The ducks at St. James had long since come to know who would give the best bread. It could be said that the information was passed down through the generations, as each parent would take their ducklings to a specific pair on shore out of every possible pair. And each duckling would grow to learn the same as their parents.

Other people would come and go. These bread givers were the one constant.

It was a toss up as to whether going to the pair was worth it. The bread was definitely the best, no duck there ever had doubts about that. However, occasionally strange things would happen when the two were around. Suddenly sinking to the bottom of the pond was only one of the strange things. Some ducks didn’t think the bread was worth that shock.

The opposite end of that was when a piece of bread suddenly made a duck fly. Without using their wings.

The lighter of the pair always scolded the darker one and the ducks would be where they should be, but it was that it happened at all. They would leave after that, most of them, yet they would always return. Because perhaps the next time it wouldn’t be them like that. The bread was good. And the strange events didn’t always occur.

Then they were gone. For some years. The ducks were confused. The ducks forgot. Other people brought bread.

“Don’t do anything untoward, please dear.”

“I won’t.”

The ducks approached as they always had, none the wiser.

The bread was the best.

But for some reason, one of them sunk to the bottom of the pond for five seconds.