Once Upon a Soup

Once upon a time in a little farming village that had fallen upon hard times because of misfortunes with the crops, there was an old farmer and his old wife who lived on turnip soup because all their other crops had failed that year and no one around wanted to trade them anything else for their turnips. They had nothing else to live on except for one egg a week, a cup of milk to go with it, and dingy water from a nearby well that was older than the village.

On the farm they had one skinny old goat they got their little bit of milk from, one old hen who gave them their one egg a week, and an old duck. They all lived on turnip tops and old seeds. They didn’t like it much, but all agreed that being fed by the farmer was better than having to fend for themselves.

The duck had always boasted to the others that he had the best life, because the farmer fed him every day and all he had to do in return was waltz around the farmyard and let the farmer use his droppings for fertilizer.

The goat claimed that her life was the best because the farmer fed her every day in return for milk, and she didn’t even have to go walking around the farmyard, but the duck flapped his wings and said that he wouldn’t like a life like that, and preferred his own.

The hen declared that her life was best because the farmer fed her every day and she only had to lay an egg once a week in return, but the duck quacked sharply and insisted that he wouldn’t like a life like that either, and insisted that his life was best anyway.

There was a rat that lived under the hedge who would creep out and gather his fill from leftovers after the farm animals were fed. He said that his life was best of all because he didn’t even have to give the farmer anything, but the duck said the rat had the worst life of all since he had to come into the farmyard to look for scraps because the farmer never brought anything directly to the rat.

“But I,” said the rat, “am free to go wherever I want. I come and go as I please, and I can leave my hedgerow to go live by another farm if I wish to.”

The duck was not impressed. He flapped his wings and said: “Tut tut. I am still king of the farmyard.” Whereupon he waltzed away, leaving the rat to gather what he would of the old seeds and turnip tops the duck left behind.

One day soon after, however, the farmer’s wife said to him: “Husband, there is an old traveling holy man that has come recently to our village and each night he begs for supper at a different house. He has already visited some of our neighbors and is expected to visit our own humble farm very soon. He is dining with someone else tonight, but we must prepare in case he visits us tomorrow.”

“When he comes here,” the farmer said, “he can have our egg and milk for this week, and share our turnip soup with us.”

“Not so,” said the wife. “The egg and milk he may have, but everyone says he cannot stand turnip soup. We must serve him soup, however, since he is very old and has few teeth remaining.”

“But what can we do?” the farmer cried. “We have nothing else since our other crops have failed this year and we have hardly any animals left.”

“There is nothing else to do but this:” (said the wife) “Tomorrow morning, you must chop off the duck’s head and prepare him to go into a soup.”

Now the rat happened to be nibbling at a bit of egg shell in the straw in a corner of the cottage, and he heard all this. Running out into the farmyard, he laughed at the duck and cried out, “Now we will see whose life is really best! For you are to be made into a soup for a traveling holy man when he visits! I may have to gather my food myself, but I, Never shall I Ever be made into Soup!”

“Not I,” said the duck. “I shall never be a soup, either!” But as he waltzed away with his head held high, the duck was worried in his heart, and sat awake all night thinking of a plan to avoid becoming soup.

In the morning, the old farmer caught the duck dozing sleepily, but just before the farmer swung the hatchet to chop off the duck’s head, the duck cried, “Oh mercy! Please, sir, do not kill me! I have heard you want to make a soup for an old holy man, but I would not make a good soup for him! Is it not true that he cannot chew? I am an old duck and would be very stringy and tough, even in a soup!”

The farmer shook his head. “The goat gives milk, the hen gives eggs, and the holy man cannot abide turnips. You must be the one to go in the soup!”

“But sir!” the duck insisted, “wouldn’t it be better if you went to the stream by the woods and caught some fresh, tender fish to put in a soup?”

“Very well,” the farmer replied, “but if I cannot catch any fish, then you shall be for the soup instead!”

“I will help you dig up worms to catch the fish.” said the duck. And so he did.

But the rat heard all this, and while the farmer and the duck were digging up worms, the rat ran ahead to the stream and told all the fish to swim away and hide, and not to eat any worms they might see that day.

So the farmer sat by the stream all day with a fishing pole, but did not catch any fish.

When he returned home his wife said, “The wandering holy man is dining with someone else tonight, but we must prepare in case he visits tomorrow.”

“Then tomorrow I will prepare the duck to go into soup.” the farmer replied.

As before, the rat heard all this and ran off to tell the duck and laugh at him.

The duck pretended not to care, but went away worried. He was also tired and muddy from spending all day digging up worms to help the farmer fish.

The duck sat awake as long as he could, to think of a way to avoid becoming soup, but was so tired that he had fallen asleep by the morning.

He awoke just in time when the farmer was about to swing his hatchet.

“No sir, please don’t kill me!” cried the duck.

“But I have nothing else to use for soup!” the farmer said.

“I am old and skinny.” the duck said, “Wouldn’t a nice plump partridge from the forest be better?”

The farmer considered this. “How should I catch one?” he asked.

“I will help you make a net!” the duck said, “and you can put my feed out in the forest to lure a partridge to it.”

“Very well,” said the farmer, “but if we do not catch a partridge, you must go into the soup yourself.”

But while they were making a net, the rat ran ahead to the forest and warned all the birds to fly away and hide, and not to eat any feed they might find in the forest that day.

So the farmer could not catch any partridges in the forest, though he waited all day.

When he returned home his wife said, “The wandering holy man is dining with someone else tonight, but has now visited all our other neighbors already and will surely visit us tomorrow. We must have a soup prepared for him then.”

“Very well,” said the farmer, “but the duck is old and stringy and should be simmered slowly all day in order to soften the meat.”

“Then you must be up before daylight to catch him and prepare him for the pot.” his wife said.

Now as soon as the rat heard that the duck would surely be put into a soup on the following day, the rat ran off to laugh at the duck. He was disappointed that the duck had already fallen asleep, but wished to mock him anyway, so he laughed loud and taunted the duck about being destined for soup.

The duck was awakened by this, but was too tired to reply, so he sat glumly while the rat mocked him. The rat soon became bored and went away to his hedgerow, but as tired as he was, the duck sat awake a while and thought.

“I am tired,” he said to himself, “from working hard to help the farmer make a net today, and from helping dig worms all day yesterday. And I am hungry, too, since the feed I would have been given was lost in the forest. But am I more hungry than tired now? I haven’t gone a day without eating in years, even when I wasn’t given much to eat, the farmer always fed me every day. Oh, if I even had a worm to eat for my last meal, then maybe things wouldn’t seem so bad.”

But all the worms in the farmyard had been dug up, and to find more would require far more digging than the duck wished to do, so he resolved instead to go to the side of the stream to see if any worms had been left behind from when the farmer went fishing.

For the first time in years, the duck dared to scramble through the hedgerow and get out into the lane and make his way over to the stream. It wasn’t far, but it was getting dark and the water looked cold and murky.

He looked and looked, but either the duck wasn’t looking in the right place, or the worms were all gone now. It seemed like it might be a lot of work to try to dig up worms by the side of the stream and the duck didn’t want to risk falling in, so he tried to think of something else.

He didn’t like grass, and it wasn’t very satisfying, but there was some dry grass by the stream and the duck tried eating some.

“I don’t like this at all, but it is better than nothing.” The duck said to himself. “I wish I had the turnip tops and old seed the farmer would have fed me today if he hadn’t used it to hunt partridges. That would be a last meal worth having, and then maybe things wouldn't seem quite as bad.”

The duck looked up and saw the forest not far off. “I’ve come this far,” he said to himself. “I might as well go into the forest! Since the farmer didn’t catch any partridges, maybe there is some of the food left behind.”

So the duck wandered into the forest, though it was getting very dark. He almost got lost looking for where the farmer had sat with the net, but when he finally found it he could still see a place in the darkness that was less dark, where the edge of the forest was back the way he came. There was nothing left now except for one little shriveled turnip top, but the duck ate it up and rested awhile.

While he rested, a little owl flew down and told him about how all the birds in the forest had been warned to stay away until after the farmer was gone. The little owl seemed to think it was a great joke, but the duck was indignant.

“That scheming rat! It wasn’t enough for him to laugh at my misfortune, but he also ruined all my hard work! I’ll show him! I will find a way to never be made into soup!” Whereupon he stomped out of the forest and back to the stream.

The duck kicked pebbles into the stream until a fish came out to see what was going on. “Did a rat warn you all to hide the day before yesterday when a farmer was out here fishing with worms all day?”

The fish seemed to think it was a great joke, and laughed about how all the worms they didn’t eat had been dropped into the stream at the end of the day, so after they were sure the farmer was gone they had eaten them after all.

“That spiteful rat!” The duck yelled. “He laughed at my misfortune, and he made all my hard work count for nothing! Well, I’ll show him! I shall never, ever, Ever, be made into Soup!”

Whereupon the duck stomped back to the farmyard in the middle of the night.

Hearing him return, the goat and the chicken looked up but went back to sleep, marveling that the duck had even left the farmyard at all. The rat, however, followed the duck and asked him what he was doing.

“You! You hateful rat! I’ll show you!” the duck said, and stomped to the farmer’s root cellar, ignoring everything the rat tried to say to him.

The latch on the cellar door was old and would be easily broken, but the duck had never broken in because he hadn’t wanted to anger the farmer. The rat was too small to move the door on his own, even though it was a small door to a very small cellar, more of a storage closet than a room. The duck however, put all his effort into it and both broke the latch and shoved the door open. Finding a sack, he filled it with old seed and a few turnips.

“I Will Never Be Made Into Soup!” he yelled at the rat. Whereupon he stomped away, dragged his sack through the hedgerow, and went off down the road, long before morning.

The rat however, couldn’t see anything else once he saw into the cellar, and ignored the duck leaving. After eating his fill of seeds and turnip, the rat contentedly snuggled down behind some of the turnips and had himself a nap.

Which is where he was when the farmer got up before dawn and went looking for the duck, and his hatchet. He found the hatchet, but did not find the duck. He then found the cellar door open, and while checking to see how many turnips were missing, he found the rat.

That night, the wandering holy man on his visit to the little old farm, the old farmer, and his old wife, remarked that it was a most unique soup they served him. He asked if it was made with wild game, perhaps rabbit? The farmer said no, it was actually duck, but since it had been an old duck, they stewed it all day to soften it up for him. The farmer’s wife said that it was simmered with peppercorns and wild mustard seed, and she had added a few different kinds of dried herbs that she had saved for a special occasion.

“Ah,” said the holy man, “then that is why it is difficult for me to guess what it is, because all of the different herbs you used give it such a nice flavor on their own that it could have been almost anything.”

“Indeed it could.” the farmer said. “But everyone around here knows that the only animals we had left this year were our old goat, our old chicken, and one old duck.”

“Ah yes,” the holy man said, “I saw the goat and the chicken, but indeed you no longer have a duck, and I think I saw some stray feathers by the cellar. You must have plucked the duck there.”

“Of course.” said the farmer. For dessert, the farmer’s wife served the holy man a custard made from an egg and a little milk, and he liked that and the soup so much that he was very grateful and said he was glad he had visited their farm last of all in this village.

Meanwhile, the duck with his sack of seeds and turnip had a nice satisfying meal of his own, out in the countryside a day’s walk away from that village, looking over the hills at the sun setting behind the mountains and wondering what might be beyond that.