Three Good Deeds by Vivian Vande Velde Page B

just less territorial.
    And once in a while, with his belly full and the sun warm on his feathers, Howard would realize that a whole morning had passed, or a good part of an afternoon, without him worrying about his gooseliness—and that was the most worrisome thing of all.
    What if,
he asked himself,
I forget I'm a boy? What if I forget to keep looking for a chance to do something to break the spell?
    He could spend the rest of his life as a goose, and not even know anything was wrong.
    Or, worse yet, he might—by purest coincidence—do a good deed then, and
then
the old witch would turn him back into a boy, just when he'd forgotten how to be one.
    Scared by moments like these, Howard would get out of the water and sit on the
bank, since that seemed more boylike than swimming aimlessly in the pond.
    The goslings proclaimed him Not-Fun-How-Word and Stuck-up-Worse-Than-a-Swan-How-Word and had no more interest in him than their parents did—even Can't-See-As-Well-Out-of-Her-Right-Eye-As-Her-Left's youngsters, whom he'd saved from Roscoe and Alina.
    One day one of the geese, Always-First-to-Molt, suddenly began to flap his wings. "Flight feathers are back!" he announced.
    Other geese began to flap their wings. "Flight feathers," they honked, discovering their own. "Flight feathers!"
    In a burst of joy, they took to the air, adults and younglings alike.
    Caught up in the excitement, Howard joined them, before he realized what he was doing.
    I am not a goose,
he reminded himself. And he flew contrary to everyone else to settle back down on the grassy bank.
    The old witch was in the yard, sitting on a stool, just enjoying the sunshine. "Not going to join the others?" she asked mildly. She shaded her eyes and murmured, "It's spectacular."
    "I am a boy," Howard honked at her. "Boys do not fly."
    "Your choice," the old witch said.
    But it wasn't. Not really.

    The days that had grown long now grew shorter, and sometimes the evenings were chilly. Sometimes the water was warmer than the air.
    Certain flowers no longer bloomed.
    The vegetation by the pond developed a distinctive taste—not better, not worse,
just different—a taste Howard's goose sense labeled
autumnal.
    The leaves on the trees faded, not the light-but-bright green of first spring, but tired pale green, fraying into yellow—then almost overnight bursting into gold and orange and red.
    And Howard was still a goose, with one more good deed to accomplish, and no idea what to do or how.
    Now the pond was as chilly as the days almost always were—days of gusting winds that pulled the leaves from the trees, and dark clouds that threatened storms, which might be rain or might be something worse.
    One afternoon, the old witch was tossing bread crumbs to the geese—which she had not been as good about doing as she'd been other years, or so the older geese had been complaining.
    Some of them nibbled at the treat, but there wasn't the usual frenzy of gotta-get-some/gotta-get-some-
now.
Many of the geese were unsettled. Howard felt anxious, too, though he didn't know why—just restless and jittery. Many swam in tight circles, murmuring among themselves.
    Passing by him, Can't-See-As-Well-Out-of-Her-Right-Eye-As-Her-Left asked, "Is it time?"
    "Time for what?" Howard asked.
    But she hadn't waited for an answer from him and was already headed toward some of the others. "Is it time?" she asked.
    "Is it time?" they answered back.
    Lackwit geese,
Howard thought.
    The murmuring grew louder.
    Then shifted, from question to statement: "It is time. It is time."
    "Time for what?" Howard demanded.
    "It's time! It's time!" they honked back.
    Howard could feel excitement building in him, even though he didn't know what was going on. The individual honks became synchronized into one single chorus as the geese honked together, so exhilarating that Howard joined in, whatever this was all about, until the feeling grew too large to be contained: "It's