QUACK-A-DOODLE-BAA
by
Michelle de Villiers
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Michelle de Villiers on Smashwords
Quack-a-doodle-baa
Copyright (c) 2010 Michelle de Villiers
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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QUACK-A-DOODLE-BAA
"I am worried," gulped Pierre. "Babaa, Chanticleer, Jemima! You are in danger! Mari is busy. Clara is busy. And Papa is dreaming."
"Baaa!" answered the black sheep.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" added the rooster.
"Quack!" confirmed the duck.
Pierre stumbled down to the river. An old gypsy woman named Babette lived here. She was polishing her crystal ball.
"Bonjour, Babette!"
"Bonjour, mon petit. You are trembling and pale as custard!"
"Oh, Babette. I fear for my friends! My head feels hot, my stomach cold. They are in terrible danger!"
"I know," said Babette. "Mari is busy. Clara is busy. Your mama is busy and your papa is dreaming."
"Yes!” Pierre.
"Mari is sharpening the axe. Clara is washing the Christmas linen. Your mama is looking at recipes and your papa's head is in the clouds!" she added.
"Babette, what will happen? Look in your crystal ball."
"But, my dear child," said Babette, "you don't need a crystal ball for this! It is clear."
"What, Babette? What will happen to Babaa...?"
"She will make a nice lamb chop, eh?"
"Oh, no!" Pierre wailed. "What will happen to Chanticleer?"
"Well, he is rather noisy ... "
"Oh, terrible!" moaned Pierre. "What will happen to Jemima?"
"Well, a nice duck pate for starters, with a little comfit de l' orange ... "
"NO! No! It cannot be. They are my friends. Look in the ball. Look in the ball!"
Babette sighed. "You cannot change their fate. A fait accompli. They are farm animals, Pierre."
Sadly, Pierre went back to the pen.
"Oh, my friends," he sobbed, "your days are numbered. Mari is busy. Clara is busy. Mama is busy. And Papa is dreaming. I'll speak to Mama."
"Mama," said Pierre, "will not Babaa's wool make a lovely sweater? But she is so little still. We need to wait another year."
Mama frowned. "Now, Pierre, you know and I know...
"And Chanticleer! Does he not sing so high and clear?" Pierre interrupted.
"Are his feathers not beautiful?"
"For sure," said Mama. "His tail feathers would make good fishing tackle."
"My heart will burst," said Pierre.
"Mama. What about Jemima? What if she lays a golden egg?"
"It does not run in her family, Pierre. You know this is a working farm. Farm animals have short lives. We told you from the start."
Pierre kicked his chair over and stormed out the house. He slammed the door. He pulled the tablecloth off the washing line and threw it down the well. His despair was growing like a wildfire. Back to Babette's caravan.
"Babette! My friends are in danger. Look in your crystal ball!" he roared.
"You cannot change their future, Pierre. You must accept."
"But, let's make sure, Babette."
Babette polished her crystal ball. Will you accept their fate then?" she asked. Tearfully, Pierre nodded.
The crystal ball glowed softly in the dark caravan. Babette peered into it.
"This is most puzzling," she said.
"Do you see Babaa?" Pierre asked.
"I see her. She is floating in the air amongst little white clouds. No, it's other little sheep ... "
"Do you see a lamb chop?"
"No, no lamb chops."
"Oh, that's good! What about Jemima? Do you see any golden eggs?"
"No, she's sitting in a basket. I wonder. Maybe she is being taken to the market?"
"Do you see any pate?" asked Pierre.
"No, no pate. Just a basket."
"What about Chanticleer? Do you see any fly fishing tackle?"
"Oh, look at him. He's sitting for a portrait!"
"Babette!"
"No, I'm serious. Maybe I must polish this ball. It is very confused." She rubbed it vigorously.
"Now it has gone all cloudy, just smoke and ash." she said.
"Is it the cooking fire?"
"I don't know. You must run along. Mari is calling you for dinner."
Pierre got up very early. He rushed to his friends' pen. They were still there. He went to the kitchen for breakfast. The axe was lying on the sideboard. There was a bushel of oranges in the pantry. Mama was looking at trout recipes. Oh, no!
Pierre ran along to his papa's shed.
"Papa! We must save my friends!"
"Not now, mon fils, Papa is working. Your uncle and I are making an experiment. See how the ash rises above the fire. It has life." He put some leaves onto the fire. "Come look outside!"
Father and son observed the chimney from outside. Charred leaves were shooting out the top.
"Is it magic, Papa?" asked Pierre.
"I think I can use it to fly."
"To fly? Where to, Papa?"
"Oh, anywhere. I have to plan. Run along. Play with your friends."
"Papa, you must help me. Mama wants to cook them for Christmas dinner!"
"Ahh, it's time ... " said Papa. "I am hungry already. So much to do. Off you go ... "
"I'll have to save them myself," said Pierre.
When Mari came to the pen later, she found it empty. She complained to Mama.
"Madame, our Christmas dinner has escaped. She glared at Pierre.
"Have you seen the livestock, mon petit?" Mama asked.
"Not lately, Mama," Pierre replied. "Babette says their fate is not clear."
"The witch!" his mother fumed, and stormed down to Babette's caravan.
"Ah, welcome Madame," Babette said. "I see your husband will be famous!"
Mama sputtered. "I am looking for a duck, a cockerel and a lamb ... " She checked herself.
"Famous, you say? How interesting. And what about me?" She was all smiles now.
"You, Madame? You came about the livestock? They will all go up in smoke, I'm sorry. That's what I told petit Pierre."
"Oh, I know that," said Mama impatiently. "Tell me more about being famous. Will I get introduced at court?"
Babette rubbed the ball. "Assuredly, Madame."
"Oh, I must tell Joseph!" Mama gushed. She had forgotten all about Pierre's animals.
"Chanticleer, Babaa, Jemima, you must be quiet!" Pierre hurried them into papa's shed.
"Come, in here." He lifted them into a huge basket in the comer. "Mama won't look here. Lie down. Be quiet. I'll stay with you."
It was early morning when Pierre realized that the basket was being moved. He heard Papa complaining.
"This is too heavy! How will the balloon lift it?"
"Too late!" his brother replied. "The king is waiting."
Petrified, the four stowaways lay low under their blanket. The basket was lifted off the cart and attached to an enormous balloon. A huge fire was blazing. People were shouting. Whoosh! The balloon started lifting. Pierre jumped up! Papa saw him and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the basket. Up the balloon went. Higher and higher.
"Hip-hip hooray!" the people shouted.
Three anxious animal faces were looking over the edge of the basket.
"Chanticleer! Babaa! Jemima!" Pierre cried.
"Look! A new form of transport! It is fantastic!" Everyone laughed and clapped. They ran after the balloon shouting, "Look! The balloon of Monsieur Montgolfier. It is flying!"
Soon, however, the balloon started losing height. It sank into a hayfield near the palace. The palace guards retrieved it.
Monsieur Montgolfier was summoned to court. A big celebration was held to honor his achievement. In a golden pen, in the middle of the ballroom, sat Chanticleer, Jemima and Babaa. People came to see the famous first hot air balloon passengers. They were granted royal protection as folk heroes. They lived out their lives as members of the royal menagerie. Little Pierre was allowed to visit them every day.
Chanticleer became fifteen years old. The famous artist Picasso painted his great -great -great grandson. Babaa inspired a famous English princess many years later to knit her portrait in wool. And Jemima had famous books written about her many ducklings.
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