The birdsong was sweeter than the wind on this particular spring morning. It seemed nothing could’ve dimmed the bright, shining sun. The blossoms on every tree were in bloom, sending red, pink, and green hues out across the farm. A rooster crows in the distance as a young girl slips out the front door of a shabby brown farmhouse. Her name is Winnie, with long red hair and freckles that run under and around her blue eyes. Her skin is randomly splotched with deep amber patches, a mystery to her and those who’ve looked after her. A possible factor as to why nobody wants this girl. She’s got no real home, no real family that she knows of; passed around in circles like an antique vase others neither want nor need after someone dies. She wasn’t new to this vicious cycle, it was just a thing that went around without end, so why try to end it?
Well, now she could think of several reasons. Her latest foster parents, Ann and Michael Roberts, owned a huge poultry farm. They raised birds like guinea hens, chickens, and ducks. Winnie adored every animal on that farm, and anyone could see it. She was especially partial to the ducks, and one in particular, at that. A black and white spotted Magpie named Piper. Winnie had been on the farm for a couple of weeks now, and had raised this year’s batch of ducks all the way up from eggs. And though the ducks all followed her around like a wonky army, Piper always led the pack and was the first to Winnie’s lap each morning. In fact, Winnie was on her way to the duck house right now.
The door swung open slowly, shoving through the swarming masses as every duck in the house waddled right over. Winnie smiled as they jumped up at her feet. Piper, still getting the hang of flying, flapped awkwardly up to her shoulder and tapped her on the nose.
“Hey there, little buddy,” Winnie cooed. Now directing her words at the entire flock, she called out “I brought foo-ood! I got breakfast!”
Thirty more little feet padded back over to collect breakfast.
Winnie had eagerly volunteered to handle an entire flock on top of her chores. She was trying to prove helpful to the Roberts, in hopes she could be one someday and finally free herself from the aforementioned cycle. She wanted to stay with the ducks for as long as possible; they were her best friends. The farm was also such a thing of beauty. The sun would rise out and over the cloudy pond each morning, shining light through the trees and over the farm. The sprinklers in the garden would turn on, casting mist over half the property, and letting rainbows fall onto the sprouting crops. The fields were slick with dew and sparkled in the morning light. The hens would gobble their feed while the ducks splashed about, and Winnie was allowed to watch it all happen. The Roberts had given her a small attic room, which fostered the occasional spider in the dusty corners, but the acoustics were great and on rainy nights, all the noises would seep in: falling rain, whistling wind, and peeping frogs. And by the time the peepers quit their nighttime chatter, Winnie had long since fallen asleep.
The Roberts lived in Northern Minnesota, near Lake Superior, and in her three weeks of living there, she had been taken out for a ride in the car exactly once. They were super stingy with gasoline, and had only left to get more at the beginning of May. The town was less quiet than the farm, but still quite small. And when Winnie was returned to the orphanage at the end of the month, which was sure to happen if she didn’t get adopted, she would get to ride right through that town again. Back through the busy streets of the city, there the air is sour and twisted, and you can’t walk thirty paces down the road without encountering crime. All the city filth pushed Winnie so hard to try and escape, and that was most likely what the orphanage wanted. Nobody wanted these children, and the children wanted to escape. It still seemed rather inhumane to put each child through an evaluation for potential parents, but Winnie rarely worried about performance. She could do plenty. Whether or not it was her skin (Sunspots, as she called them), her new foster parents were probably just racist. Or just full of resentment towards, well… everything. Or maybe they just didn’t like Winnie.
After the ducks have been fed and their water changed, she exits and moves onto Henhouse one, as her caretakers refer to it. One of three massive chicken coops, housing around fifty hens in each, along with ten cantankerous roosters. She takes a bag of feed from the barn and slides the lock out of the door and swings it open. The chickens are immediately there, sharp beaks and talons at the ready. Winnie closes the door as some attempt an escape. She slips the nail behind her ear as she reaches for a handful of feed. Scattering their feed and changing their waters, while everybody pecks the ground absentmindedly. Every morning she is greeted by the chore of emptying the bedding and poop out of their poor water trough. They are filthy creatures, stinky little cannibals. Blame the brains, she tells herself. They can’t help their stinkiness. They didn’t invent indoor plumbing.
After her bird chores are complete, and the birds have been set loose into the fields to graze, Piper follows Winnie into the house and up to her room, where Winnie pulls out a book from a pile. Winnie loves reading, and has taught herself just about everything she’s ever known. She opens the book, which is about marine mammalogy, and shows Piper the colorful photos of the dolphins and whales that fill the pages. The books have been her birthday gifts for the past couple years from the head lady at the orphanage. She had been through several years of public school, where she had learned to read and do basic arithmetic. However, her education had been cut short in the Foster care system. She’d been passed around so frequently that possessions were more constant than her education. She had been waiting forever for a home, and even if she had to settle for this, she would always find a way to press on.
Piper quacked expectantly on the dusty floor and Winnie carried her over to the bed, where it would be comfiest. Piper sinks into the thin mattress and gives an appreciative quack. She has almost all of her feathers now, and more on the way. Winnie hears somebody stir downstairs. The Roberts must finally be awake. They’ve been using her, it seems, as an excuse to sleep in late nowadays. As soon as they realized she actually liked the birds, they had assigned her things to do, and the list had grown from there.
As Winnie had been thinking about the handful of times they had screwed her over chore-wise, Piper’s eyes flew open and she hopped about excitedly on the bed. Winnie shook off the negative thoughts and stared inquisitively at the little bird. Piper hopped and quacked as a rooster crowed outside, although the sun had long since come up. Piper ran into Winnies arms, and she sensed a great commotion amongst the animals. Then, the house shook slightly. The ceilings rattled and dust sifted off them. She scrambled down the stairs and apprehended the remote in attempts to activate the old boxy TV. The news channel popped up on an emergency broadcast. The wires were being battered and beaten and the signal was choppy. “Th- one -ruptionn- strophi – canic – – – shelt – – – – – –” and the static overcame the news station and the image of a blurred mass of glowing reds and oranges escaped the ground violently.
Panic swelled behind her eyes, and Winnie snatched Piper off the stairs and threw open the front door. She was next to clueless, but had managed to piece something together: several states over, in Yellowstone national Park, the nation’s one and only Supervolcano had finally erupted. And it was going to rain hell from above.
Outside, great clouds threatened rain on the formerly perfect morning. Deep, dark clouds loomed in the distance. The grass was being blown by a sour smelling wind blowing in from the West. Winnie held Piper snug against her chest as the wind’s power grew. She had no idea where to go. And then she remembered all the chickens and the ducks. She was seized by a decision on what to do with them. The logical conclusion was to release them. The ducks could probably fly, and if there was any ounce of brain in the chickens, they’d stay together. If they were left trapped, they would surely meet a slow, suffocating end. Best to free them now, she assumed. She ran over and let out the flapping chickens, who instantly scattered in several directions. The ducks, however, ran as a neat flock in a single direction; away. Winnie decided their survival instincts were probably better than hers, and followed them.
Meanwhile, in the house, Mr and Mrs Roberts had awoken to the earthquake as well, and then the blaring TV, followed by a great commotion outside. Why children? They thought. Why couldn’t we have just hired a proper farmhand? Surely, a proper farmhand wouldn’t have been running off with a flock of ducks at this very moment.
They stumbled down the stairs, and were met with all their precious plates and ornate china decorations had spilled and shattered all over the floor. This was a big win for Winnie, as she had always despised each polished piece, and had also been willing their destruction for quite some time now.
She was quite far into the woods now, with her flock of ducks right behind her. She set Piper down and then herself at a tree. It had been quite a while spent running. She could hear a small engine in the distance. That noise was the Roberts, recovering from the loss of their extensive china collection, and no doubt heading into town to replace it.
Though the initial earthquake had died down now, the tremors pulsed through the ground. Having caught her breath, Winnie looked around at the dimmed trees that sat below a damaged sky. She knows she has to get away. Soon the air won’t be breathable. And today is not the day she will watch her feathered family die. A couple of chickens sweep through the brush nearby. They are likely doomed. She gets back on her feet and begins trotting through the woods with her pack of quacks. It would seem that she is leading all the ducks, but that would be incorrect. She is following a single duck, and the rest are trailing behind.
Another tremor, stronger than the last, shakes the new leaves up above her head. A tree, clearly sick of the noise, drops dead fifty paces leftward. Its trunk shrieks with friction as it lands with enough force to split a tractor. The panic has not left Winnie yet, and there is little comfort to be found in the prospect of running through the woods for however long. Piper suddenly turns, and Winnie is brought out of the storm clouds overhead, and down to a quaint stream, where each duck waddles excitedly into the water. Some clouds are being blown South with a new gust of wind coming in from the East. The clouds above send down a sudden sheet of rain, and the ducks are ecstatic. The rain takes on an aggressive approach, and as the storm picks up, ash begins to clog the air. It’s only been a couple minutes since the eruption, and it’s already here. Winnie hunches over, coaxing some of the ducks, while the rest are driven out of the stream and under a big log. Winnie follows as two ducks behind her begin to sway and collapse.
“No! My babies!” She looks back into the cloud behind them and waves a hand to take the ducks forward. That slight bit of ash was enough to kill a duck, and imagine how quickly it would end a human.
As they run, a tear falls from her cheek. She knows crying won’t help right now, that it won’t bring them back, or make the sky shut up.
It does help, actually, she thinks. It’s just helping me deal with it, which is most of what I really need. This is the first rational thought she’s formed all day. No, that’s wrong. What I need is somewhere to go. She stops and lets the ducks gain several feet in front of her. They stop and stare inquisitively as an idea forms in her head. The lakes.
“The lakes! The great lakes!” she tells the ducks. “We’re going to the great lakes, babies.”
A great gust of wind blows down from the North, taking the ash cloud with it Piper assumes her place as the head of the group and everybody follows.
The woods break up ahead to reveal a parking lot and a Dairy Queen. The street lights have come on to guide people through the darkness brought by the clouds. The ducks quack anxiously at passing cars on the street. Winnie herds them behind an abandoned car and a voice in her head begs: steal the car. She has never been taught how to hijack cars, but she goes around the parking lot anyways, tugging on door handles until one door opens and she goes back to the ducks. She helps them into the car, the passenger’s seat, and assumes position in the driver’s spot. So many controls. It’s a fairly modern SUV with about a hundred settings for the seat temperatures alone. There’s a button with the word POWER written in white, which she presses firmly. The car springs to life and she shuts the door and buckles her seatbelt. She glances at the ducks and briefly questions their safety, but the duck belt has not yet been invented, and she concludes, they’ve come this far, they’ll be fine. She switches gears into drive and hits the gas. The car literally revs to life and moves swiftly towards the wall. Swiftly locating the brakes, she stops it, reverses, and turns out of the parking lot as a red faced woman bursts through the door of the Dairy Queen. The tears that sparkle on her cheek fall as she yells and chases the car. She drops her bag on the ground and huffs in futility. Winnie can’t help but feel bad as she locks the doors and escapes down the emptied streets.
The ducks quack excitedly as they hop up to see the views through the window. In reality, it’s just a dank, wet day, but the ducks have never come into town before. Winnie gives the road ahead her full attention as she fights the panic that comes to every new driver. Being only 15, she’s only ever driven a car once, and it wasn’t legal.
“Wicked,” she says as she stops at the red light and smiles at the ducks, who have spilled onto the passenger side floor and one on the dash.
Dash duck is wide eyed, staring at the eerie sky. Up ahead, fluffy, white clouds blow east, and the car chases after them. The car drives onto a bridge that leads up to the highway that is filled with cars, silvery and shining in the sunlight. She pulls slowly into the merging lane and eases onto the official highway.
“Not bad for my first time, is it guys?” she asks. Piper trills in return. The ducks rustle a chip bag they’ve found, and strew the sour cream and onion flavored Lays all over the floor. The sun peeks through the clouds ahead, as if checking in with the world. With a hand holding the wheel steady, she reaches up above her head and finds a pair of sunglasses in that little compartment. She flicks them open and puts them on. They rest a bit lopsided on her nose, but in the mirror stored above, she concludes that she looks slay. A sign above the road reads Lake Superior, exit 17. She braces herself to turn onto exit 17, rapidly approaching. She uses the blinker as she careens towards the right side of the road and pulls off on the exit labeled 17. The car winds through empty streets and abandoned neighborhoods. The gas tank flashes a red light and the car slows to a stop at the side of the road. All the passerby would see is a shiny white SUV pulled over at the side of a dark road, and a young girl emerging from the vehicle with a small army of ducks hopping out behind her.
They follow her across the street and over to where a small stream leads off into the woods. Hopping off the road, she follows the water with the group, past trees and through a marshy patch and out onto a beach. Bright yellow sand appears all around them as they break through the trees and out into the sun. They’ve finally caught up to it. Winnie discards her shoes and runs to the water, where the ducks have quickly congregated. She wades in about knee deep while the ducks splash in the cold water and drink up. Their little wings flail about as some begin to paddle around. Their bills splash and drink and trill and quack happily.
There must be some other way to get out of here, she thinks. The dramatic rocks that surround the water suddenly present themselves, and an idea spawns in her head. She stands and approaches the huge terrain. She reaches up to place a hand on a ledge and pulls herself up. With careful placement of her left leg, she manages to squirm up into the mouth of a small cave. Adjusting herself and looking back down where the ducks have congregated, she turns to judge the cave she’s managed to get into. High ceilings and dripping stones. This will have to do.
Winnie hops down and walks to the woods as the ducks try to lead her into the lakes. She grabs some logs and shakes off the leaves. She brings them over to her rock and tosses them up. She repeats a few times, and then climbs onto the ledge and arranges all of it. The stands up the strong logs vertically and shoves them between the floor and ceiling. That makes the walls, and the fort is almost done. She hops back down and rolls an enormous log over to the cave, and heaves half of it up to make a ramp. She brings some rocks onto the ledge as well, and calls to the ducks. They perk up at her calls and waddle over. She pats the log to signal to them that they should hop up, and Piper leads the gang. Their little claws dig into the bark and they slowly waddle their way up. They hop up to the top and find their way into the cave, which has been made significantly darker by the walls. Winnie grabs a couple armfuls of leaves, and slowly walks up the logs as dark clouds begin to roll through the blue skies. She takes the last bundle up and shoves all the leaves indoors and smooths them out in one corner as a bed for the ducks. She carefully arranges the rocks at the door and stacks them like a wall. It is stacked up to the ceiling, and then the cracks are filled with spare leaves. She sits back and absorbs the cave noises. The ducks are settling down in the corner full of leaves, and the stone on the ceiling drips into a small pool carved into the rock. She leans back and sinks against the wall. Her life is in the hands of this cave now.
The ducks, having sensed vulnerability, patter over and sit on her stomach and legs. They’ve already stunk up the air. No surprises there. Actually, this smells more sulfuric than that. It must be the gas from the volcano leaking into the holes in the wall.
Oh no, she thinks. I’m going to die in this hole. The ashes clog the holes in the wall. The oxygen has been tainted and cut off, and there’s practically no escape now. Her mind swells with panic, but a melody floats into her head, that of a song she heard a long time ago. The words come to her and take her by the hand, and escape into the air. Her voice is hoarse and she coughs. Throat cleared, the words flow more evenly as she sings.
“Men trærne de danser og fossene stanser, når hun synger, hun synger “kom hjem”, men trærne de danser og fossene stanser, when she sings, she sings come home.”
The ducks quiet and listen, and their eyes close and fade into the dark. The air is too heavy and she can barely force enough into her lungs to sing further.
“I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene. Over isbreer tar jeg men frem, i eplehagen står møyen den vene. Og synger, “Når kommer du hjem”,” her voice turns to a hoarse whisper as she strokes the ducks sleek heads. They sit around her, and the air fills her lungs. She’s too weak to fight the pain or the following numbness that overtakes her. She fades into the darkness of the cave, and their souls fly off to wherever innocent souls go. Across the land, similar fates rain down upon others, sweeping their lives together and sending them away.
The translation of the song: Jeg Saler Min Ganger
but the trees dance and the waterfalls stop, when she sings, she sings “come home”
but the trees dance and the waterfalls stop, when she sings, she sings “come home”
In storm-black mountains, I wander alone. Over glacier I make my way, in the apple garden stands the maiden fair and sings, “When will you come home”
