The Baron Von Ernest and the perfectly normal ducks

Leaving the Gloden Mines the baron’s entourage travelled west.  

The baron had announced that we were off to visit perfectly normal ducks, but though we passed many lakes, ponds and rivers en route and never once paused to inspect their water fowl. 

After three days of travel we finally arrived at a small town. 

“This is where the perfectly normal ducks live,” said the Baron. 

“It looks a perfectly normal town,” I said. 

“Exactly.” 

As our carriages rode into the town, we passed a duck cycling by on a bicycle. 

“There’s a duck riding a bike,” I said to the baron. 

“As I say, it’s a perfectly normal town,” said the baron. “There’s nothing more normal than riding a bicycle.” 

As we passed through the town we passed all of the perfectly normal things you’d see in a small town, a blacksmith, a grocery store. The only variance from the norm was that all the tasks were performed by ducks, and all the townsfolk were ducks. 

However, our arrival had already been noticed, for I saw one of the ducks selling newspapers which already had the headline: ‘Baron von Ernest visits perfectly normal town’, 

“How did your arrival make the newspapers so quickly?” I asked. 

“Ah, this town is equipped with the finest modern communications infrastructure. That is the town’s newspaper office,” he said pointing to a nearby building. “That duck in the window is their chief investigative reporter,” he said, pointing to a nearby duck. “As soon as we were seen the duck ran to his typewriter, wrote an article about my arrival, took it straight to the printing press for publication.” 

“News in real time, that’s amazing,” I said. 

“We are now in the modern new media,” the baron said.  

As I had become used to, the baron’s musical creative blasted his trumpet to announce the baron’s arrival, following by the announcement by his emissary Friedrich, who shouted “The Baron von Ernest.” 

Following the announcement, a small group of ducks gathered in front of us. As ducks are obviously unable to talk, they greeted us with a series of quacks and gestures.  

“I am the Baron von Ernest,” said the baron in reply. “This is my friend Hans, and the shouty one is my emissary Friedrich.” 

The room was full of ducks sitting in front of typewriters, typing furiously by beating their wings on the keyboard. 

There was more quacking and gesturing from the ducks, who turned and waddled off into a nearby building.  

“I think they want us to follow them inside,” he said. Friedrich and the rest of the baron’s entourage were ordered to stay outside, and I followed the baron and the ducks into the building. 

Inside, on every chair, every bench, at every table, were ducks with typewriters, writing furiously. 

“What is this?” I said to the baron. “Where are we?” 

“It’s a perfectly normal room,” said the baron, “It’s a writing room, it’s where the ducks come to do their writing.” 

“Why are we here, to watch ducks write?” 

“Not exactly, but it is related.” 

The ducks who’d invited us in were pointing their wings towards an adjacent room. 

“I think that the ducks want us to go in here,” said the baron, and we both stepped into the room, only for the door to slam behind us.   

The room was empty, bar for a few chairs. 

“I wonder why they’ve sent us in here?” I said. 

“I guess we just have to wait and see,” said the baron. “Take a seat Hans.” 

No sooner were we seated, than a huge, black grizzly bear burst in, carrying an enormous blunderbuss, which he pointed at the baron.  

“I have you now, the Baron von Ernest,” he said, pointing the gun at the baron. “You stole my title from me, I shall have it back.” 

The baron was remarkably calm in response to this outburst, I must admit I found the entire experience somewhat alarming. 

“You will find that the inheritance of my title is beyond any legal dispute,” the baron said. “I was sole heir of my father’s estate and title, and in direct lineage to the very first baron von Ernest six hundreds years ago.” 

“You may be your father’s first child, but the title was promised to me.” 

“Who by?”  

“Your father. I was gifted to him by Baron Mistelbach, and I became his favourite pet.  I lived in the house, he taught me to read, write, read and play music. I was the son he never had. Then you arrived, I was thrown out the house and treated like nothing more than a base animal. I escaped and have been living in the forest since then, planning my revenge, seeking a way to claim my rightful title.” 

“The title Baron von Ernest passes to the nearest son, bears are not eligible," the baron explained. “You would never have inherited, had I not been born the title would have passed to my father’s nephew. The person who will inherit the title should you kill me now.” 

The bear paused, for the first time we saw doubt in his face. 

“I was born to live like a baron, not creep around woodland.  Your arrival destroyed my life, I hate being a bear.” 

“There are options,” I said. 

“What options? You think I am like a perfectly normal duck, able to get a job as a blacksmith or journalist?” 

“I’ve met the Ursine bears,” I said. “They make their living singing.” 

“But they still live in a forest, besides I’d hate to live with other bears. I prefer the company of humans.” 

“You could become a minstrel,” suggested the baron. “Travelling from town to town, performing your repertoire of songs. You would get to go places, meet people, and make money.” 

“But I’m not an ursine bear, I don’t know any of their songs.” 

“You’re in luck,” said the baron. “I’ve just had printed a catalogue of the Ursine bears’ greatest hits. You can learn the songs and perform them at your leisure.” 

“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea,” said the bear. “And your title will go to your late father’s cousin if you die?” 

“That’s correct, and to his son if he dies, so don’t get any ideas.” 

The bear read through the Ursine Bears’ songbook. “You know, I think you might be right. A wandering minstrel. I like it, the perfect life for a bear like me.” 

So saying the bear lowered his blunderbuss, turned and left the room. 

“Did you enjoy that?” the baron asked that. 

“Enjoy it! I thought that bear was going to kill us.  What on earth just happened?! 

“That wasn’t real,” the baron explained. “It was just a story.” 

“A story, like in a book.” 

“Yes, but the perfectly normal ducks are masters of their form, they have created the ability to create an alternative reality. Every aspect of their story is typed out by the ducks next door, what we see in this room is the product of their imagination.” 

“That’s amazing,” I said. “They’ve created an entire reality, just through the power of their imagination. So why are we here, are you going to tax them?” 

“No,” said the baron. “You can’t tax creativity, you can’t tax ducks.” 

“Then why did you bring me here?” 

“I just thought you’d enjoy it.”