Three Good Deeds (7 page)

Howard shook his head and flapped his wings, but the rat wouldn't come loose.

There's a rat on my nose!
Howard screamed to himself. But he was too hurt and frightened to make any more sound than a hiss. Then he remembered: He was a goose. A goose who lived by a pond. Howard ran and stuck his head under the water.

Finally the rat let go.

Before Howard could decide if he was angry enough to go after the rat or frightened enough to never want to see it again, the rat paddled to the edge of the bank and disappeared into the weeds.

By then Always-First-to-Molt had made it to his mate's side.

"See?" Scared-by-a-Rabbit honked at him. "See? Didn't I say something was going to come after our eggs?"

Despite the throbbing in his face, Howard waddled up to them and winced at the remains of the egg, cracked wide open, with most—but not all—of the in-sides gone. "I tried to help," he said. He could feel the trickle of his own blood running down his beak. If he could only keep from fainting, surely the other geese would realize how brave he'd been.

"Go away, How-Word," Always-First-to-Molt ordered. "We have our other eggs to protect."

His tail drooping, Howard went to the old witch's cottage. He would have pecked at her door, but his beak was too sore for
that, so he just honked until she came to investigate.

"Ooh," she said, "what's happened to you?"

"I fought off a rat," he told her. "Big rat." He held his stupid, flightless wings out to show how big.

The old witch was rummaging around through little pots and containers in her kitchen, which he would have thought meant she wasn't interested, but she asked, "After eggs, was he?"

"Yes," Howard said.

"Did he get one?"

Howard considered saying no, but he figured she would check with the other geese, making sure before she worked her magic on him. "Yes," he admitted.

The old witch found what she was looking for. "Come closer," she said.

Howard came forward, waiting to be changed back into a boy, though he wondered why, this time, she apparently needed some witchly potion.

She put something greasy on his beak. Something greasy that smelled like a bad combination of fir trees and fish. Something greasy and smelly—and that stung.

"Ouch!" Howard cried. "Is that supposed to turn me back into a boy?" He would be a greasy, smelly, sore boy with—he suspected by the feathers he was still losing—very little left of his clothing.

But he didn't turn back into his former shape, and the old witch said, "No, this is a salve to help you heal and to keep your nose from scarring."

"Well, that's very nice," Howard said, though—now that the excitement was over—he thought a little scar might make
him look manly and bold. "But you mean you aren't going to turn me back into my real self?"

"Howard," she snapped at him. "Three. Good. Deeds. Not one. Not two. Three."

He supposed it was her way of saying that
trying
to save Scared-by-a-Rabbit's egg wasn't enough—even with injuries. "That's not fair!" he honked plaintively. "I tried. Trying should count."

"But what was your intent?" the old witch asked. "
Why
did you try?"

"To do a good deed!" Howard shouted at her.

"Yes, yes. That's my point." She shooed him out of the cottage. "Go away, I need to take a nap."

The days grew longer and warmer as spring bloomed into summer.

Those eggs that were going to hatch, hatched.

The goslings that came out of them grew from little balls of fuzz into geese just slightly smaller than their parents.

The adult geese, used to Howard or mellower now that there weren't young ones to protect, grew less territorial. Not friendlier, just less territorial.

And once in a while, with his belly full and the sun warm on his feathers, Howard would realize that a whole morning had passed, or a good part of an afternoon, without him worrying about his gooseliness—and that was the most worrisome thing of all.

What if,
he asked himself,
I forget I'm a boy? What if I forget to keep looking for a chance to do something to break the spell?

He could spend the rest of his life as a goose, and not even know anything was wrong.

Or, worse yet, he might—by purest coincidence—do a good deed then, and
then
the old witch would turn him back into a boy, just when he'd forgotten how to be one.

Scared by moments like these, Howard would get out of the water and sit on the
bank, since that seemed more boylike than swimming aimlessly in the pond.

The goslings proclaimed him Not-Fun-How-Word and Stuck-up-Worse-Than-a-Swan-How-Word and had no more interest in him than their parents did—even Can't-See-As-Well-Out-of-Her-Right-Eye-As-Her-Left's youngsters, whom he'd saved from Roscoe and Alina.

One day one of the geese, Always-First-to-Molt, suddenly began to flap his wings. "Flight feathers are back!" he announced.

Other geese began to flap their wings. "Flight feathers," they honked, discovering their own. "Flight feathers!"

In a burst of joy, they took to the air, adults and younglings alike.

Caught up in the excitement, Howard joined them, before he realized what he was doing.

I am not a goose,
he reminded himself. And he flew contrary to everyone else to settle back down on the grassy bank.

The old witch was in the yard, sitting on a stool, just enjoying the sunshine. "Not going to join the others?" she asked mildly. She shaded her eyes and murmured, "It's spectacular."

"I am a boy," Howard honked at her. "Boys do not fly."

"Your choice," the old witch said.

But it wasn't. Not really.

The days that had grown long now grew shorter, and sometimes the evenings were chilly. Sometimes the water was warmer than the air.

Certain flowers no longer bloomed.

The vegetation by the pond developed a distinctive taste—not better, not worse,
just different—a taste Howard's goose sense labeled
autumnal.

The leaves on the trees faded, not the light-but-bright green of first spring, but tired pale green, fraying into yellow—then almost overnight bursting into gold and orange and red.

And Howard was still a goose, with one more good deed to accomplish, and no idea what to do or how.

Now the pond was as chilly as the days almost always were—days of gusting winds that pulled the leaves from the trees, and dark clouds that threatened storms, which might be rain or might be something worse.

One afternoon, the old witch was tossing bread crumbs to the geese—which she had not been as good about doing as she'd been other years, or so the older geese had been complaining.

Some of them nibbled at the treat, but there wasn't the usual frenzy of gotta-get-some/gotta-get-some-
now.
Many of the geese were unsettled. Howard felt anxious, too, though he didn't know why—just restless and jittery. Many swam in tight circles, murmuring among themselves.

Passing by him, Can't-See-As-Well-Out-of-Her-Right-Eye-As-Her-Left asked, "Is it time?"

"Time for what?" Howard asked.

But she hadn't waited for an answer from him and was already headed toward some of the others. "Is it time?" she asked.

"Is it time?" they answered back.

Lackwit geese,
Howard thought.

The murmuring grew louder.

Then shifted, from question to statement: "It is time. It is time."

"Time for what?" Howard demanded.

"It's time! It's time!" they honked back.

Howard could feel excitement building in him, even though he didn't know what was going on. The individual honks became synchronized into one single chorus as the geese honked together, so exhilarating that Howard joined in, whatever this was all about, until the feeling grew too large to be contained: "It's time!
It's time!
IT'S TIME!"

And then, all together—even Howard, though he'd had no idea what was about to pass his beak until it did—"Fly!"

The geese burst out of the water.

Once again—as on the day the geese had learned their flight feathers had grown back—Howard's enthusiasm dragged him along with them.
It can't hurt,
he told himself this time.
I'll fly a little bit.

The geese wheeled back and forth, swooping up, then down, turning one way then the other.

Howard was having a good time despite himself.

Far below the old witch was waving. "Good-bye!" she called. "Good-bye. Have a safe journey. Good-bye, Red-Beak. Good-bye, Limp-Tail. Good-bye, He-Who-Honks-the-Loudest."

Journey?
Howard thought as the old witch called off names.

As the old witch called off names?

That was something he remembered from the folklore of Dumphrey's Mill, part of the old witch's craziness: She would tend the geese in the spring, and then stand in her yard yelling good-byes when they flew south for the winter.

South: the direction the flock—after it's veering and dipping—had finally started off in.

"Wait!" Howard practically stopped in
midair, and another goose almost collided with him. "We're
leaving?
"

"Watch where you're flying," that one muttered as he swerved to avoid Howard.

"Watch where you're flying. Watch where you're flying," others complained as those who had been behind began to catch up and bypass him.

"
We're leaving?
" Howard repeated. He couldn't leave. Dumphrey's Mill was here. His parents were here.

The witch who could change him back into his real shape was here.

Howard flapped just enough to keep up with the stragglers. "You're heading south?" he asked. "For the winter?"

"Oh, How-Word!" one of the geese called over his shoulder—Howard wasn't sure, from this back angle, who—"You always say the funniest things!"

Of course they were heading south for the winter. That's what geese do.

Howard slowed even more.

If I go with them,
he thought,
and I do a good deed, how will the old witch know and be able to turn me back into a boy?

But if I stay here, without them, who will I be able to do a good deed for?

He had already tried complimenting the old witch herself, and that hadn't had any effect. And he couldn't see how he could ever rescue her from anyone or anything. Someone with magic simply wasn't dependent on a goose, no matter how brave.

In Dumphrey's Mill, he couldn't compliment anyone, because no one there spoke goose. And if he stayed around the village, on the lookout to rescue them from something or other—who knew what?—they were sure to eventually catch him and throw him into a cook pot.

Was that supposed to be his third good deed? he wondered crankily: To feed a hungry family?

Someone had angled away from the others and was coming back for him: the goose still known as Sunset-Dances-Like-Flames-on-Her-Feathers, though the red dye was just about all gone. "How-Word," she honked. "Catch up."

"I can't go south with the flock," he said. Perhaps she would be a loyal friend and offer to stay with him.

Instead she said, "Oh. All right then. Good-bye, How-Word." She swung around again and rejoined the formation.

Howard stayed in the air, flying back and forth across the pond, as the sound of their honking faded.

Until all the geese were so far away their individual shapes merged into one single shape.

Which became smaller and smaller.

And then was gone.

Alone, he flew down to the yard of the old witch.

She had been heading back to her cottage, but now stopped to lean on her cane and ask, "Decided to stay?"

Howard cocked his head to get a better look at her, to try to read her expression. "
Should
I have gone?" he asked. Fine time to ask, now that it was too late.

The old witch shrugged. "It's going to get cold here," she said.

Which sounded like a yes to Howard.

Frantically, he demanded, "Should I try to catch up? Should I try to find them? If I do a good deed while I'm in the south with them, will you know it and turn me back?" That was a sudden bad thought. "Would you turn me back while I'm in
the south with them, so that I'd have to get back here on my own, walking?" Howard wondered how far south
south
was. "Or would you wait until we came back next spring?" Waiting wasn't good, either. Why was he even asking? He knew he could never catch up now. "Why didn't you tell me before that I should go with them?"

"Howard," the old witch said, "you're making me tired. Leave me alone." She sat down on the stoop by her door as though she didn't even have the energy to get away from him indoors.

"
You're
tired?" Howard said. "Try being a goose for a while, and see how tired that makes you." He started to waddle toward the pond then decided he'd better check whether she planned to feed him, now that he was stuck here for the winter. "Speaking of cold...," he began.

She hadn't moved, except for dropping her cane.

But Howard knew she hadn't fallen asleep.

The old witch had died.

Howard sat down heavily in the dust by the old witch's feet.

Now he would never regain his boy's body.

He was stuck as a goose as surely as those born to it.

What were his choices? He could spend the winter here, alone, hoping a solitary goose—a goose without much experience as a goose—could survive the harshness of the weather and the scarcity of food. Or he
could start flying southward and hope to catch up to the Goose Pond geese when they stopped for the night. That was assuming he could find them, of course. Or he might happen upon another flock of geese—and he could start all over with them. If they let him.

Whichever he chose, he would never have a chance to explain to his parents what had happened. They would die never knowing whether he'd run off or been killed. Actually, now that he thought about it, he would probably die first. Under the best of circumstances, geese don't live as long as people, and his were certainly not the best of circumstances.