by Helen Fox
“They’ve started!” Thelma said with a little jump. “It’s the last rehearsal before our celebration. Why don’t you come along with me, George?”
“I will,” George answered, “after I’ve said hello to Conti and asked him to join me.”
***
All morning, Conti had been preparing the story of his life. He went over it time and again to make sure his brain had taken it all in, and would keep it there until George came round. He was so happy that he capered off across the grass, whirling and hopping and croaking until he bumped into George.
“What are you up to, Conti?” George asked.
“I’m happy, that’s all. I hope you’ll spare a little time with me to hear my life story,” said Conti. “I’ve got it ready up here.” He touched his head.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, but after we’ve been to the Music Hall to listen to the rehearsals. We’re both invited.”
“We?” Conti asked, panting.
“Yes, and they’ve already started. Can you not hear the music?”
A host of small birds had lined the tree branches by the Music Hall and were listening to the music, some quietly repeating the flute trills.
“Look who’s here, the sparrow,” Robin Redbreast, chirped. “You know that only song birds are gifted with the chords to trill. Sparrows aren’t. So why are you here?”
The sparrow put his head down and flew away.
“You’ve gone too far, this time Robin,” a wren scolded him.
“He was harsh on me at the gathering,” Robin protested.
“He didn’t criticize your voice. It was your frolicking which can be annoying at times. I believe an apology wouldn’t go amiss. You called him common and that’s cruel.”
“You’re right, wren,” Robin admitted. “I’ll do it straight away.”
The music that flowed from the flute was heavenly and the voices so magical, so pure and beautiful that it brought tears to George’s eyes.
Conti was enchanted. It showed on his face. His mouth fell open and his eyes were glued to the flute Prince Orpheo was playing.
“Call me crazy,” Conti whispered in George’s ear, “but that flute isn’t ordinary. It’s magical. It’s playing on its own. It takes Orpheo’s breath and plays by itself. Didn’t you notice?”
George shook his head.
“He barely touched the stops. You know what I’m talking about?”
George shook his head.
“Stops are the holes in all wind instruments. You blow through the flute and your fingers have to go over the stops to form the notes. My tenor explained it to me. I’ll tell you all about him later. I’m now going to leave quietly. Come when you’re ready.”
***
Conti was making loud gargling noises as if trying to get rid of something stuck in his throat. George thought the old frog was choking. Only when he got closer did he realise that Conti was preparing to sing. His chest was stretched out, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He opened his mouth and let the first notes flow out slow and soft, almost whispering, gradually getting louder. George had never seen a frog with such a gleeful expression on his face, nor heard a frog sing like this. As the song reached its crescendo, Conti flung his arms up in the air. His mouth opened wide and his tongue danced inside it. Then two tears rolled down his face.
“Bravo!” George exclaimed and clapped his wings hard.
“I’ve never put such effort into my singing before. I did it for you, my friend,” Conti panted, his eyes gleaming orange and green in the morning sun. “I hope you liked it.”
“I did, my friend,” said George. “It was brilliant, but why the tears?”
“They are tears of joy, George. The days are long with nothing much to do. I have no mates like most of you creatures and I get lonely, I do. My years are piling up. Singing keeps me going. You know how I came to sing classic tunes?” he asked and immediately set about answering his question.
“Years back I lived in the pond of a grand house. A famous tenor had rented it and a fine human he was. He named me Conti, after an Italian tenor. He was Italian himself. I was allowed to hop inside the house and watch him sing. He’d practised for hours before he left for the Opera House. Then I’d hop into my pond where I would go over the tunes I had heard.
Sadly, the tenor moved away and I lost a good friend. New people bought the house. They filled the pond, and I was lucky I wasn’t buried under the gravel. After that, I wandered for days on end looking for water. A severe drought that year had dried ponds, creeks and dykes. I carried on, dragging my legs behind me under the scorching sun until I collapsed on the parched grass. A bird must have spotted me from high above. I knew it was an owl, for I vaguely heard his hoot in the distant sky. He came down and spoke to me. My eyelids were stuck tight and my limbs almost dead, and guess what? The owl was telling me of a place where there was water and giving me directions to get there. I forced one eyelid open, just a crack and saw him.
“Let me be, Owl,” I muttered with the little breath that was left in me. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”
“Plato is my name,” he snapped, “and no, I can’t see you’re dying, for I won’t let you.” He grabbed me by my back legs and brought me to this pond. I’ve been happy here, I have, and everyone has been good to me. Only, if it weren’t for these terrible things that are happening in my pond.”
“What’s happening in your pond, Conti?” George asked, looking worried.
“It wasn’t this bad in the beginning and with my hearing not being so good, I could barely hear them. It has got worse, much louder, in recent times. When the moon becomes full muffled groans and cries of pain and anger come from deep below the water. Then there’s the eerie shrills of the bats that flitter over the water lilies. Sometimes they come skimming over my head and they scare me out of my skin, they do.”
“Bats are blind and can’t see you. That’s why they bump into you. There’s nothing nasty about the bats. For all you know they come over for a sip of water.”
“Bats are witches,” the frog said, “didn’t you know? Well, I’m telling you, bats are witches and come over to communicate with whatever magic, witches and stuff are buried deep in the pond.”
“You’re talking nonsense now.”
“I’m talking about magic, my friend. There’s a lot of magic in this world of ours, didn’t you know? Well, I’m telling you, there’s magic in the air, the woods, mountains and valleys, in lakes and ponds. You can’t see it cause it’s invisible and secret. Only sometimes you can feel it and sometimes hear it. I’ve heard stories that would make the skin at the back of your neck tingle.”
“You don’t believe in old tales, do you, Conti?”
“I do believe the stories or tales as you call them, my friend,” the frog replied stubbornly.
“From way back in time, witches cast spells on humans turning them into mice, princesses into spiders and princes into...” His eyes rolled round and round, gleaming with excitement and his mouth curved into a smile. “Princes into frogs...” he muttered his mouth moving up and down as if he were silently talking to somebody. Then all of a sudden he started to shake his head violently left and right, up and down like a demented frog.
“What’s the matter, Conti?” George asked worriedly.
“I’ve been trying to ask my brain questions and the matter is, it can’t take them in cause it’s full of other stuff, mainly my life story, and now that you’ve heard it, it can go. I need to shake it empty so it can take my questions and hopefully give me some answers.”
He gave a sudden jerk and as his head dropped over the still water, his reflection, green and remote, glared back at him. Conti went rigid and silent like a frog out of a mould.
Seconds later, he looked at George, the skin round his wet eyes creased into r
ings of sad wrinkles. “Nah...” He sighed. “All my brain is doing, is showing me images of a frog, a wrinkly old frog. Me. I reckon what it is trying to tell me, is that I’ve always been a plain frog and not one with a crown on his head.”
“Whew!” George puffed. “You had me worried, my friend, and I’m glad you’ve sorted it out. As for me, I know I’ve always been a crow and right now I’m off to Penny Wood.”
“What are you going to Penny Wood for, George?”
But George was already soaring across the sky.
***
Penny Wood was silent that morning. Only the light stirring of the treetops could be heard and a woodpecker’s faint hammering at some distant tree.
Anxiety crept inside George as he circled low over the trees looking for the bluebells. It was some time before he spotted them. His heart pounding in his chest, he came down.
“No!” he gasped. The bluebells lay trodden on one side and there was a footprint on the ground close by. George sat staring in dismay.
He suddenly straightened up. “Hold on,” he said loudly to himself, “the soil hasn’t been disturbed and this is not a fox’s paw. It’s a human’s, a hunter’s boot.” He looked around. The bluebells where he’d left his parents were under a fir tree and the ferns were nearby.
“This is the wrong part of the woods,” he uttered. He breathed a sigh of relief and flew over to the other side.
Penny Wood was at its thickest there, and the haze that still lingered over the tree tops blotted his vision. He flew just above the trees, round and round, in a straight line, then across and always ended up where he’d started. Frustration and despair got the better of him and he broke out in loud carks.
Suddenly, a blinding fork of lightning tore the sky apart and at once the thunder crashed somewhere close by. Black clouds darkened the sky and the trees stood still and silent waiting for the storm. George took shelter in the foliage of a tree, crossed his wings around him and waited for the rain to pour down.
Time passed and neither storm nor even a drop of rain appeared. George looked up. The sun was pushing the black clouds back. The darkness gradually thinned and a bright light spilled out on to the forest floor.
It was then that George realised the tree he’d sheltered in was the young fir tree. Relief and joy overtook him. He now knew exactly where his parents lay.
Tendrils of forest creepers had found their way to the bluebells and had snagged on them. George pushed them to the side, parted the bluebells and saw the tip of a black feather.
“I’ve found you,” he sighed. “I want you to know that I’m missing you terribly. I’ve found a new home and I’ll be happy there. I haven’t been to Crow Lake to see the relatives yet, but...”
“Oi, you’re talking to yourself!” A bird’s sing-song voice cut him short. “That’s the first sign of madness, so my grandfather reckons,” the bird went on and flew down beside him. “You’re a crow, yeah right?”
“And you are an arrogant and rude jackdaw,” George replied reproachfully. “Where did you learn this silly language?”
“I picked it up from young humans who stick around our area. It’s cool, isn’t it? I only use it when I’m away from my parents, if I ever am. That’s why I left. They want to keep me under their guard. They reckon they know best,” he added scornfully.
“Never scorn your parents’ anxiety, young fellow,” George scolded him. “They care about your safety and yes, parents know best.”
“We live in rocks,” said the jackdaw. “I want to see some of the rest of the world - woods, rivers and valleys - and I want to do it by myself.”
“Fine, you’ve done that. Now it’s time you went home. The woods are quiet today but there’re all sorts of dangers in the sky. I mean predators. So be vigilant.”
George straightened the bluebells and placed the creepers over them. He closed his eyes and remained silent as if in prayer.
“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered and took off.
Seven
Crow Lake was quite a flight away but George had made his mind up it was time to tell his fellow crows about his parents and his new life in Blossom Valley. He was some few beats away when he halted in mid-air. A huge mushroom of black smoke hung over the lake and beyond, tongues of fierce red fire leapt through the trees of the copse. Crows flew frantically around, passing on cries of danger and alarm.
The warning seemed to have come too late, for through his stinging eyes George saw screaming crows, a wing or tail on fire, plunging into the lake then floating lifeless on the still water. On the far left side of the copse the fire wasn’t at his fiercest yet but the wind was changing and would soon fan it on.
George’s throat was dry and his eyes stung. He brought one of his wings over his mouth to filter the smoky air, took long breaths and dived down.
Choking chicks were squawking wildly in their nests while the mothers, numbed by the horror around them, were doing nothing but wailing.
“Don’t sit like stoned crows. Wake up!” he ordered. “Get on the ground, cup your wings and catch the chicks as I’ll be dropping them. Take them to the heath. The bracken will keep them cool.”
A few burning trees away, a mother had fallen over a nest at the very top, weeping and mourning.
“Mourn for your babies when they’re dead, and they’ll soon be if you don’t pull yourself together.” He lifted her by the neck and dropped her on the ground. “Now catch your babies,” he yelled at her, “and run to the bracken, fast.”
In the meantime, those crows who were still able to help, took the injured to the bracken where the breeze from the lake was cooling the heat of the fire.
“It’s all the humans’ fault,” an old crow said. “Mindless young folk throwing live cigarettes on the forest floor. No respect for nature, no regret for lost life. Don’t they listen to their parents and school teachers who tell them that without nature there won’t be life? Look at what they’ve done to us, the misery they’ve caused.”
A desperate cark suddenly cut through the smoky air and made George jump.
“Don’t go!” the old crow urged. “It’s become too dangerous.”
George ignored him and went off.
Far off on the western bank of the lake, all on its own stood a young tree that had been counting its blessings the fire had spared it. But the fire had shown no real mercy. A spark had now travelled in the wind and set it alight.
On the top branch, sat an old crow, motionless but carking his throat out.
George shook him violently. “Move!” he yelled.
The crow stared at him and carried on carking.
George grabbed him by the neck and brought him to safety. “Fly!” he ordered. “Use your wings!”
The crow didn’t move. The shock had taken his sight, speech and hearing away. The rescue team pulled him to the bracken.
George skirted the lake over and over to make sure no injured had been left behind. The young tree had burnt completely but it still stood smouldering and smoking, refusing to fall. In the end, it yielded to its fate. Its black skeleton crashed down, exploding red hot sparks everywhere.
A whiff of burning reached George’s nostrils. One spark had landed on his chest, scorching his feathers. He felt the heat stinging his flesh and heard it sizzling.
“Aaargh! Aaargh!” he yelped and rushed to the water.
He looked up at the sky. “If only I could see Swift and send a message to Plato,” he mumbled, his breathing slowly trailing off into silence.
***
“Why the downcast face on such a beautiful morning, Conti?” Plato asked as he glided down to the pond.
“George wasn’t at the gathering,” Conti replied broodingly, “and Alfie, his mate, said his roost wasn’t slept in last night. He’s gone back to Crow Lake, where his home w
as, and he isn’t coming back, I’m telling you. It’s my fault. It’s what I said. I’ve scared him.”
“What are you talking about, creature?” Plato frowned.
“I told him scary things and stuff.”
“What stuff, Conti?” Plato insisted.
Conti broke out in loud sobs. “I don’t know. Stop muddling my brain, asking questions one after another too fast. My brain is loaded with my own questions. It can’t take any more. It is confused and sad, very sad, cause it’s all my fault. That’s what my brain is telling me.”
At that instant, Alphie flew over.
“I’m glad I found you, Plato,” he said, panting. “The copse at Crow Lake has burnt down. Many dead and many injured. Me, and the rest of Blossom Valley crows are heading there to offer help, but it is medical help they need urgently. I thought of Tawny Owl.”
“Did you see George? Is he safe, Alphie?” Conti spluttered.
“Can’t answer that, Conti, cause I flew straight here,” was Alphie’s reply.
The frog let out a deafening croak and plunged into his pond.
Shortly afterwards Tawny Owl and Alphie, a straw first-aid box hanging from their beaks, took to the sky. Plato followed.
Tawny Owl was hard at work straight away, running from the chicks to the injured as fast as she could and in utter silence.
“Is George, alive?” Plato asked an old crow, his voice tense with anxiety.
The old crow blinked, trying to see through the smoke. “I don’t know about that, Owl,” he said. “There’s no one called George here. We’re all crows. Unless you mean the hero -he was a Crow Lake fellow like us. He saved the chicks. He saved others as well. He’s dead now.”
Plato’s heart lurched heavily inside his chest.
“Heroes die first,” the old crow went on in a wheezy voice. “That’s what I said to him when they brought him back from the lake. He didn’t hear me cause he’d passed out, they told me.”
“Passed out?” Plato puffed with relief.
