“Where, where did he go?”
June was crying now, from her head to her toes. The farmer stood up and started across the field.
“Did he have things hanging from his legs?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “He did. He did.”
“Well, gee, I didn’t know he was a pet. You know how hawks are... a farmer has to protect his stock. And there are so many of them birds this year that I had to knock ’em down.”
They hurried across the field. June wanted desperately to tell him he should not kill the hawks and owls, but no words would come.
They stood at the field edge, among thistles and primroses.
“He was sitting on that dead stub,” he said, pointing to a tree in the orchard.
“Yes, of course,” June answered. “He hunts the mice that eat your grain from there.”
“Well, he was sitting there, and I winged him...and, let’s see...he flopped down about here, sort of fluttering, and I couldn’t see where he went so’s I could get another shot. I’m sure sorry. I didn’t know.”
June ran into the grass, whistling and peering behind every plant. She found spots of blood on the leaf of a mullen plant. Her heart beat hard. She called, almost in a frenzy, “Zander! Zander!”
She dropped to her belly and scrambled over the raspberry prickers and through the yarrow and teasel. She searched the brush, ignoring the scratches and thorns.
“Right about where you are,” the farmer called.
But Zander was nowhere.
She stood up to let the farmer see if she was really in the right spot, and as she rose her eyes focused higher in the raspberry thicket. There, three feet off the ground, wing clasped tightly to his side, sat Zander. He made a soft sparrow-hawk noise, the noise, June recalled, of the young answering its mother. “I see him,” she called. And she struggled into the bush. The bird stepped lightly onto her finger. She grasped his jesses and came back through the weeds to the farmer.
“I found him. I found him,” she said, and then, because she could not face the man a moment longer, she tucked her bird in her shirt and ran as fast as she could.
He called after her, “Them hawks is awful on my chickens.”
In rage and anger she turned to him. “Well, coop your chickens up!”
Then she was embarrassed and afraid because she had spoken so defiantly. She returned to the yard, her heart beating loudly.
Rod saw the wounded falcon.
“Sors plum? Sors plum? (What happened?)”
Quickly she told him and pointed to the man. Rod put on a firm face and strode into the field.
June turned toward the house and carried Zander to the kitchen where her tears chugged to a stop. Gently she put him on a block of wood by the stove and waited for her father to come home.
The bird sat very still on the post and held his wing just so. He was glad for the warmth of the fire, and gradually lifted his feathers. She left to get some food for him and came back to find him sleeping.
But when she moved, he quickly awakened and grabbed the morsel. He ate it with eagerness and hunger. She stuffed him; he closed his eyes.
June heard the click of her father’s car door and rushed to the porch.
“Please, tell me what to do. I think Zander is dying,” she blurted.
Her father and her uncle walked together into the big kitchen and bent over the small bird.
“Come on, little fellow,” her father said, and picked him up. Slowly he lifted the damaged wing. He studied it, watched it, and softly closed it to the bird’s body. His nose, almost under the wing, bent the longest primary feather. Then he said, “We can’t put a splint on it. Too high.”
But Uncle Paul lifted her spirits. “I was talking to a man who raises ducks, the other day, and he said birds’ wings heal in about five days. Said he’d had a duck that broke a wing last month, just crawled under a bush until it healed and then he came out and flew away. His mate brought him food.”
Charles senior put the falcon back on his perch. “Junie, I think we should just try keeping him quiet and letting the wing heal without interfering with nature.”
“Will he fly again?”
“Well you heard Uncle Paul. He might.”
Her father got some absorbent cotton and some warm soapy water and gently washed the blood. Suddenly Zander jumped in pain.
“I guess it’s best to do nothing,” her father said. “He can wash himself in the creek when he’s well.”
Her mother came into the kitchen. “That’s the trouble with pets,” she said, “with the joy, there are the heartaches.”
The door opened and Brownie ran in. The fast movement startled the falcon and he jumped painfully to the ground.
“I guess I ought to hood him,” June said. “Then he’ll sit still.” She went to the cupboard and returned to slip the little brown hood with the red feathers over Zander’s head. He became absolutely motionless.
That night June went up and down the steps a dozen times to look at Zander. Finally she fell asleep. At daylight she sat straight up in bed. A coldness seized her. She knew Zander was dead.
She bolted downstairs and with stiff movements opened the door.
The bird was sitting exactly where she had left him, his wing held so that it would heal. She sat down beside him and said softly, “Hi, little fellow.” In the darkness he heard her voice and lifted his feathers. The small noise of the nestling greeting its parent came from his throat.
After breakfast she checked him again. This time she did not fear he would be dead; limp and sick, perhaps, but not dead. So she laughed with relief to see him sitting perkily on his perch, standing quietly under the hood.
She went to the meadows and came back about ten, confident that she would see Zander better. She was getting used to the idea that he would live.
The next morning she was anxious but not afraid.
Three days later she went back to the sparrow hawk’s nest in the meadow.
She watched the mother bird and her young, now hidden on branches and behind leaves. They were hard to see except when they fluttered their wings to attract their mother. It was a slow game, and once again June lay down in the grass to watch them. As she stared up into the tree she suddenly realized she was looking at one of the puffy, pin-feathered, bespeckled fledglings. It was a male, clinging tightly to a limb, just as Zander had clung to her shirt the day her brothers brought him home.
As she watched, the fledgling puffed until his head and body were a round ball. Suddenly the feathers flattened. The head lifted, the wings fluttered. His mother was coming. She must have been far out in the sky for it was many moments before she flashed onto a near limb. The young bird stretched to her. He fluttered like a Japanese fan. She sat still with food in her mouth. The fledgling flapped toward her. Her wings went up. She fell backward off the limb, spread her finger-feathers, and rolled out on the sky.
She carried the food with her.
The youngster dove after her. And then she turned and struck him! He fluttered, zigzagged to a tree, and perched recklessly on a twig. His heart was beating so hard his body shook, his beak stood ajar.
June remembered her father. “She doesn’t want him,” she said in awe.
The young bird sat alone for a long, long time. Then he jumped to earth and caught a tiny cricket. He ate it. He watched the sky. He beat out the “here I am, Mother” call, but the mother bird did not answer. He rotated his head from horizon to horizon as he followed his mother’s flight. She never came back.
“That’s horrible,” June cried; and for no reason she could find, tears ran down her face.
“It’s just as Dad said, he’s being sent out into the world to seek his fortune. His mother won’t help him anymore. It’s horrible to live in the wild. It’s frightening and cold and awful. I’m glad I’m a person and don’t have to go to Belgium if I don’t want to.”
At home Rod was on the canoe landing checking his star map with a reference
book. The door opened and her mother stepped out. She was in her bathing suit ready for a swim. June was glad to see her.
“I’ll swim with you,” she called and sped to her room. She stopped in the kitchen and looked down at the bird in the hood. He was fluffed and warm and still. He heard her presence and gave the soft call of the fledgling.
“Are you feeling better?”
Zander stretched, pushing one foot and the good wing down, down in a line together. Then he shook—and lifted both wings into the air.
June spun to his side. Carefully she removed the hood and put her finger behind his feet. He stepped upon it, looked at her and then at the room.
He focused on the door, the highest perch—where falcons like to be. June waited breathlessly to see if he would fly; knowing he couldn’t, hoping he would. Slowly he extended both wings. He gently beat them, testing their strength. He beat deeper and deeper...until he taxied above her finger. He stayed in the air an instant, flapping evenly, and then dropped back. He was tired, and flew to his perch.
June kicked open the screen door.
“He flies! He flies! Zander flies again!”
Rod called, “Hooray!” He came grinning to the kitchen, “Now maybe you’ll help me find the double star in the Dipper tonight.”
“I will. I will.”
Just before dinner June heard a soft knock on her door. Her mother came in with a letter in her hand, an invitation to a dance to be held next month.
“It’s from the group that is going to Belgium. An Albert Reed wishes to take you. Do you want to go?”
“Oh, no, no,” she said. “I despise him—he’s a stupid intellectual—and besides, if I accept the dance it means I’m going to go to Belgium—and I don’t want to!—There’s my modern dance class—and Zander. Who’ll take care of Zander? I just can’t go!”
Her mother looked at June steadily, moving her head slightly to the left. She seemed to be checking June almost the way she checked her jelly—waiting for two drops to come together to form something solid.
“All right,” she said, and knew the kettle should bubble some more.
11. The Bolt of Organdy
THE HOUSE SEEMED to be full of noise. Aunt Helen spanked “Rustles of Spring” out of the old piano, and Rod was calling June to come look at an enormous map of the Northern Hemisphere. Above the din June heard the alarm call of Zander, “killie, killie.” It came from the top of the house. She ran out the back door to see in the sky—another sparrow hawk.
She remembered Windy, and that far fix in his eyes when he had flown off. She picked up an apple and threw it to divert Zander. It fell to earth, but as it did the movement caught his eye. Then he saw June. She whistled and called and whistled. He flew in close to her in the apple tree. He would not come to her hand. She had to climb the tree to bring him down.
For the first time in many months she tethered him to his perch. The other sparrow hawk in the sky was a female. It was not the mating season for sparrow hawks; some birds that lose their mates while raising young often go out and find another. No widow was going to lure Zander!
Zander fought the leash, and then resigned himself to the shady perch beside Ulysses. Ulysses was all nobility now. People came from far and near just to see the kings’ bird, head high, chest out, eyes black, patched and beautiful.
June spoke to Zander as she tethered him. “You’ve been catching most of your own food lately. I’ve got to feed you both now,” she said. Ulysses lifted his feathers and bowed to her as he might bow to a mate. “But, I’d sooner do that than have Zander go off with some silly female.”
The falcon larder was low. She went to the house for the .22 and lured Rod into going with her to the barn. He brought the bird net in case the sparrows were flocking in the hayloft.
At the barn they met the farmer who had wounded Zander. He was working at some enormous task involving a bowl and many small paper cups.
“How’s your little bird?” he asked as they entered the barnyard. June reported he was quite well again and flying around. Then Rod asked him politely, to make conversation, what the cups were for.
“Poison,” said the farmer. “I’m just overrun with rats and mice. It’s terrible this year. They’ve nearly ruined my granary and they’re getting into the barn now. I gotta poison them before I starve.”
“Do you think,” said Rod testily, but trying not to be rude, “that it is because you killed all the hawks and owls that were killing the mice, that now the mice are so many they are forced into your barn to find food?”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “I don’t understand all those wild things, but I know what has to be done. I gotta kill rodents.”
Rod said, “May I suggest you stop shooting the hawks and see if the mice disappear?”
“That’s crazy, boy,” the farmer said. “I’ve farmed all my life and I know what devils the hawks and owls are. They take poultry by the dozens. Why they got three of my chicks in one night. And I’m gonna shoot them every time I can.
Rod did not argue. He would leave the persuading to his father.
He and June climbed to the hayloft where they could hear the hundreds of sparrows that were besieging the farmer. Rod said, “I think I’ll be a teacher when I grow up.” He took one end of the net and walked across the yellow-green hay.
June looked at him, slender, eager, handsome. “It seems you have to unteach before you can teach, like the farmer. Plors clay? (True?)”
“No,” he called back. “Mr. Miller is right in the middle of a great big lesson. I’d like to be the kind of teacher that finds the Mr. Millers in the world and demonstrates that nature’s balance has been changed by shooting the hawks and owls. Then Mr. Miller would see it himself. I think that would be exciting.” Clutching a beam with one hand he held up his side of the net with the other. He said slowly, “Even more exciting than inventing a new language.”
June fastened her end of the net to the other side of the barn, then walked across the hay, circling around a flock of chirping sparrows.
She whispered across the dust, “Rod, that language was wonderful.”
“Aw, it was silly nonsense,” he smiled. “I’ve even forgotten most of it.”
The stubble scratched June’s legs and the hot air of the barn dried her throat and eyes. She looked at Rod.
“Oh no, you must never forget the language.”
“Yes, I must; it’s done. Like a broken toy—pooh, you toss it away.”
June was aware of the resonant pitch of Rod’s voice. Impulsively she asked, “Did the language go when your voice changed? Is it part of your squeaky days? Have you outgrown it, Rod?”
“I guess that’s about it.” He thought a moment, then said, “The other day when I shaved a little bit I could not remember how we declined the verb ‘to be.’ Funny thing.”
“I hope you become a teacher, Rod,” June said softly, and bravely “shooed” the birds. Six flew into the net and were caught. They took the birds home without more words.
That night she carried Zander to her room. There she held him under her chin trying not to cry over the lost language.
For three days she kept Zander tethered. The fourth day she set him free. He killied and winged around the yard, displaying his feathers and yellow feet. He was a spectacular sight. She laughed and was pleased that he was hers.
With a flick of his wings he dove on a large black cricket, and proceeded to swallow him whole. June dropped onto her knees and snatched the cricket from her bird.
“No, you don’t,” she scolded. “If you catch all your own food you’ll go wild. I’m not refusing to care for you like the mother in the sycamore!” She scratched the bird between the eyes. He leaned into the movement and closed them in pleasure, as funny noises came from his throat. June jumped up and ran to the icebox for food. Zander was on his perch. She held the food out. He spanked the air with his wings, snagged the sparrow, and sailed to the chimney with it. Anxiously June watch
ed him devour the food high above the house.
“Now, you come back,” she called.
Two days later Zander disappeared again. June tried not to think about him the first day, but the morning of the second she met Jim seining in the meadow and asked if he would help her look for her falcon.
They whistled and walked far across the meadows and fields. Jim found other sparrow hawks, wild ones; he found a young crow, and the eggs of a turtle. Finally he said, “You don’t think he got any of the mice Mr. Miller might have killed with his poison? Dad said that some of those poisons can kill the bird that eats the mouse.”
June spun to look at him. “Oh, Jim, you don’t think...”
They were almost to the mountains. June turned and ran...over the yellow mass of butter-and-egg blossoms...all the way back to the house. She whistled and called as she leaped the hedge and sped to the barn.
She boldly walked to the farmer’s house and knocked on the door.
“Have you seen my falcon around here?” she asked.
“That thing again? No. But a screech owl fell dead right out of a tree beside me this afternoon. Plunk. Dead. Odd thing.”
“What did you do with him?”
“Oh, I tossed him on the compost heap back of the chicken house. Wanna see ’im’”
“Yes. May I?”
“Sure, help yourself.” He pointed the way.
June knew what she was going to see. Her brothers had brought Bobu with them to Pritchard’s one day during the past winter, and Bobu had flown out of the car. They could not wait for his return, so they asked a neighbor to try to catch him. When they came back the following weekend the neighbor reported having seen him every day on the sleeping porch of the Pritchard house, his new red jesses marking him from all other screech owls. School children said he had waited for their bus in the evening and then followed them to their yards and porches. But nobody could get near him.
Then he disappeared completely in January and was not seen again.
One day in June, Uncle Paul saw bright red jesses on an owl near the barn. It was Bobu, carrying food in his beak.
The Summer of the Falcon Page 11
