Copyright © 2007 Mark Tillford. All rights reserved. 

I first saw him in the early summer. He was walking towards the village centre, trundling a small cart filled with baskets behind him, and waving a stick in front of him. To be absolutely precise, he was not waving the stick; rather, he was moving it this way and that as if he were guiding something.

When I questioned the villagers about him, they clucked their tongues.

"A sad case," they told me, "he is guiding the duck."

It took me some time to learn the full story. You must understand, the village of Downville had very little to do with its neighbouring villages; Limbank and Colton. To tell the truth, the three villages were worlds apart. But the people in each village looked after their own. That was the one thing they held in common. The old man came from Downville, and thus, his eccentricities were accepted. If he had come from Limbank, and walked into Downville, it would have been a different story entirely. "First," they told me, "he lost his wife."

Apparently, it was very sad.

Most of the villagers, in sympathy for his loss, gave him a little extra when they bought his baskets. After all, the man had lost his wife.

Soon after, the villagers learned that he had lost his daughter.

How could fate treat a man so cruelly?

In only a short time, the man had lost the only two people who had given his life meaning.

In spite of his sorrow, he had continued his craft; making baskets diligently at his workshop as if the work was his only solace.

The people of Downville grieved silently for him and when they met together, they agreed to give a greater contribution to the price of his baskets, for they knew of his grief.

One day each week, he would trundle his wagon full of baskets into town, leading his duck with a stick.

The duck was his last companion. He had raised it almost from birth.

Fate struck a third time.

The duck died!

Stubbornly, he continued to journey into town, waving his stick before him as if nothing had changed.

The people of Downville were aware of his loss, and they were deeply sympathetic. Yes, he was eccentric, but who had better right? Such tragedy was beyond comprehension and certainly not grounds for them to question his erratic behaviour. In consideration of the devastation that had visited him, they all agreed, tacitly, to put a little more into his pocket.

I saw him a second time, on the road. This time, he was returning home.

For some unknown reason, I decided to follow him at a respectful distance. He walked ahead of me, waving his stick back and forth. What surprised me was the fact that he went right past the house that he now rented. In a dogged manner, still waving his stick, he continued on.

What was more mysterious was the fact that he was heading, irrevocably towards Limbank!

About a mile out of Limbank he turned down a path that led into the woods. I followed.

Some distance into the woods he came upon a small cottage with a neatly-tended garden. He opened the gate of the little white picket fence and walked towards the door.

I crept as close as I could, without being seen.

Suddenly, the door of the little cottage was flung open, and a beautiful young girl came running out! She clasped the man in a hug and then turned to call.

"Mama!" She cried. "Papa is home!"

The woman who had been called appeared at the doorway. She was handsome in a simple kind of way.

"Was it a good day?" She asked her husband.

"Good enough," he replied, "but we may have to move into Limbank soon."

From its coop in the front yard, the duck quacked apparent assent.