My Pond

A wedge of swans drifted over the pond, sunlight shimmering off their pristine coats as they moved in perfect synchronization, their mighty wings skimming the cool water.

“Bloody show-offs!” Gerald, the mallard, cursed under his breath.

The disagreeable mallard was observing the swans from the muddy shore. His fellow mallards, George and Gertrude, were feigning interest. Gilly, whose egg had fallen out of the nest making her hatch a little too early, was off in her own world.

“Today is the day, my feathered friends!” Gerald declared.

“Here he goes again,” George muttered to Gertrude.

Gerald, ignoring the barely hidden whisper of his comrade, continued, “We will free ourselves—”

Gilly held up a wing. “Boss?”

Gerald sighed. “Yes, Gilly?”

“Erm … there was something I was going to say…” Gilly tapped her bill in contemplation.

After several polite moments, the increasingly annoyed Gerald asked, “Gilly?”

“Hum?”

Gerald shook his head and carried on. “Today, we free ourselves of these pompous poultry! Please know, I didn’t choose this action lightly. Some of us might not make it.”

“Why did he look at me when he said that?” Gilly whispered to the others.

George and Gertrude pretended they didn’t hear.

“Those long-necked bastards will rue the day—”

“Blue?”

Gerald glared at Gilly. “What?”

“You said, ‘Will blue the day.’” Gilly squinted at the sky. “It’s already blue. Does that mean we won?” she asked with genuineness.

The other mallards giggled behind their wings as Gerald sighed again.

“No, you idiot. I said, ‘rue’ as in the swans will wish they hadn’t started this war.”

Gilly’s dark-brown eyes went wide. “The swans started it?”

Gerald whistled and flared his wings in annoyance. “Yes. Those pretentious bastards started this bloody war, and, by all that’s feathered, I will end it!”

“But ... I mean ... I know how it started.” Gilly was trying to sound casual. “But like ... maybe the others might not know so ... you know ... maybe you could tell them again?”

Gerald glared down his bill at Gilly.

George and Gertrude stopped giggling when they realized Gilly had drawn them into it.

“We know, boss. There’s no need—” George began.

Gerald lifted a wing to silence him. “It started with a dream …” he said as he turned from the trio and stared off into the distance.

Several moments passed before Gilly leaned towards Gertrude and asked, “What’s he doing, Gert?”

“He’s recalling his dream.”

“Does he think we can see his dreams? He stopped talking like we could.” Gilly’s eyes went wide again. “Can you?”

Gertrude put a brown-speckled wing over Gilly’s back. “I love you, little sister.”

“Aww, thanks. I love you more.”

“Personally,” said George, coming closer to the others. “I think he’s seen too many of those human films he keeps squawking about.” He nodded his dark green head towards Gerald. “This would be the part where they’d put in a flashback which the audience can see.”

“Oh, I get it,” Gilly lied. “So, just to clarify ... what was his dream again?”

Gertrude looked at George over Gilly’s back and winked. “Okay, just so George is clear on what the dream was. Gerald claims God—”

“Ha, cod,” Gilly sniggered.

“God.”

“Cod God? Wow, I wonder what He looks like?”

“No! Not cod-god. God. G. O. D.”

Gilly muttered something too quiet for the others to hear, though Gertrude had an idea. “Are you trying to work out what I spelt?”

Gilly looked away. “No…”

George had tucked his bill under his wing to stifle his laughter.

“God visited Gerald in a dream,” Gertrude continued calmly.

“Why did you say cod?”

“I didn’t,” Gertrude snapped. “You did,” she added a little softer.

“Oh … yes, I remember now.”

“Okay, so God—”

“I bloody hate cod. Little fat gits. Think they’re better than us.”

Gertrude flared her tail-feathers. “Gilly, please shut up about cod.”

“I’m just saying cods think they’re kings of water. Acting all high and mighty. Is that why you call them gods?”

Gertrude smacked the back of Gilly’s head. “Just listen and don’t talk, okay?”

Gilly stared at her.

“Okay?”

From the side of her dirty-orange bill, Gilly said, “You told me not to talk.”

Gertrude covered her head in her wings and screamed.

George took pity on Gertrude and took over the story. “The other night, Gerald had a vision from God. He came to him and said He has anointed us His Four Duck-men of the Apocalypse.”

“But I’m a duck-woman.”

“He meant it figuratively.”

“God was talking about my figure?” Gilly looked down at her mottled breast.

“Seriously, Gilly, why would God be talking about your body?”

Gilly shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

George chose not to engage and carried on. “There will be a duck Armageddon, and we will lead the charge.”

“Doesn’t a duck Armageddon imply only ducks will die?”

“Yes.”

Gilly nodded her head knowingly. “But swans aren’t ducks.”

George stared at Gilly with his bill a gap.

“They’re too big to be ducks. And they have those silly long necks. No respectful duck would have such a stupid gangly neck.” Gilly shook her head and scoffed. “Oh, hang on, storks have long necks, and I know they’re ducks. But they do have those flappy bills to compensate.”

“Swans are ducks!” Gertrude quacked. “They have feathers, webbed feet, and bills. They. Are. Ducks!”

Gilly narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure? Really sure?”

“YES, for-feathers-sake!”

“Let’s agree to disagree. Why does Gerald think this cod-god wants us to kill all the swans?”

George placed a wing on Gertrude to stop her from striking her sister. “God told him the swans are demons sent from hell. We must send them back.”

Gilly nodded knowingly again. “Been to Hull once, didn’t much care for it. I can understand why they left.”

George had to use both wings to restrain Gertrude. “I said hell, Gilly. The underworld. The place where naughty ducks go when they die.”

“Oh, Birmingham! Horrid place. My mum sent our brothers there when they kept knocking me out of the nest.”

“Okay ... whatever you say, Gilly. God commanded us to send them back to hell—Birmingham—and bring peace to the world.”

“That makes sense.” Gilly tapped her bill with a wing tip. “How are we going to do it?”

“I will tell you how.” Gerald had finished reminiscing and strolled over to a discarded shopping trolley. “My feathered warriors!” he shouted while dramatically fluttering atop the bent handle. “We shall overpower them—”

“You do know how big they are, right?”

“Yes, Gilly, but we have God on our side!”

“Is He going to strike them down for us?”

“No, He will work through us. Faith will provide all the strength we need.”

“That’s okay then.” Gilly plodded closer to Gerald and slapped the trolley. The trolley clanged, and Gilly cried out in pain. “Ouch, that hurt. God hasn’t got much strength. That hurt like it usually does when I hit those things.”

“Oh, Gilly, you poor simple creature. His power won’t work on anything other than the swans, for they will be the first to fall in the duck Armageddon.”

“Still not convinced about the title, boss.”

“It doesn’t matter, Gilly.”

“Can this Armageddon include cod? It would be great to lay some godly justice on those smug bastards.” Gilly took a swipe in the air. “Take that, you orange twat!”

Gerald let out a benevolent chuckle. “Indeed, Gilly, for we are the chosen ducks. Through us, God will work His Will so we can smite His foes and bring peace to duck-kind.”

“Great! So, what’s the plan of attack?”

“Okay, I want you, Gilly, to swim up to a swan and distract him—”

“How?”

Gerald stared hard at Gilly. “Just be you. That’s all you need to do.”

“Oh ... Okay ... simples.” Gilly nodded her head knowingly.

“While the bastard’s distracted, I want George and Gertrude to come at the sides of the fiend and grab his wings. Then I will pounce from behind and break his stupid spindly neck!” Spittle flew from the corners of Gerald’s beak in excitement.

Gertrude leaned closer to George. “Swan wings are extremely strong. I hope he doesn’t mess about.”

George nodded in agreement.

“Erm ... boss?”

Gerald let out a weary sigh. “Yes, Gilly?”

“What happens after?”

“We celebrate.”

“But what about his buddies? Surely, they would notice what we did and come after us.”

“She has a point,” Gertrude said with an anxious frown.

“That, my dears, is why we will be implementing stealth. We find a swan separated from the flock—”

“And small,” Gilly said.

“And strike with the speed and efficiency only the just can do,” Gerald continued, ignoring Gilly’s comment. “It will be over before the others even notice, let alone retaliate. Are we clear?”

“Well—”

“Not you, Gilly. George and Gertrude, are you both clear?”

They nodded.

“Great!” Gerald turned to the pond. “And I think I’ve found our first sacrifice.”

“Is it that little one at the back?”

“Yes, Gilly.” Gerald faced his mallard friends again. “Have faith in the Lord, for He has ordained this. We will be safe within His hands. Come, my feathered brethren, my brave flock. For we are the ducks of the apocalypse!”

Gerald charged into the pond full of gusto, only to slip on wet mud. He skidded, lost his footing, and splashed into the water unceremoniously. He came up spluttering and tried acting as if nothing had happened.

George and Gertrude stifled a laugh while Gilly winced.

Ten minutes later, George crashed back onto the shore. His feathers ruffled, blood dripping from his bent right wing. “Oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh-my-god! He killed Gilly and Gertrude!”

“We ... we don’t know that for sure,” Gerald panted when he landed beside his remaining friend.

“It’s your fault!” George charged at the un-scathed Gerald.

Gerald hopped back out of the way. “I wasn’t to know—”

“Know? Know what? That a swan would be so strong? That the swan would crack Gertrude’s neck with one swipe of his wing?”

“Well—”

“Well-bloody-nothing! It would’ve taken ten of us to hold one wing! I was flung twenty feet across the water! And poor Gilly!”

“She could still be alive—”

“He held her under bloody water throughout all that! And where were you? Where was our glorious leader?”

“I ... I ... was making a tactical retreat when I realized you had failed in your—”

George slapped Gerald. “Don’t you dare blame me. I lost my mate because of your plan.” He poked Gerald in the chest with his bent wing. “Your so-called mission from God! You’re just a bloody loon!”

“Now, George, there’s no need for insults.”

George whistled in anger. “You know what, bugger you. And your mission from God!” He spat in Gerald’s face and hobbled away.

“Simply egg-ish,” Gerald said quietly enough so George couldn’t hear. He flopped down with a disgruntled thud and looked to the sky. “What happened, God? I did what you asked.”

“You did well,” a voice replied from behind.

Gerald’s heart leapt to his throat. “Oh, Lord, I knew you hadn’t forsaken me!”

“You should’ve taken out the cod first.”

“Yes, my ... hang on a minute.” Gerald turned round to see Gilly waddling out of the pond. “You’re alive!”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“But the swan held you under for ages.”

Gilly tilted her head. “And?”

“Surely you should be dead or at least brain damaged ... oh right ... yes. I see.”

“So, boss, what are you gonna do now?”

Gerald sighed again. “I don’t know. Maybe wait for another mission from God.”

“No, I meant about them.”

Gerald looked where Gilly was pointing. To his dismay, he saw the swan they had attacked talking to a group of other, much larger, swans. They glared at Gerald when the disgruntled swan pointed towards him.

Gerald backed away slowly.

Gilly smacked her forehead. “Oh, boss, I just remembered what I was going to say earlier.”

The hissing swans charged across the water; their hefty wings spread to their fullest.

“Bugger me,” muttered Gerald.

“Yeah, like a day or so before you had your vision, didn’t your mate fly off with a swan?”

“Shut up, Gilly!”