Beauty often walks just a little slower than we do.
The duck shepherd had eight ducks when he left home.
At the first bend, he had nine.
This was troubling.
He stopped on the narrow path beside the lake and counted again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
The ninth duck stood confidently between numbers six and seven, behaving as though it had completed all necessary immigration procedures.
The shepherd stared at it.
The duck stared back.
Quack.
This clarified nothing.
The Morning Count
Every autumn morning began with counting.
Eight ducks.
Always eight.
The shepherd knew each one well enough to recognize its walk.
There was the large white duck who preferred the front.
Two sisters who rarely separated.
One elderly duck with a slightly crooked orange bill.
Three sensible middle ducks.
And one small male who considered straight lines an insult to personal freedom.
The shepherd called him Pepper.
Pepper answered to nothing.
They walked along the lake while maple leaves drifted through the pale morning air.
The path smelled of damp soil and wet feathers. Somewhere among the reeds came the muddy green scent of shallow water.
Above them, branches moved gently.
Ffffft.
A leaf landed on Pepper.
Pepper objected immediately.
QUACK.
The leaf remained unmoved by criticism.
The shepherd smiled and continued.
Nine ducks followed.
That remained a problem.
One Extra
At the water’s edge, the shepherd stopped again.
He counted from the front.
Nine.
He counted from the back.
Still nine.
This was disappointing. He had hoped mathematics might reconsider.
He examined each bird carefully.
The stranger was smaller than most of his flock.
White body.
Orange feet.
A faint gray patch near one wing.
Nothing remarkable.
Except it clearly did not belong there.
“Where did you come from?”
The duck lowered its head and searched the mud for breakfast.
Apparently this was classified information.
The shepherd looked toward the distant reeds.
No farmhouse nearby.
No other flock.
No frantic owner running along the shore shouting about missing poultry.
Just mist.
Water.
Autumn trees.
And one duck who had apparently selected a new administrative arrangement.
The shepherd sighed.
They continued.
The Wrong Direction
Near the old bridge, Pepper suddenly left the line.
Of course he did.
He waddled toward the water.
The shepherd tapped his walking stick gently against the path.
Tok. Tok.
Pepper stopped.
Looked back.
Considered his options.
Then continued toward the water.
The other ducks followed.
All eight.
Including the stranger.
Within seconds, the shepherd had transformed from a man guiding ducks along a path into a man watching nine ducks swim in precisely the direction he had not intended.
He stood at the shore.
“Excellent.”
The ducks paddled happily.
The lake made tiny sounds around their bodies.
Plip. Plip. Shhh.
Golden leaves floated between them.
The shepherd could have called them back.
Instead, he sat on a flat stone.
The sun was beginning to reach through the mist.
Across the water, the distant hills appeared in layers of pale gold and gray. A small boat moved slowly near the opposite bank.
He had walked this route hundreds of times.
He had never sat here.
Apparently the ducks had been conducting landscape research.
The Flat Stone
The stone was colder than it looked.
The shepherd shifted once, then decided that dignity required him not to shift again.
Out on the lake, the ducks had spread themselves among the floating leaves.
Pepper was farthest away.
Naturally.
The shepherd rested both hands on his walking stick.
He had passed this part of the lake hundreds of times.
Usually from the path.
Usually while counting.
Usually while wondering whether Pepper was about to invent another problem.
From the stone, things looked different.
A dragonfly hovered above the reeds.
Near the opposite bank, a fisherman lifted an oar and let the boat glide.
Somewhere behind him, water tapped gently against a hollow root.
Tok… tok… tok.
The shepherd turned.
He had never heard that before.
A yellow leaf landed beside his shoe.
Then another.
He looked toward the path he was supposed to be walking.
It was still there.
This seemed reassuring.
Nothing had disappeared merely because he had stopped following it for a while.
Pepper quacked from the lake.
The shepherd looked at him.
“I am not thanking you.”
Pepper disappeared briefly beneath the water.
Apparently gratitude had not been expected.
Missing Again
Eventually the ducks returned to shore.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
The shepherd frowned.
Eight.
Now there were eight.
He counted again.
Eight.
The stranger was gone.
He looked across the lake.
Nothing.
He checked the reeds.
Nothing.
For reasons he did not entirely understand, he felt disappointed.
The ninth duck had belonged to him for less than an hour.
Technically, it had never belonged to him at all.
The shepherd looked once more toward the reeds.
Strange.
An hour ago he had not known the duck existed.
Now there seemed to be a duck-shaped space beside number six.
Then Pepper quacked.
The shepherd turned.
Farther along the shore stood an elderly woman beside a small wooden gate.
Behind her were several ducks.
And among them—
the gray-patched stranger.
The woman raised one hand.
“My duck?”
The shepherd laughed.
“Apparently.”
She came closer.
The missing duck waddled toward her as if the entire morning had been perfectly organized.
The woman thanked him.
He considered explaining that he had done absolutely nothing.
Instead, he nodded.
Some reputations should not be damaged unnecessarily.
Eight Again
The shepherd resumed his walk.
Eight ducks followed.
The correct eight.
Pepper was still in the wrong position, which restored a comforting sense of normality.
The afternoon light had turned the lake pale gold.
Dry leaves scratched softly across the path.
Srrr… srrr…
The shepherd thought about the morning.
He had left home with eight ducks.
He was returning with eight ducks.
Eight out.
Eight back.
He counted on his fingers, just to be certain.
Apparently the morning had produced absolutely nothing.
Yet his trousers were damp at the knees from the cold stone. A yellow leaf had somehow caught beneath his sandal strap, and somewhere behind him an old woman was still laughing at something he had said.
The shepherd scratched his chin.
This seemed like rather a lot to bring home from a walk on which, mathematically speaking, nothing had happened.
He counted once more.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Perfect.
Then a small brown duck emerged from the reeds and joined the end of the line.
The shepherd closed his eyes.
Apparently the lake was still accepting applications.
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