind. He was cold, and he was tired, and he was not nothing. He tucked his head under his wing and waited for morning.

The wind changed in the night. It came down from the hills with a sharp edge, and by morning the pool had a skin of ice along its edges. The grey bird stepped on it and it cracked. He stepped back. Each day the ice grew, and each day the open water shrank. The reeds turned brown and bowed their heads. “Where did the frog go?” he asked a blackbird. “South,” said the blackbird. “Where did the heron go?” “South too,” said the blackbird, and then she was gone as well.

He stayed. He did not know the way south. He did not know the way anywhere. He paddled in the last circle of open water and watched it grow smaller. One morning he could not move. His feet were caught. The ice held him like a hand. He pulled and it hurt. He stopped pulling.

The sky was white and the world was white. Snow came down and settled on his back. He thought about the warm huddle in the shed, and his mother standing apart, and he thought about nothing at all for a long while. Then he heard boots. A farmer in a wool coat walked out onto the ice with a long stick. “Well now,” said the farmer. “You’re in a fix.” The farmer tapped the ice around him, gently, until it broke. Then he picked the grey bird up in both hands. “Easy,” he said. “I’ve got you.” The grey bird did not fight. He was too tired to fight. The farmer carried him across the field to a farmhouse with a red door and a chimney with smoke coming out.

Inside it was warm. The farmer set him down by the stove and gave him bread soaked in milk. The grey bird ate until his crop was full. “You’ll do,” said the farmer. “You can stay till spring.”

***

The farmhouse had a cat and a hen. The cat slept on the windowsill and the hen slept on a stool by the fire. They watched the grey bird all evening without saying anything.

In the morning the hen spoke first. “You’re a strange one,” she said. “What are you for?”

“I don’t know,” said the grey bird.

“Can you lay eggs?” said the hen.

“No,” said the grey bird.

“Can you purr?” said the cat, without opening his eyes.

“No,” said the grey bird.

“Then what can you do?” said the hen.

The grey bird thought. “I can swim,” he said.

“Swim,” said the cat. “The pond is frozen. Very useful.”

“I can fly,” said the grey bird. “A little.”

“A little,” said the hen. “The farmer is kind. He’ll keep you through the cold. But don’t think you’re one of us.”

“I never did,” said the grey bird.

The days passed. The cat purred and the hen laid eggs and the farmer came and went. The grey bird sat by the stove and grew stronger. He watched the window. He watched the snow. He thought about the marsh, and the frog, and the heron. He thought about the blackbird going south. One morning the sun came through the glass and it was warm on his back. The ice on the pond was thin. He stood at the door and looked out.

“Going somewhere?” said the cat.

“I don’t know,” said the grey bird.

“Then don’t,” said the hen. “It’s warm here.”

But the grey bird pushed the door with his beak until it opened. He stepped out into the wet grass. The air smelled like earth. He did not look back.

The grass was long and wet, and the grey bird walked through it. Water shone between the trees, bright and open. He had not seen open water since the freeze.

Three white birds floated there, long-necked and calm, moving without a ripple. Swans, he thought. He had seen them once, high up, flying north. His legs carried him to the edge before his mind could stop them.

“Go on,” he told himself. “They’ll chase you. Everyone does.” But the swans did not turn.

One of them dipped its head under the water and came up with weeds. Another stretched its neck and looked at the sky. The grey bird stood on the bank and waited to be sent away.

“You’re still here,” said a voice behind him. He turned. A small brown bird sat on a branch. “I’m not bothering anyone,” said the grey bird. “I didn’t say you were,” said the brown bird. “I just noticed.”

She tilted her head. “What are you waiting for?” “For them to tell me to leave,” said the grey bird. “They haven’t yet,” said the brown bird. “They will,” said the grey bird.

But the swans drifted closer to the bank. One of them looked at him. Its eye was dark and quiet. It did not hiss. It did not flap.

“The water’s cold,” said the nearest swan. “I know,” said the grey bird. “It’s good for swimming,” said the swan.

And then it turned and swam away, as if that were the whole conversation. The grey bird watched the rings spread out behind it. His heart was loud in his chest.

“Go on,” said the brown bird. “What if they change their minds?” said the grey bird. “Then you come back to the bank,” she said. “It’s still here.”

He stepped into the water. It was cold, the way the swan had said. But his body knew what to do.

***

The water held him up. His feet pushed and the world slid past, green and brown and gold. He swam toward the three swans and they made room.

No one pecked him. No one called him names. One swan swam on his left, one on his right, and the third went ahead. They moved together, and the grey bird moved with them.

On the bank, two children came running through the grass. They stopped at the water’s edge and pointed.

“Look!” said the girl. “Look at that one!” “Which one?” said the boy. “The big one,” she said. “The one in the middle.”

The grey bird heard them and ducked his head. He waited for the stones, or the shouting, or the stick.

“It’s the most beautiful of them all,” said the girl. “It’s the same as the others,” said the boy. “No,” she said. “Look at its neck. Look at the way it holds itself.”

The grey bird lifted his head. He saw his own shape in the water, long and white. He had not known.

All winter he had thought he was a grey bird who was not wanted. All winter he had been wrong.

“Come on,” said the boy. “We’ll miss supper.” The children ran back up the hill, and their voices faded.

The swans drifted toward the far reeds. The brown bird landed on the water beside him. “Well,” she said. “You stayed.” “I did,” said the grey bird.

He was not grey. He knew that now. He stretched his neck and let the sun fall on his back. The pond was wide and quiet, and he was in it.

He did not swim back to the barnyard. He did not need to tell anyone. He belonged here, and that was enough.