As Pascal traversed the backyards and asphalt roads to his duckling destination, he found that the empty, hollow place in his soul was momentarily filled with purpose and meaning. He thought about Aine and her eyes, he thought about how Aine’s kingdom and his would mesh perfectly and spread out lovely reaching fingers to gather up the tattered, ravaged backyards into a powerful and lovely land. Aine’s backyard would be the mecca of it all. Grateful and awe-filled subjects would travel there regularly to pay their respects to their queen’s birthplace. Suddenly Pascal realized he was standing at the outskirts of the park.
The day was chilly and there were only a few people and some leaves were scattered over the public property. Pascal saw no ducks and for a long, cold instant he thought he had imagined them. But no, there was a duckling poking at a dried leaf under a weary-looking bush. Pascal pondered his means of attack. He imagined he could outrun a duckling, but if it took to the water Pascal’s cause was lost. He would also need to account for the ferocious mother duck. He couldn’t see her, but he remembered being bitten at a younger and tender age by a possessive duck who thought he was expressing too much interest in her nest. Pascal put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it, remembering bygone pain. Pascal took the finger out again quickly—he’d spied the mother duck. She and her brood were some distance away being fed stale morsels that fell through trembly old hands. She was distracted. Now Pascal could concentrate on stalking the duckling without fear of an offensive by an irate hen-duck. Pascal felt a sudden bond with the loner duckling; he admired independence and was drawn to this duckling that gave up the sure reward of a handout breadcrumb dinner for the satisfaction a few self-captured crickets would give. If ducklings ate crickets. Pascal wasn’t sure what they ate besides bread-products, but he was fairly sure they didn’t nurse.
Pascal looked around, and began strolling along the right-hand side of the pond’s shore, so as to secure a position betwixt the duckling and its escape route. The path curved away to the left of the duckling and Pascal had to leave it and trek through soggy ground to reach his destination. As his socks and feet grew wetter, he sighed, but persevered. The duckling had yet to notice him, and Pascal rejoiced a little.
Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Spronk had discovered that Pascal Spronk was not in any of the conjoining backyards and after a brief meeting, Mr. Spronk had set out on foot to search while Mrs. Spronk called around to ask if any neighbours were aiding and abetting Pascal in their kitchens.
“Such a nice boy!” they always said when they returned him.
Pascal thought it wise to keep up good relations with his various subjects, and would sometimes drop by for a chat and some tea and cookies. The Spronks were fairly unperturbed about losing Pascal, as it frequently happened, and he had an odd habit of never really getting in trouble. Nevertheless, it was then, and is now good parenting to know where one’s child is at all times. Consequently Mr. Spronk was out walking and calling Pascal’s name to the surrounding areas in a conversational sort of tone, and Mrs. Spronk was calling up the neighbours and inquiring about their days and state of wellness before bringing up the subject of her misplaced child.
“By the way,” she would add, as she was about to hang up. “Have you seen Pascal?”
Gradually Mr. Spronk made his way to the park, still calling. The sounds of the public sphere blocked any noticeable reception of sounds from the parental sphere, and Pascal continued, uninterrupted, in his duckling stalk. He had almost reached the ideal spot between the duckling and the water when the duckling looked up at him. Pascal stopped and looked back. The duckling cocked its head to the side and swayed a little on its unsteady feet as a gust of wind blew by. Pascal was close enough he could see its downy chest heaving quickly. He knew he had to act. He set the cardboard box down and shook out the dishcloth to its full size. Then he began to move toward the duckling. The duckling hesitated one moment, then shot away from him and began skimming the ground toward the pond. Pascal ran. He knew he would have no chance if the duckling reached the water, and the thought of Aine’s attentions gave his feet wings. He soared like Hermes to his goal and was somewhat surprised when he broke from his god-like reverie and his run to find himself standing by the shore with a struggling duckling swaddled in the dishcloth.
“Success,” Pascal said to the duckling.
It stopped struggling and lay supine in his hands. Pascal looked at it for a moment, then began walking back to his abandoned cardboard box. He reached it, crouched down, placed the duckling inside, and closed the lid. He stood up and looked down at the box. It suddenly hit him that he should probably feed the duckling to keep it well and content in its captivity. Pascal pulled the bread and crackers out of his voluminous pockets, opened them, and decided to try a few crackers himself as a reward for his hard work. He dropped the rest in the box, closed it up again, and picked the box up. The taste of success filled his mouth along with the leftover crackers.
Suddenly he heard his name called. Pascal turned around and saw Mr. Spronk striding toward him.
“There you are,” Mr. Spronk said. “You didn’t tell your mother you were coming to the park.”
“Oh,” said Pascal, slightly taken aback. “No, I didn't.”
Mr. Spronk sighed. “We don’t mind you visiting the neighbours, but there are a lot of strangers who come through here—next time you need to go with someone else and let us know where you are.”
Pascal apologized. As the Spronks did not usually mind his wanderings, it had not occurred to him to inform them of his whereabouts. He regretted that his actions had caused them any worry—and he suspected that it had—and resolved not to do it again. The two of them began to walk home. Mr. Spronk looked down at Pascal.
“Want me to carry that for you?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Pascal said. “It’s not heavy.”
“What’s in it?” Mr. Spronk asked.
“A useful thing for a project I’m doing,” Pascal responded. He was not a liar, but he was private. Then he felt badly about worrying Mr. Spronk by not warning him about his adventure. “I’ll show you later,” he added, to encourage Mr. Spronk. “I want to make sure it works first.”
Pascal not being the type to regularly express interest in adopting animals—a very real worry for most parents—Mr. Spronk didn’t suspect that the box contained anything but some sort of harmless inanimate object. He understood his son’s reserve.
“That’s alright, then,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair with his hand.
Pascal bore it with good will, remembering he was partly at fault in all of this. It was kind of Mr. Spronk not to pry into matters that didn’t concern him.
They reached home in time for lunch. Mrs. Spronk was beginning to worry a bit, since no phone call had given her any information about her son’s whereabouts. Mr. Spronk went inside to tell his wife he’d found their wayward son and Pascal went to install the duckling in a temporary home in the shed. He gave his captive a dish of water, crumbled up the bread, and sprinkled it in the box. A few pieces fell on the duckling; he shook them off and eyed Pascal with bright black duckling eyes like little black-beetle exoskeletons. Pascal eyed him back, and then he closed up the box and went in to lunch, satisfied with his morning’s work.
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