But privately the Young Farm Man called it Admiral because it behaved like it commanded a different army.
The Young Farm Woman pretended not to approve of naming birds.
Then started asking where Admiral was.
Three days later, the beetles arrived.
Not gradually.
The morning began normal.
Gray clouds.
Cool wind from the peaks.
The Young Couple worked near the central rows.
The ducks moved behind them.
Several neighboring farmers had gathered again.
Partly to mock.
Mostly because the rumors of beetles had made everyone restless.
The Old Farmer stood near the fence.
Arms crossed.
He looked toward the ducks.
Then toward the northern hills.
One man joked:
“Maybe the blind army saves us.”
The Old Farmer snorted.
“Those birds couldn’t save a puddle.”
The Young Farm Woman did not respond.
She was looking at the leaves.
Something moved.
Far row.
A shimmer.
At first she thought wind.
Then the movement spread against the direction of the breeze.
Leaves shook.
Plants trembled.
A black line appeared along the soil.
Her chest tightened.
The Young Farm Man saw her expression.
“What?”
She pointed.
Everyone turned.
The joking stopped.
Beetles.
Thousands.
Maybe tens of thousands.
They rolled across the edge of the field like spilled grain.
Some crawled.
Others flew short distances.
The sound was faint but constant.
Clicking.
Rustling.
Chewing.
The Old Farmer stepped forward.
“My God.”
The Young Farm Woman whispered:
“Open the lower gate.”
The Young Farm Man ran.
He pulled the temporary fence aside.
The ducks had already noticed.
Not visually.
Sound.
Movement.
Smell.
Sixty heads lifted.
Their bodies became suddenly alert.
The Old Farmer stared.
The flock moved.
Not stumbling.
Charging.
The first ducks reached the beetles.
Bills hammered the ground.
Rapid.
Relentless.
They swallowed insects one after another.
More birds joined.
The flock widened across the row.
The beetle line broke around them.
Some insects continued.
The Young Farm Woman shook the grain cup toward the densest patch.
The ducks shifted.
The Young Farm Man dragged net fencing across the next path to funnel movement.
Farmers stood frozen.
Then the Woman shouted:
“Stop standing there.”
The Old Farmer blinked.
“What?”
“Move boards.”
She pointed.
“Push the beetles toward the ducks.”
Nobody moved.
She screamed:
“Now!”
That did it.
Farmers jumped the fence.
Different clothes.
Different ages.
Different pride levels.
All suddenly working.
They carried boards.
Burlap.
Rakes.
They disturbed plants.
Beat bushes.
Forced beetles from hiding.
The ducks fed.