The Duck Spirit

The families along Ling Lake live off the water. Ah Ling kept the dozen or so ducks her late husband had left her, letting them forage in the lake's inlets and trading the eggs for rice and flour, scraping by as best she could.

That early summer a white duck drifted in from the lake. Not the grubby white of a barnyard bird, but a jade-white, with a long slender neck and clear, knowing eyes that seemed to recognize people. The other ducks shrank from it, and it did not crowd in either; it simply trailed her boat at a distance. Ah Ling was soft-hearted. She scooped half a ladle of broken rice onto the bow, and the white duck swam over quietly, lowered its head, ate, and stayed with the flock from then on.

The villagers wagged their tongues behind her back. Old Zhao, the fisherman, leaned his boat alongside, pipe in mouth, and said in a low voice, "Girl, that thing is no good. See how long its neck is? What duck has a neck like that? It is a water spirit, changed its shape to beg a meal."

Ah Ling said nothing. She was not without fear, but she had done her sums: since the white duck came, the otters had taken none of her flock; and on windy nights it always flapped on the deck, more reliable than the copper gong that warned of storms. A widow alone at the oars, with an extra pair of eyes to watch the weather — what was there to lose?

In the sixth month the rain fell for half a month straight. The lake swelled day by day, overrunning the stone steps and drowning the low vegetable beds. Old Zhao came again, face grim. "Tomorrow is the Dragon Boat Festival, the height of yang, the hour to purge evil. Slaughter that white duck, boil it, and set it before the village shrine — it will keep us safe a year. Keep it any longer, and there will be trouble."

Ah Ling looked at the white duck tucked in its cage, neck drawn in. It did not cry out, only met her with those clear eyes, as if waiting for her to speak.

She thought of last year, when her husband's boat had overturned in the lake's heart, and Old Zhao had helped pull his body from the water. By rights she owed the old man her ear. Yet she also remembered those windy nights when the white duck flapped her toward the cabin, its feathers brushing her hand, cool, as if to say, get inside.

"Uncle, I will not kill it," she said, drawing the cage behind her. "It has done me no harm, and I will not do it harm. If anything comes of it, I will bear it."

Old Zhao sighed and pushed off, leaving one line: "Stubborn girl. Do not come crying later."

On the festival night the rain fell in sheets. Past midnight, Ah Ling was woken by frantic flapping — the white duck was throwing itself against the cage, neck stretched long, calling toward the far inlet. She threw on her clothes and, by a stroke of lightning, saw the muddy waves already lapping over the dike's foot — the very shallow shoal where she usually let the ducks out, now a trap. Had the duck not raised this fuss, she would have slept through it, boat and all swept away.

She loosed the mooring, clutched the cage to the hold, and rowed hard for the high reeds. The white duck went still, crouching at her feet, rain running off its white feathers, silent.

At dawn the water had fallen some. Old Zhao's boat came from the far shore; seeing her alive, he stared a long while, then knocked his pipe on the deck. "...I am an old man with failing eyes."

Life went on. The white duck stayed as before, following the boat, clear and clean, watching wind and water for her. The villagers said nothing more of ill omen.

One misty morning in early autumn, Ah Ling went as usual to the inlet — and the bow was empty. The white duck was gone, leaving only one snow-white soft feather on the deck, as if set down gently. The flock went to the lake as always, only the slender shadow missing.

After that, Ah Ling's ducks thrived as never before, big eggs with thick shells that the town traders fought to buy. On mornings when the mist lay heavy, she would stand at the bow and fancy she heard, far out on the lake, one very soft quack — clear, as if asking, are you well?

She would smile toward the white fog and scatter a handful of rice.

The spirits of the water country, it seems, do not all come to collect a debt.