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A TALE OF TWO DUCKS(with apologies to Charles Dickens)
submitted by Nils Skudra
It has been my habit for the past two years when I am feeling particularly contemplative or melancholy to gather up a good book, a worn but Irish cable knit sweater and my always ready-to-go canine companion Jackson for a walk on the Guilford College campus, built in 1837 by the American Society of Friends. The campus’ woods served as a transit point for runaway slaves escaping on the Underground Railroad and as a refuge for Quakers evading the Confederate draft during the Civil War. As a Civil War historian the school holds a particular significance for me – as I move across its grounds I can feel the heavy weight of history and sometimes I imagine that out of the corners of my eyes I see shadows running past me, ghosts who race towards freedom, attached to these grounds by dint of Quaker conscience moved to action to help those in the intractable brace of slavery. I have the sense always that I am walking on holy and defiant ground as we approach the lake near the woods. The ground rises slightly to reveal the water, shimmering in a late afternoon sun. There are small speckled frogs sunning themselves on small logs, impervious to Jackson’s barks and a lone red-tailed hawk navigating a small patch of sky above. There waiting for us as always are a pair of Muscovy ducks encircling the lake. It gives me great pleasure to see them, the surety of their presence in an oft uncertain world. They are part of the fabric of my world, populated with gratitude for small things, the appearance of my beloved dogwood’s blossoms, a neighbor’s gifting me with a bouquet of wildflowers from his garden, another story being published in a small-town newspaper, an unexpected and cherished book (“North Carolina in the Civil War” by Michael C. Hardy) in a Salvation Army thrift store, the stable affection of friends who forgive any and all of my faults.
I am happy for the silence about me, nature’s capacious beauty, the fact that I can easily hear the song of birds and observe the rippling of small waves and the tiny minnows negotiating them. At the water’s edge, the Muscovy ducks draw near me and I am delighted that they seem take no fear in this approach. One is discernably larger than the other and I remember that the male of the species is bigger than his female counterpart. I have named them Mack and Molly Muscovy and greet them as such each time I pay my visit. They seem unafraid of Jackson and I – rather my Bichon Frise is clearly intimidated by them and whines copiously and a piteous look now marks his visage. I’ve talked to him about how the famous Civil War historian Shelby Foote spoke of US Grant’s having “four o’clock in the morning courage” and say “Old boy, you could do with a bit of that.” But still, with quickly measured paces, he retreats signaling his undeniable defeat – the birds have gained this day. I have learned from my reading that these are dry-land water fowl who do not spend as much time in the water as other ducks. The name “Muscovy” means “from the Moscow region” although no one seems to understand why they are so named. Some refer to them as “goose-like ducks” which given their appearance makes imminently good sense to me. Muscovys (Latin name: Cairina moschata) are native to Mexico, South and Central America and have established populations in the United States, especially in the South with a substantial presence in Florida. These goose-like ducks whistle rather than quack and their rather unconventional looks make them for some reason endearing to me. Throughout life people have told me that I was an odd duck so this may be why I feel like I am now in the company of confederate souls.
On this Wednesday past, attired in my Eddie Bauer jacket made in Bangladesh, I make another pilgrimage to Guilford College with reading material and my unstoppably enthusiastic Bichon Frise in tow. All indicators point to a fortuitous trip: the car is still working and there is sufficient gas to drive the three miles from my home. Under a magazine is a $5.00 bill I don’t remember placing there but the unexpectedness of finding it magnifies my joy ten-fold. I park my car and as I walk to the lake, I have a sudden promotion: what if the Muscovy ducks are not there? As a person who likes structure and sameness, the thought renders me momentarily inconsolable. I run to the water, Jackson an appreciable distance behind, and there on the water is only of the pair. My heart sinks: its mate is nowhere to be seen. I cannot quite describe the feeling that I had. I remember in an English graduate school class at the University of California, Berkeley the professor once mentioned T.S. Eliot’s remark that sometimes language is inadequate to describe experience. That is precisely how I feel at this moment. Where is the other Muscovy? The sole creature approaches me and though surely this is a matter of anthropomorphizing a situation, this duck looks disconsolate – it has lost its better half. I feel acutely that sense of loss because in my life I have suffered this too. He (or she) regards me with a direct gaze and I have the strange sense of inter-species communication. “What are you to do?” I ask this fellow (or lass). A low hissing sound issues from its throat and musing, I wonder if that it is attempt to formulate a response. My heart is breaking, I am so accustomed to seeing the two and now, unaccountably, there is only the one.
Softly I uttered my condolences to my friend in that poignant self-seeming twining of our souls. “I’m so sorry for your loss but you will be okay” I said, wishing devoutly that would be so. In a moment a life can change dramatically, whether it be a human or an animal one. In a careful flanking movement this time Jackson advances to the front of the lake, each creature eying the other, a mere 16 or so inches apart. There is absolute quiet with neither giving ground. Each makes a small sound as if in recognition of the other. A willful peace. A tiny change has happened almost imperceptibly in the world and we are there to record it. I am deeply moved by this duck’s predicament but have no way to ameliorate it for the better. I think to myself that I am a better man for having shared a little part of these beautiful creatures’ lives and am surprised at the rising surge of emotion in myself. As we leave I say aloud “we’ll be back soon to visit you”. No one is around to hear these words but neither would I mind if somewhere were who might perhaps think me foolish. I hope my Muscovy friend finds another to partner in life with because loneliness is really the greatest burden of all. I remember a saying an Irish friend in San Francisco once told me: “Better fighting than lonely.” I feel the wisdom of these words deep in my heart and sincerely hope the world will always bend its arc towards providing lost or injured love with a new one. In the meantime I am content to carry the memories of the Muscovy pair with me and commit them to writing such as the one I have penned here. ... See MoreSee Less
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