Five Ducks Gone Quackers

The sun hit the water that morning like a sack of gold coins somebody dropped from the sky, and my brothers and sisters were already in it before Mama could finish counting us.

"One," she said.

Splash. Waddle. Quack.

"Two."

A ripple. A wiggle. My sister Beak-face (that's not her real name, but she never once turned around when Mama called, so I figure she earned it) was already halfway across the pond chasing a dragonfly that didn't want anything to do with her.

"Three."

"Four."

"Five."

I was number five. I know this because I was always the last one out of the nest, the last one to the water, the last one to figure out what everybody else already knew. Not because I was slow. I want to be clear about that. It's just that the world was loud and bright and full of things worth stopping for, and nobody ever told me that stopping was a problem.

That first morning, we did what ducklings do. We marched. We wiggled. We splashed until the water looked like it was boiling. Mama led us in a line around the pond's edge, and we sang the song she made up for us, the one with the numbers in it, the one where every verse takes somebody away.

Five little ducks went waddling one day, over the pond and far away.

Mama Duck called quack quack quack quack, but only four little ducks came back.

We didn't know yet that the song was a warning.

---

The butterfly showed up around mid-morning.

It was yellow, the kind of yellow that makes you squint, and it flew like it had somewhere important to be. My brother Dabble (second in line, always second, never first) saw it first. He stopped mid-waddle. His little feet just froze on the grass.

"Hey," he said. To nobody. To the butterfly. "Hey, where you going?"

The butterfly didn't answer. Butterflies never do. It drifted over the cattails and toward the far side of the pond where the water got dark and the trees leaned in close, and Dabble went after it like a fish on a hook.

"Come back, little duck!" Mama called from the front of the line.

Dabble looked over his shoulder. He looked at Mama. He looked at the butterfly.

"Quack quack," he said, which in our language means something like *I'll be right back*, except he didn't come right back. He kept going. The butterfly dipped low, and Dabble jumped for it, and his little wings did that thing they do when he's excited, that flutter that doesn't actually lift him off the ground but looks like it might.

Mama sighed. I heard it. A long, patient sigh, the kind that comes from a mother who has done this before.

"Keep walking," she told the rest of us. "He'll catch up."

I wasn't so sure. But I kept walking, because that's what you do when your mother tells you to, and because the song wasn't finished yet.

Four little ducks went waddling one day, over the pond and far away.

---

The leaves were the next thing.

They were piled up under the big oak tree, red and orange and yellow, and they looked like a bed somebody made for a king. My brother Puddle (third in line, named for reasons that will become obvious) saw them and lost his mind.

"LEAVES," he shouted, which is the loudest word in our language.

He ran. He didn't waddle. He ran, full speed, feet slapping the ground, and when he hit that pile he went in like a rock into water.

Poof.

Leaves flew up. Leaves came down. And Puddle was gone.

"QUACK?!" said the rest of us. All together. Like one voice.

Mama turned around. She counted. Her beak moved, but no sound came out. One, two, three. She was missing two.

"Puddle?" she called. "Puddle, where are you?"

Nothing. Just leaves. Just a pile of red and orange and yellow that didn't move.

I waddled over and poked my head in. Puddle was lying on his back in the middle of the pile, staring up at the branches, grinning like he'd found the secret to everything.

"I live here now," he said.

"No you don't," I told him.

"Watch me."

Mama came over and pulled him out by the tail feathers. He complained the whole way. But he was smiling, and Mama was smiling, and even Beak-face was smiling, which almost never happens.

Three little ducks went waddling one day, over the pond and far away.

---

The puddle was my fault.

I want to be honest about that. I saw it first. It was sitting in the middle of the path, round and perfect, and the sun was hitting it in a way that made it look like a mirror. I should have walked around. I knew I should have. But there's something about a puddle that makes you want to test it.

I tested it.

I jumped.

The splash was enormous. Bigger than me. Bigger than Mama. Water went everywhere, up and out and sideways, and when it came down it landed on everybody. Beak-face got it right in the face. Mama got it on her back. Even the grass got wet.

"Oh my," Mama said. Which is what she says when she doesn't know what else to say.

I stood in the middle of the puddle, dripping, and I felt something I couldn't name yet. Something like pride, but with a little bit of sorry mixed in.

"Sorry," I said.

Mama shook her head. Water flew off her feathers. "It's a puddle," she said. "That's what puddles are for."

Two little ducks went waddling one day, over the pond and far away.

---

The balloon was the worst one.

It came out of nowhere, red and shiny and floating, and it moved like it was alive. My sister Beak-face, who had spent the whole morning ignoring everyone, suddenly couldn't ignore anything. She saw that balloon and her whole body changed. Her neck stretched. Her eyes got wide.

"Balloon," she whispered.

Then she was gone.

She waddled after it faster than I'd ever seen her move. The balloon drifted over the pond, and Beak-face waddled around the pond. The balloon floated toward the trees, and Beak-face waddled toward the trees. It stayed just out of reach, always just a little too high, always just a little too far.

"QUAAACK!" she shouted. Which meant something like *come back* and *I'm going to get you* and *why won't you let me have this* all at once.

The balloon didn't care. Balloons never do.

Mama stopped walking. She looked at the empty space where Beak-face used to be. She looked at me. Just me. One little duck, standing next to her, the last one left.

One little duck went waddling one day, over the pond and far away.

Mama Duck called quack quack quack quack, but none of her little ducks came back.

---

"Where could they be?" Mama said.

She wasn't asking me. She was asking the pond, the trees, the sky. She was asking the world, which had taken her children one by one and hadn't bothered to explain why.

I didn't have an answer. I just stood there, wet from the puddle, watching Mama check behind the big bush where the leaves were piled. Nothing. She checked behind the oak tree. Nothing. She checked the far side of the pond, where the water got dark. Nothing.

"Where could they be?" she said again.

And then, because I was the only one left, because I was number five and I'd spent the whole morning watching everybody else disappear, I did something I'd never done before.

I counted.

One. Dabble. Chasing butterflies.

Two. Puddle. Buried in leaves.

Three. Me. The puddle. The splash.

Four. Beak-face. The balloon.

Five. Me. Still here.

I waddled over to the big bush. I poked my head in, the same way I'd poked my head into the leaf pile. And there they were. All four of them. Dabble and Puddle and Beak-face and the other one, the one I haven't mentioned yet because she was so quiet you'd forget she was there, all huddled together in the dark, waiting.

"QUACK!" they shouted.

And then they were out, dancing, wiggling, splashing, and Mama was laughing, that deep belly laugh that makes her whole body shake, and I was laughing too, and the pond was laughing, and the sun was still dropping gold coins on the water like it had all the money in the world.

Five little ducks went waddling one day, over the pond and far away.

Mama Duck called quack quack quack quack, and all of her little ducks came back.

---

But here's the thing.

That was this morning. And now it's afternoon, and the sun has moved, and we're doing it again. The same walk. The same song. The same pond.

And I'm watching my brothers and sisters, one by one, drift away. Dabble is eyeing a dragonfly. Puddle is looking at the leaf pile like it's calling his name. Beak-face has spotted something red in the distance.

I know what's coming. I've seen it before. But knowing doesn't stop it. Knowing doesn't make me any less of a duck.

Mama is at the front of the line, and I'm at the back, and the song is starting again.

Five little ducks went waddling one day.

I look at the bush. The big one. The one where they all hid this morning.

There's a space behind it. A dark space. A space that nobody's checked yet.

And I wonder, for the first time, what would happen if I went in there. If I disappeared. If I made Mama turn around and count and find that one of her ducks was gone.

What would she do? What would she say?

Would she call my name? Would she come looking? Would she sing the song and wait for me to come back?

I don't know. But I'm going to find out.

I waddle toward the bush. The song is still going. Mama hasn't turned around yet.

One step.

Two.

Three.

The bush is right there. The dark space is right there. And I'm just a little duck, number five, the last one in line, the one nobody ever notices.

Until now.