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Protected Species

Written by Garrett W. Vance

Summer of 1634

"All right everyone, hold real still!" The small group of third graders froze, looks of excitement on their faces. What great kids! There was movement in the tall reeds along the edges of the narrow inlet; once a West Virginia hollow, now an arm of a tree lined lake formed by a Thuringian stream colliding with a Ring of Fire hillside appearing in its path. It was harder to see 'the rim' of the ring these days, time had meshed and melded the North American and European ecologies along its border. From out of the native water grass that had found a home in the formerly West Virginian soil appeared a mother duck and ten brown downed ducklings, much to everyone's delight.

"That's a 'Wood Duck'!" Pam told the gathered students of the summer nature program she was putting on in conjunction with the middle school. "It's one of the species that came through the Ring of Fire. This new lake has created a perfect habitat for it. I'll bet her nest is in those pine trees over there." Pam pointed to the pines that lined the lake's edge in what had once been a Thuringian stream valley. The ghostly silver tops of less fortunate trees below them poked out of the surface along the wooded shore; they had drowned when the lake formed but their protruding upper branches and sunken trunks provided excellent homes for fish and water insects as well as protective cover for shorebirds. Pam's practiced eyes found a European kingfisher perched on a dead branch waiting for a fat minnow to target. The kingfishers were shy but maybe the kids would be able to get a glimpse later if they stayed quiet—right now there were ducklings in front of them. There was no point in trying to drag their attention away just yet; baby ducks are a hard act to follow!

"The male of this species was considered to be one of up-time America's most beautiful birds. There are no other ducks like it in Europe, fossil studies told us that it originated in North America and its closest relative is the Mandarin duck of China. I'm really glad they came along with us. If we're lucky we will see this group's poppa before we end the day." The kids oohed and aahed appreciatively. Their accompanying schoolteacher asked the kids to open their sketch books to record their sighting as the family of wood ducks paddled around in the nearby shallows. Pam wandered over to where Gerbald stood careful watch farther up the hollow's steep side. Despite his usual impassive expression Pam could see wrinkles of pleasure had formed around his bright blue eyes. Gerbald was such a softy under that stony exterior, the retired soldier was immensely enjoying playing bodyguard for the children.

The summer nature program was proving to be a resounding success; everyone involved was having a lot of fun, even stoic Gerbald. Pam felt proud of the program that had been her brainchild. Her interest in birds had grown to include the entire ecology that they were a part of, she had spent long hours in the National Library devouring all the material she could find; she was a well trained researcher and had rapidly absorbed a vast amount of information. She was also making progress on her pet project, writing and illustrating her Birds of the USE -A Field Guide. It was fun to think that she would be the default 'John J Audubon' of this universe, something that would have been impossible to imagine in her old life. She smiled up into the blue skies of seventeenth-century Germany, a place that was finally feeling like home.

****

The next day, Pam and Gerbald led a group of lively sixth graders up the now well worn trail to the lake. She enjoyed their cheerful banter as they lollygagged along, even though the noise was probably scaring off all the birds within a mile radius. Pam marveled at the adaptability of children, the mixed group of up-time and down-time Americans were yakking away in an untidy mishmash of English and German. Pam's German had progressed to where she could catch most it but apparently an arcane slang vocabulary was already developing, indecipherable to the hopelessly un-hip ears of an adult.

As she walked through the sun dappled woods listening to the babble around her, Pam reminisced on a long ago dinner party at the home of a work colleague from Morgantown who had spent many years working in Japan and had returned with a Japanese wife. At the table the two of them spoke in perfectly normal English. Of course, his very charming wife barely had an accent; but, when they were alone together in the kitchen bringing out more wine or another course, Pam overheard them both switch to a nearly incomprehensible mix of their respective languages. " Atsui yo, use the oven mitts, neh!" Pam didn't want to embarrass them, but couldn't help but ask them about it; her hosts just laughed. "Forgive our 'Japan-glish', we can't help it!" They explained that some words just "sounded better" in one or the other languages and so when trying to get an idea across they chose freely from both vocabularies. Listening to her junior birdwatchers Pam was sure she was hearing the sound of the future of their hybrid nation. Up-time Americans were going to have to get bilingual fast or they wouldn't be able to understand what their own kids were talking about!

Pam shushed the exuberant group as they arrived at the inlet. "All right everyone, it's time to be quiet and see which birds are here with us today. Yesterday there was a mother wood duck with her ducklings and they were darn cute!" The kids quieted down more quickly than she would expect. An excellent German influence on our up-time kids—when it's time to be quiet they do it, no argument! Pam was not one who flinched at applying some strictness in a child's upbringing, and rather admired the Germans for their expertise on the subject. She hoped her own Walt didn't resent her too much and she was awfully proud of how he had turned out. I wasn't the easiest mother to have, I know . . . I liked things my way and was damned picky! But maybe the discipline I taught him is making things easier for him as a young adult in this age. I hope so, anyway.

The kid's school teacher at Fluharty Middle School, Stacey Antoni, a very pleasant lady who had lost a husband to the Ring of Fire, had gathered them by the shore in a semblance of order, ready for Pam to get started. Gerbald had taken his usual watchful place on the hill side, their safety was in good hands. Pam began her introduction.

"This lake is an excellent example of the adaptation and mixture between North American and European ecologies along the Ring of Fire's rim. These reeds are a native German species that find they like the richness of West Virginia's soil much to their liking. The reeds are providing excellent habitat for a North American duck species, the wood duck, which we will hopefully—" Pam stopped her lecture when she noticed she had completely lost the attention of several schoolgirls nearest the water's edge.

"Oh, look! The liebchen, they are so cute!"

Baby ducks. Pam smiled ruefully. There is no competing with baby ducks.

"—see today. Well everyone, it appears that we have met our American ducks. The mother wood duck has grown accustomed to our visits and is no longer very shy. They like to stay in shallow water where they can find a lot of small insects to eat—"

"Ms. Miller!" A sweetly gawky-looking boy whose weight hadn't caught up with his latest growth spurt interrupted her. "Ms. Miller, where is the mother duck?"

Pam stepped closer to the still waters. The ducklings were huddled together beside a clump of marsh grass. They were strangely quiet and weren't engaged in their usual search for food. Pam scanned the shore for the wood duck hen; she was nowhere to be seen.

"That's odd." Pam looked back at the silent ducklings. There were only eight of them—the day before there had been ten.

Pam saw Gerbald, who seemed to possess an uncanny sixth sense when it came to trouble, was already coming down the hillside toward the group; a flash of blue as well trained eyes scanned the terrain from the shade of his monstrous hat's floppy brim.

Pam turned back to her group of students. "Well kids, it is a bit unusual for a mother duck to leave her babies unattended, but not unheard of. She may just be out looking for food and thought they would be safe here. Now is a good chance for you to get out your sketchbooks and get a picture drawn of them while they are sitting still." Pam flashed a quick concerned look to their teacher who returned a subtle nod. Message received, good teachers have an instinct for trouble. The teacher quickly went about getting the notebooks deployed and the students distracted with work. Pam walked casually but quickly to Gerbald who had moved quietly along the shore toward the inlet's mouth, his gaze alternating between the muddy ground and the vicinity.

"Gerbald, the mother duck and some of her ducklings are missing. I have a bad feeling about it. . . . Maybe a fox?"

"Pam, I am looking for tracks. If they are here I will find." They didn't discuss the subject much but Pam knew that Gerbald had extensive hunting experience. As a former professional soldier there was no doubt a good many of his meals had come from the region's many forests. Gerbald was a very savvy woodsman. Born and raised in West Virginia, Pam was no stranger to the hunter's art. She had even brought down a buck herself on a hunting trip with her uncles and cousins back in her teens. She hadn't burst into tears as so many do, she had established too tough an exterior for that, especially in front of her boy cousins; but she hadn't relished the experience one bit either, and felt some regret at the sight of the death she had made. She accepted her family's praise, ate the venison, enjoyed the taste; but once was enough. Hunting was all right and a fact of life—within reason.

"Not . . . a fox." Gerbald said quietly as he peered into the rushes. Gently he extracted a duck's pinion feather from a clump of stalks; her heart sinking Pam saw that it was a female wood duck's. Gerbald used it to point at the damp ground.

"There—a boot print in the mud. There—more feathers. The bird, it struggled. Here—this is where they tied the snare; you see the marks." Pam nodded solemnly at the dead branch, some of the rotting bark had peeled away when the twine was untied. She felt a great surge of emotion building in her, a potent mix of grief and rage. No time for it, she could get upset later but not now, not in front of the kids.

"Which way did they go, Gerbald?" Her voice was even and hard as an iron rail.

"Up the hill, but the tracks are not clear. I am not sure how many, maybe two or more. This was only some hours ago." Pam peered up at the steep formerly West Virginian hill, into the shadows beneath sugar maples, beech and yellow birch trees. She nodded slowly.

"All right. They're for later." Squaring her shoulders Pam marched back to the young teenagers. They stopped their talk, sensing that something was wrong from her face's stony set.

Mrs. Antoni looked very worried. "Pam? Is everything okay?"

"No, I'm afraid its not." Pam considered for a moment softening the story but decided against it. They're old enough, they should be told. "The mother wood duck is dead. She has been killed by hunters. Human hunters." A distressed murmur went through the group. Pam looked at the huddled mass of ducklings in the shallows. There was no escaping what came next, as much as she hated to remove a wild thing from its habitat she had no choice. It was unlikely that the two missing ducklings were taken by the hunters, they had probably fallen victim to a crow or some other opportunist—a baby duck alone would make an easy snack for a variety of creatures.

"What we have here now is an endangered species. These may be the only transplanted wood ducks in the whole Ring of Fire. I'd like very much to save them and I need your help."

A murmur of excitement went through the group—"Of course we will help!" It was unanimous. Pam smiled a little at their youthful good will. These are good kids. I'm glad I am here, doing these things. Pam rarely thought of her life before the Ring of Fire anymore. After her divorce she had disappeared into a glass bottle world comprised of her tiny house and secluded back garden. Seeing herself standing in front of a bunch of people, even if they were mostly kids, and being the one in charge, the one who knew what to do—she never would have expected this . . . or how much she liked it.

"All right. Here is the plan. Now that they have no mother we need to catch them and take care of them until they are older. Boys, I'd like to ask you to take off your shirts and give them to the girls." This couldn't help but produce a few giggles. Pam had to have a chuckle herself, despite the tragic nature of the situation. "Well, we aren't going to do it the other way!" Everyone snickered now and Mrs. Antoni gave her an alarmed look. "Girls, you are going to be the catchers, I think you'll be gentler than the boys, ja?" One of the girls in the group, and it sounded like a down-timer accent muttered "Duh!" Yes, we are also having a marvelous influence on this century's youth!

"You boys are going to roll up your pant legs and wade out into the lake from over there." She pointed a few meters down the shoreline toward the main lake where they wouldn't disturb the ducklings too soon. "Be careful, it drops off pretty sharp about six yards out. I want you to slowly make a half-circle around the ducklings so they can't swim away in any direction—if they try to go past you I need you to grab them with your hands! They are very fragile so you must be careful; it's easy to injure them.

"Girls, you are going to make the other half of the circle along the shore. Crouch low and have the boy's shirts ready. When I give the signal the boys are going to start making noise and will move towards the shore. That's going to drive the ducklings up onto the grass where you can drop the shirts over them. Once you have a duckling caught under your shirt hold it there and I'll come get it to put in my bag here." Pam quickly emptied the contents of her rucksack onto the ground, she could fit most of it in her coat pockets for the trip back, and it would make a nice safe container for their fuzzy little captives. "Does everyone understand? Stacey and Gerbald, you stay back a ways—if the girls miss any then it's up to you to grab them." The teacher gave her a determined nod and Gerbald had developed an exceedingly wry smile.

"Yes, ma'am," he drawled in his best West Virginian; obviously he had been practicing.

Marshaling her troops in a loud stage whisper Pam directed the boys out into the water. Good Lord, I hope no one drowns on my watch! They moved surprisingly quietly, lanky young teen herons stalking through the reeds. The cluster of ducklings had begun to peep softly, looking around nervously, their instincts told them something was up. Pam got the girls crouched in their circle, shirts spread wide between their hands, ready to make the catch. 'Operation Duck-lift' is a go! The excitement of the rescue operation had lifted Pam's spirits quite a bit. She might as well enjoy the fun now and ask questions later about why this had happened and what she was going to do about it.

"Boys—move in! Slowly!" The waders had formed a wide ring and now carefully closed it. Soon they were all within an arm's reach of each other. Ready . . . steady . . .

"Do it!" The boys began to move rapidly into shore whooping merrily. As hoped for the ducklings lost their nerve and broke from cover; they made a plaintive peeping plunge for the grassy shore. Perfect! "Here they come, girls!" To their credit the girls remained calm and quiet, waiting for the madly fleeing ducklings to get within reach—and down went the shirts! Six of the girls had a duckling thrashing about under cotton T's and homespun linen shirts, which were now being cut in up-time style as was, not too surprisingly, the burgeoning fashion amongst Grantville's kids. Pam, distracted by the action almost missed the duckling that ran between Mrs. Antoni's legs and was headed straight for her. Plop! Down went Pam's rucksack over it.

One more had broken the shirt line and was weaving madly toward the hillside. Gerbald, with a delicate flick of the wrist, tossed his ridiculous floppy hat on it. He rarely took the misshapen thing off, only when his wife Dore threatened to render grievous harm at the dinner table, so Pam considered it a generous gesture of solidarity on her bodyguard's part. Figuring that Gerbald could suffer the dread German summer sun on his head for a few minutes, Pam scooped her own catch deeper into the rucksack. She then proceeded to gently pry struggling ducklings out from under the shirts. Soon she had six loudly protesting balls of fuzz. When she retrieved the one under Gerbald's hat they exchanged a quick grin. Yeah, that was fun! The students were laughing and hooting now as the boys tried to regain their shirts from the girls, who were engaged in a merry game of keep-away with the bare shouldered boys. Mrs. Antoni just shook her head and let them have at it. She walked over to Pam and Gerbald. Pam smiled warmly at her.

"Thanks for letting me use the kids as a wildlife rescue team, Stacey."

"No problem, it was good for them. At first the Grantville kids and the new kids were really shy with each other, it was to be expected. But now I'm at the point where I forget which is which—they're all just kids now, American kids. They have really become a tight knit group."

"Can you understand that mixed up slang of theirs?"

"Good heavens no, I never expected that! In class they must communicate correctly in one language or the other depending on what's required for the lesson. Out of class there is no stopping them, and the funny thing is I catch myself doing it sometimes, too!" They all shared a chuckle. Pam was shortly reminded of her responsibility by the gently squirming weight of her rucksack.

"We need to round these guys up and head back for Grantville pronto. I've got to get these ducklings out of this bag and into temporary quarters." Mrs. Antoni proceeded to bark orders and within a relatively short time blushing boys were reunited with their grass-stained shirts and the students were assembled. Pam gave them a brief thank you speech congratulating them on their helpfulness after which they began the trip back to town brimming with pride and tuckered out from all the hullabaloo.

As they were leaving the inlet Gerbald lingered behind a long moment, gazing up the hillside. Anything that distressed his dear employer and 'little sister' Pam would have Gerbald to contend with. In case anyone may be watching and he thought he knew who might be. He made a show of touching the hilt of his katzbalger, a lethal shortsword designed for wreaking havoc in the close quarters of unwieldy pike formations.

"It is still sharp." he announced to the shadowy trees, turned martially on his boot heel and marched after the group.

****

By the time Pam and Gerbald had been relieved of their charges and said their goodbyes it was getting near dinner time. They walked to Pam's house where Gerbald helped her extricate a dirty sea-green kiddy pool from its place leaning against the side yard's overgrown fence. Pam had thought she might use it as a refreshing spot to lounge on summer afternoons back up-time; she'd used it exactly twice. She found the extra pounds she'd put on during the divorce and the more extra pounds she'd put on after had pretty much wiped out all desire for getting into a bathing suit, much less venturing outside in one. Once the leaves and dust were knocked out of the thing they dragged it into the living room where it filled most of the floor space. Pam sacrificed a cardboard box, cutting one end of it off and turning it upside down over a folded fluffy hand towel within the kiddy pool's confines to form a cozy faux nest. Next she added a wide, shallow glass baking dish with water for them to drink and bathe in. Throughout this part of the process Gerbald stood holding the bag of softly hooting little creatures well away from his body with a long suffering look.

"What's the matter Gerbald?" Pam asked slyly.

"Nothing, of course." He smiled unconvincingly.

"Hey, you are awfully good with those little fellows Gerbald, so gentle . . . maybe you would like to keep them until they are old enough to go out on their own! I bet Dore would love them!" Pam grinned like a coyote.

"Wass? Nein!" Lapsing into German was rare for Gerbald who rather prided himself on his English mastery. He moved purposefully toward the temporary enclosure, thrusting the rucksack toward Pam, who backed away, making him follow her in a circle around the kiddie pool.

"Pam! Take your baby ducks now, bitte!" Pam shook with mirth at her friend's discomfiture.

"So much for being a macho man with a sensitive side, Gerbald!" Pam set the rucksack down on the plastic pool floor, giving a gentle shake to dislodge the small refugees. They ran around willy nilly for a minute, but once they found the water they calmed down, engaged in the very messy process of splashing all its contents out of the bowl onto the pool's floor. They were still peeping, but at a much less frantic pitch.

Gerbald peered down his nose at them, a glimpse of narrowed eyes beneath his voluminous hat's drooping brim. "Do they always make such noise? This pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-ing of theirs?"

"Oh, I should think not. Once they settle down they'll probably go right to sleep, they must be exhausted. Now, you're sure you wouldn't like to have some pets for a while? I think it would be good for you, taking care of something so small and cutsie-ootsy-wootsy!"

Gerbald grimaced at the thought. "I do not do 'cute,'" he announced firmly. Pam laughed at his use of the up-time turn of phrase. Determining that his duties had ended, Gerbald flew out the door so fast his shadow almost got left behind in the living room.

"See you tomorrow!" He called back from the safety of the road, which he had sprinted all the way down to.

"Coward!" Pam waved.

Out of sight down the road Gerbald slowed to a thoughtful pace. He had said nothing to Pam about his suspicions regarding the morning's events. It would not do to worry her further and it was something he had rather not tell her about in any case. He would see to the matter tomorrow . . .

****

As she ate her dinner Pam listened to the ducklings; pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Poor little things, I know you miss your momma. I'm going to make sure you grow up into big wild ducks, I promise." pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!

Working on the drafts of her growing field guide Pam felt sorry for the orphans behind her. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "I am going to find out who did this and put a stop to it my little friends, don't you worry. I don't care if they make it a law or not, nobody is going to kill up-time birds if I can help it. I'll sic Gerbald on 'em all right, that will fix their wagons." pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! Shortly she gave up trying to get any work done and headed for the bathroom. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!

After a quick shower and tooth brushing Pam tiptoed through the room. They had grown quieter. She switched off the table lamp. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! With a grimace she turned it back on. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Okey dokey, goodnight now! I'll leave the light on." She said tenderly to them. I'm talking to ducks now. Softly she closed the bedroom door. Even closed she could still here an only slightly muffled pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! Poor little guys.

"They'll settle down after a while." Pam crawled into bed, well worn out after the crazy afternoon. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! She turned on the bedside reading lamp to enjoy a mystery novel she'd borrowed. She had finally gotten past the point where reading any up-time fiction had filled her with homesickness and despair at never seeing the twentieth century again. Now this was home and she could enjoy a good up-time read with just a tinge of nostalgia. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! It was hard to concentrate with the endless chorus going on next door. After she had read the same sentence five times in a row she gave up, flopped the book down on the bed stand, turned off the light and scrunched down under the covers. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Poor . . . little . . . things . . ."

pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!

"Maybe I should turn their light off now." Pam crawled out of bed and crept into the living room. Eight pairs of glossy black eyes peered nervously at her from within the box's shelter. pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! "Shhhh, you guys go to sleep now!" pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee! Pam blinked tiredly at them, then went back to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. It was already eleven she saw as she got back in bed; she felt unnaturally heavy, drooping with exhaustion.

pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!

Midnight.

pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!

One in the morning.

pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!

Two in the morning.

"You don't know just what an endangered species you are becoming, little ducks . . ." A muffled voice emanated from beneath the pillow.

pee-pee-pee-pee-pee-pee!

****

It was early Saturday morning so Pam was considering sleeping in. The problem was, now that the ducklings were finally quiet she was growing worried about them. Around seven she got up to have a look. She found them all in a cozy bunch sleeping on the soft towel. You guys had a hard day yesterday . . . hopefully today will be a better one.

She walked into the kitchen to get the morning coffee going. If she ever met any Turks she would probably hug them, tears of joy streaming down her face. The reintroduction of coffee to seventeenth-century Grantville had been a tremendous comfort to her as it was to most other up-time Americans. Turkish coffee, yum! Moving quietly Pam sat down at her window-side table. The bird feeder had its morning crowd; bluethroats, towhees, pirols, titmice, and her treasured cardinals, the usual mix of native German and transplanted up-time birds. She watched the brilliant red cardinals with keen pleasure.

"The American redbird," she reminded herself looking at the noble form of the cardinals. "That's a better name for you in this day and age." In the guide book she was creating she had listed the name 'cardinal' as an "archaic" up-time appellation (best not to think too hard on that), in the New United States the startlingly bright plumaged bird was now widely known among down-timers as the Amerikanische rotvogel. Watching her breakfast guests tearing into the sunflower seeds grown on her front yard plantation Pam let out a sudden gasp. Good lord! What do I feed the ducklings? They must be half starved! Pam grabbed her paltry collection of American field guides, pushing aside the old familiar regret that she had not bought more bird books before the Ring of Fire came. File that under 'Lost Chances and Failed Romances,' Pammy old girl. She would do what she could with what she had—a skill set that had acquired much honing of late. There wasn't much in the books regarding feeding, and nothing specific on ducklings. She knew wood ducks were mainly herbivorous; they were considered a perching duck but shared some traits with dabblers like the mallards. Thinking hard, Pam distinctly recalled seeing the ducklings when they were still up at the lake going after small insects as well as pondweeds; all baby birds needed high quantities of protein.

On her way out the kitchen door she turned off the stove, the coffee would have to wait. She grabbed a small trowel and a pail as she headed for the sunflower field. Most of her wide, sloping front yard was devoted to sunflowers, they provided excellent bird feed and besides—they were just damn pretty. She stuck the trowel into the dark, dew-moist earth between the rows.

"Bingo!" Her first scoop yielded two wriggling pink earthworms. "Breakfast is served!" Once she had five of the unfortunate invertebrates in her pail she washed them briefly in the wall spigot. Back in the house she placed one on the cutting board, proceeding to chop it into very small pieces. Briefly a voice in her head, her own mother's traveling across the space-time continuum, admonished her. "That's disgusting—you eat off that, too you know!" Pam grinned as she realized she could care less. She heaped the minced earthworm into a shallow bowl filled with water. She noticed that some of the pieces were still moving. All the better.

Her downy house guests had awoken and were now peeping softly, poking their heads out of the box's shelter, the ringed markings around their eyes giving them a charmingly mischievous look. Pam gently placed the bowl on the kiddy pool's bottom, then stepped back to watch quietly. The ducklings peered shyly at the new object at first but once they caught the scent all shyness evaporated. Feeding frenzy! Pam marveled. Very hungry ducklings tore into the earthworm soup with relish. "So, you guys were hungry. Is that why you kept me up half the night?" I hope this is the right stuff for you . . .

Pam knew it was time that she got some help with this. She needed someone who knew something about raising fowl. She hauled out the Grantville phone book, found the name and dialed the number. He's a farmer—he'll be up early.

"Hello, Willie Ray? This is Pam Miller. I wonder if maybe you could help me out . . ."

****

Pam felt awful as she gently placed the frightened ducklings back into her rucksack—it was still the safest way she could think of to transport them. Soon she was headed down the sunny morning road whistling Zippity Doo Dah to a chorus of muffled peeps.

Willie Ray Hudson's place was well-known to every Grantviller. She found Willie Ray still nursing a cup of coffee on his wide front porch. As it turned out the friendly old farmer had spent the prior evening long and late at the Thuringen Gardens public house and he now rather resembled a tree full of owls blinking at the bright morning sun as if it were an unexpected calamity. Pam took his offer of "A cup of Joe." She hadn't gotten around to hers this morning and Willie Ray obviously needed some time to rally. He gave Pam a sheepish grin.

"This coffee is doing the trick, Pam. I'll be up an at 'em pretty quick. A fellow my age putting down that strong German beer like it's Sunday picnic lemonade, I should know better. Made a damn fool of myself. I think I ended up back here courtesy of a wheelbarrow!" He grinned, his jaw a field of gray stubble growing on darkly tanned furrows of weathered wrinkles.

"I know how you feel, Willie Ray. I got into some of that moonshine the boys are making these days a while back. My hired man's wife had to put me to bed like a baby, thank heavens for Gerbald and Dore! I was a mess, I felt like I'd been kicked in the head by a mule the next afternoon when I came to." They shared a laugh at their respective misadventures in the realms of the spirits. Something about Willie Ray and his farm made Pam feel comfortably rustic. She had spent plenty of time here and in places like this in her youth.

"Now, what you got in that old travellin' bag, Miss Pam? By the sound of it I'll bet it's not canned beans and frankfurters. Must be those orphans."

"They're wild wood duck ducklings, Willie Ray. Have you ever seen the ducks with the long crest coming off the back of their heads? The real pretty ones."

"I know what wood ducks are; seen a lot of birds here on the farm over the years, usually going after my patch of corn. Just what happened?"

"Their mother was killed by a trapper up along the rim. Probably a hungry down-timer shacked up in the German pine woods north of town. Gerbald and I are going to go see if we can find who it was later today. I was ready to kill them yesterday but now I think I'm going to try to reason with them, get them to hunt somewhere else outside the Ring." Pam's brow furrowed. She really hadn't a clue how to deal with the situation but she knew she had to do something.

"Well, being reasonable is always a good place to start. Come on, Pam. Let's show these little peeps their new home." Willie Ray stood up slowly. He stayed in great shape working his farm but the years had taken their toll; he wasn't a young man any longer.

The cloud passed from Pam's face. "Really? You do have a place for them?"

"Sure I do. What's a farm without a duck pond? It's out back of the barn, remember?" It had been quite a few years since she had visited Willie Ray. She felt guilty for a moment but the genial farmer wasn't the type to fuss over that kind of thing. Folks were welcome to drop by the farm when it suited them. Pam followed Willie Ray around the side of the house and down the bare path through the grass to the barn. They walked through the large outbuilding, a couple of cows giving Willie Ray a scolding moo for being late with their milking.

"I hear ya, girls. Dang it, where are those hired men of mine?"

"Were they with you last night?" Pam asked with feigned innocence. Willie Ray flashed her a rueful grin.

"Why, I do believe they were. Come to think of it last I seen they were singing drinking songs while propping each other up. Figure I'll see 'em around noon then. My own damn fault, I was buying the rounds."

Heading out the back of the barn they arrived at the duck pond. It was fairly spacious, a good twelve yards wide and fifteen long. One end had been left natural, full of cattails and lily pads. The end nearest the barn had a muddy beach crisscrossed with the tracks of various fowl, a gnarled willow tree providing shade. The entire area was surrounded with a sturdy looking chickenwire fence, dug well into the ground, something to keep the chickens in and the weasels out. The enclosure also included a roomy bird yard and several coops and pens, all occupied by an untidy population of clucking, quacking, honking and gobbling critters. A very large red rooster gave Pam the evil eye, an intruder in his domain. It advanced menacingly a few steps but Willie Ray shooed him off with a raised boot. The rooster held its head high in the air, stalking off with greatly injured pride.

"Never mind Pete, he's more bark than bite. But I seen him give a weasel the spur once, cut the varmint's throat wide open! He earns his keep. Now, let's find Matilda." They walked over to the water's edge where a motley collection of drakes and hens milled about, made up of assorted domestic ducks, semi wild mallard ducks and those that were clearly a mix containing varying degrees of both. They walked right into the middle of the congregation, the ducks only acknowledging their presence by stepping casually out of their path.

"Matilda! Tilda, Tilda!" Willie Ray called, followed by a sharp whistle. From the shore a very large and obviously well fed hen waddled toward them. She was a mutt all right; she had the markings of a mallard hen but instead of brown and white they were in shades of dark and light gray. Her beak and feet were a very un-mallard shade of blue. Pam had never seen a goofier looking bird and had to smile outright.

"This here is Matilda, mother to the world. She's a good old gal; poor thing's eggs haven't hatched for a few years. She has adopted everything from goose goslings to a Labrador retriever puppy—good thing they're swimmers! Damn dog still thinks he's a duck. She ought to be right pleased to have some ducklings again. Here Pam, let me have that bag."

Pam handed him her peeping cargo a little reluctantly, but the old leathery hands were as gentle as a cloud. He bent over with a small grunt to hold the rucksack open on the ground, lying on its side. Matilda hurried over to look inside, waddling so fast she almost took a nose dive. Pam laughed aloud.

"Watch this, Pam." Willie Ray grinned up at her.

Matilda stuck her head right into the bag. A gentle grunting quack could be heard. Suddenly the ducklings poured out of the bag to form a huddle around Matilda's big blue feet. Matilda put her head down in amongst them so they could all get a good dose of each other's scent. Then she looked up at Willie Ray and gave a quack that was surely filled with pleasure and pride. "Thanks for bringing them to me; I'll take ...