Swordbird

by Nancy Yi Fan

  Swordbird

  Nancy Yi Fan

  From Publishers Weekly

  Yi Fan's tightly woven story delivers a manifest message promoting peace and freedom. Starring woodland bird characters, the saga pits the tyrannical hawk Turnatt, captor of "slavebirds" whom he shackles and puts to work building his fortress, against the cardinals and blue jays. Though once friendly, these two benign flocks are now at war: Turnatt's soldiers have stolen eggs and food from each flock (the hawk eats a purloined egg daily, believing this will "keep death away"), and have led each camp to believe the other is responsible for the thefts. One of the slavebirds, a robin named Miltin, escapes to tell Aska, a brave young jay, about Turnatt's evil doings and his plan to enslave all the local woodbirds. Blue jays and cardinals join forces to vanquish the despot, a mission that entails several diverting twists, including a search for the necessary elements to summon the Swordbird, the "mystical white bird, the son of the Great Spirit." The author occasionally relieves the tale's ample tension with snippets of humor. While feasting with a traveling troupe of winged thespians, for instance, the cardinals and blue jays drive away Turnatt's marauding forces by bombarding them with bean soup and raspberry pies. Experienced readers will recognize the familiar allegory here, but the book will likely appeal to Redwall fans, and this young writer is worth watching.

  From School Library Journal

  Grade 4-6-The Stone-Run Country is in peril. The blue jays' Bluewingle tribe and their former friends, the cardinals of the Sunrise tribe, have gone to war. Each side believes the other to have stolen its food and eggs, little suspecting the malicious hawk, Turnatt, along with his hoard of crows and ravens. Now he is intent on forcing all of the local woodbirds to work on his magnificent fortress, and it's up to a variety of brave avians to upset the villain's plans. Their only hope lies in summoning the great warrior, Swordbird, to assist them in their time of need. Fan wrote the book when she was 11 as a response to a world at war; it goes without saying that she is very talented. However, the book essentially reuses old tropes in a new setting, making the plot, pacing, and characters more than a little predictable and, for all of its charms, the story is overly familiar. Dialogue runs to the clunky with lines like, "I'll get you, me and my crew will" and "You'll pay for that, scalawag!" The greatest credit should be given to the illustrator, who took the author's imagery and made it believable as well as attractive.

  Nancy Yi Fan

  Swordbird

  Nancy Yi Fan- 范禕

  The first book in the Swordbird series

  Illustrations By Mark Zug

  TO ALL WHO LOVE PEACE AND FREEDOM

  MAP

  ***

  ***

  Darkness nourishes power.

  – FROM THE BOOK OF HERESY

  PROLOGUE. SHADOWS

  Beams of light fell through the trees, creating shadows that flecked the thick, moist undergrowth. Hidden in a patch of those shadows, a fortress was under construction. Many woodbirds had been captured and pinioned for this, and they worked wordlessly, carrying stones, clay, and sticks day after day. Usually a coal black crow could be found strutting among them. Whenever possible, he would spring on an unsuspecting victim with curses, yells, and a sound lashing. He was Bug-eye, the driver of the slavebirds, who carried a black leather whip the color of his feathers.

  Through one sly golden eye, a red-brown hawk in dark robes observed the construction of his fortress. His name was Turnatt. Large for his kind, he towered over his captain and soldiers. With sharp claws for battling, a loud, commanding voice, and foul breath, he was a bird to be feared.

  His nasty habit of tapping an eye patch over his left eye while glaring with his right made the other birds shiver.

  Turnatt had raided countless nests, camps, and homes, capturing woodbirds as slaves and bringing them to this secret, gloomy corner. Now the time had finally come: the building of Fortress Glooming. Sitting on a temporary throne, the hawk let thoughts of evil pleasure pass through his mind. As Turnatt watched the thin, helpless slavebirds’ every movement, he tore into a roasted fish so messily that juices ran down his beak.

  Slime-beak, Turnatt’s captain, was hopping about, glancing at the trees bordering the half-built fortress. He dreaded Turnatt, for he worried about being made into a scapegoat.

  Displeased, Turnatt stared down his beak at his nervous captain, his bright eye burning a hole into the bothersome crow’s face.

  “Stop hopping, Slimey-you’re getting on my nerves. I’ll demote you if you keep on doing that.” A fish scale hung from the edge of Turnatt’s beak.

  Slime-beak shivered like a leaf, partly because of fear and partly because of the hawk’s bad breath.

  “Y-yes, milord. But it has been three days since Flea-screech and the soldiers went to look for new slaves. They still haven’t returned!”

  The hawk lord guffawed. The tail of the roasted fish fell from his beak and disappeared down the collar of his robe.

  “Fool, who has ever heard of little woodbirds killing a crow? If you don’t stop with that nonsense, I’ll send you to get slaves! Now go and check the progress on my fortress. Then come back and report your news!” Turnatt waved the long, embroidered sleeve of his robe at the captain.

  Slime-beak thought himself lucky that the hawk was in a good mood. Knowing Turnatt was fickle, Slime-beak dashed away.

  Seeing the crow scurry off, dizzy and awkward, Turnatt tapped his covered eye in satisfaction. He chuckled, his glossy feathers shaking. His fierce yellow eye narrowed wickedly, becoming a slit. He was Lord Turnatt-the Evil, the Conqueror, the Slayer, and the Tyrant of soon-to-be Glooming. He thought about torturing woodbirds, killing others that got in his way. Nobird-nobird-could stop the mighty Turnatt. It would be as he had dreamed for seasons. He would rule the entire forest, with millions of slavebirds to bow down before him. Turnatt tilted his head back and let out a bloodcurdling screech that echoed throughout the forest. Slime-beak and the soldiers followed suit, their loud chants drowning out every other sound.

  “Long live Lord Turnatt, long live the Tyrant of Fortress Glooming, long live the lord!”

  Over the shouts, the sun rose above the treetops.

  A forest split in two cannot stand.

  – FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  1 THE RED AND THE BLUE

  Just north of Stone-Run Forest, a war party of cardinals glided in and out of the shadows as the light of dawn slowly slipped into the sky. They traveled swiftly and low, each grimly wielding a sword in one claw. The leader, Flame-back, a sturdy cardinal distinguished by his larger and more powerful wings, reviewed their plan of attack.

  “Circle the camp, wait for my signal, attack. Simple. Everybird understand?” Crested heads bobbed in answer.

  The idea of violence frightened a young cardinal, who wrapped his claw tightly around his sword hilt. “Flame-back, are the blue jays awake? If they are, we’ll die! I don’t want to die!”

  Flame-back looked at the blurred land in the distance and, flapping his strong wings a couple of times, tried to reassure his band.

  “The blue jays don’t wake up so early, and nobird’s going to die. Nobird’s going to kill. Hear? We just scare and attack. No hurting.” Pausing, Flame-back added in a more comforting tone, “And we must find our eggs. We can’t let anybird, anybird at all, steal our unhatched offspring.” The speech calmed his band, especially the youngster, whose wail dwindled to a sniff and a sob.

  The cardinals were deep in thought. They all knew that Flame-back was right. There were no sounds except their wings, whooshing and rustling against the wind as they flew-red figures against a blue sky. They soared over the Appleby Hills and across the Silver Creek. Dewdrops trembled on delicate blades of grass; dandelions and daisies peeped over their l
eaves to greet the sun. Near the fringe of the forest, beech trees stood still, and only the morning breeze occasionally disturbed them. Those trees were ancient ones, covered with moss and vines, leaning over to touch branches with one another. Small creeks gurgled gently as they rippled along, under mists that covered the ground. But the cardinals were in no mood to enjoy such things. They were on a mission. The war party made a sharp turn along a boulder and flew over the Line, the border between the territories of the blue jays and the cardinals.

  As they crossed, a twinge of uneasiness ran along every cardinal’s spine. They were entering forbidden territory. But about a month before, it hadn’t been. A month before, the cardinals and blue jays had been good friends. Their hatchlings had played with one another; they had fished for shrimp and hunted for crickets together. But things were different now. With a brisk flap of his wings Flame-back led his cardinals through a twist in a gap in the tangled trees.

  “Lively now, lads. You all know what we’re here for, so get ready. Fleet-tail, branch off with a third of our forces and go around to the left. You, take another third and go to the right. The rest, follow me. Swift and silent, good and low, friends.”

  In a flash the cardinals separated into three groups and departed into the shadows. After flying through a ghostly fog, the cardinals saw their destination. Eyes glistened and heartbeats quickened. With a few hushed words, the cardinals swiftly got into positions surrounding the blue jay camp. No feathers rustled. They sat as silent and rigid as statues, waiting for Flame-back’s signal to attack.

  The cardinals’ target was ten budding oak trees hidden behind a tall, thick wall of pines. The oaks grew in a small meadow of early spring flowers and clover sparkling with dew. The pine tree border was so dense that one might fly right past it and not see the oak trees inside. It was indeed cleverly hidden. Those oaks were the home of the Bluewingle tribe.

  It was very quiet. Occasionally a swish of feathers and breathing broke the silence. A strange long-limbed tree protruded from the center of the grove. In the branches of this tree a hushed exchange was taking place.

  An elderly blue jay, Glenagh, shifted on his perch, his thin gray shoulders hunched up. Peering through the oak leaves, he could see a dim ray of light climbing up the ancient mountains.

  How long can we go on fighting our old friends? the old blue jay wondered.

  He turned abruptly to face his companion, Skylion. “How are you going to keep this ‘war’ up?” Glenagh asked. “Ever since you became the leader of the Bluewingles, we’ve been fighting the cardinals constantly.” The old blue jay sighed. His feathers drooped. “You definitely do make your mind up faster than a falling acorn hits the ground.”

  Skylion turned his gaze toward the elder, Glenagh. “They used to be our friends-our family, almost,” he said. The younger blue jay poured a cup of acorn tea for the elder with disbelief.

  Shaking his graying head sadly, Glenagh accepted the tea with a worn claw. He gazed at his reflection in his cup with a dreary look. “Remember Fleet-tail? The cardinal who’s always so quiet? Just last week I saw him with a raiding party, hollering and yelling like the rest.”

  “Well,” Skylion replied hoarsely, “we have to regard the cardinals as enemies. Stealing and robbing-that’s what they do now.”

  Leaves rustled as the wind changed direction.

  “True, the cardinals have robbed us bare to our feathers, but we have done our share as well.” Glenagh glanced again at the light outside. “The sack of pine seeds, the raisins, the bundles of roots, the apples…We’ve taken back more than what was stolen from us. We cannot say we aren’t thieves.”

  Skylion hastily dismissed the idea. “Yes, but they stole our blueberries, our walnuts and honey! They stole the raspberries, the mushrooms, and more!” the blue jay leader argued. “We only took back food because we needed to survive. It’s just spring. There’s hardly any food you can gather outside. And what about our eggs? Our offspring. The next generation. Is there an explanation for that?”

  “Peace is more important, Skylion.” Glenagh shook his head and took a sip of acorn tea. “You do have a point about our eggs, but the cardinals declared that we stole their eggs and they didn’t steal ours. I cannot believe that having been friends for so long, we have suddenly become enemies. Maybe they didn’t steal from us; maybe somebird else did. We should go and talk with them about this.”

  “No, Glenagh. It would be a waste of time! We tried to talk before, but they only accused us of stealing from them first. You know that isn’t true!” Skylion snorted.

  “But Skylion, don’t you-”

  Skylion leaned forward. “Glenagh, can you stay calm and aloof when our eggs are snatched and stolen right from under our beaks? Of course not. We are fighting to get them back!”

  Glenagh calmly looked at the leader, the steam of the tea brushing his face. He was silent for a few moments and then said, quite slowly, “Does fighting solve the problem?”

  Skylion sighed deeply and shifted his glance to the wall, where there hung a painting of a white bird holding a sword. Though the painting was worn and the color faded, the picture still was as magnificent as ever. The bird seemed to smile at Skylion. Skylion almost imagined that the bird mouthed something to him.

  Skylion whispered, “I wish Swordbird could come here to solve this.”

  “Ah, Swordbird…” Glenagh toyed with the name as a smile slowly lit up his face. “The mystical white bird, the son of the Great Spirit…He is a myth, but I know he exists. I know in my bones. Do you remember the story in the Old Scripture about a tribe of birds attacked by a python? They took out their Leasorn gem and performed a ritual to summon Swordbird. Immediately he came in a halo of light, and with a single flap of his great wings the python vanished into thin air.” Glenagh paused. “Well,” he said, “to call for Swordbird, we need a Leasorn gem. It’s said to be a crystallized tear of the Great Spirit. But we don’t have one. We have no idea where to find one either. So, it’s what’s in you and me that counts.” Glenagh drained his cup, savoring the last drops.

  Skylion opened his beak to reply, but he was interrupted by a frantic rustle of leaves. A young blue jay’s head poked through, and in a high, nervous voice the youngster gave the message: “The cardinals! We are being attacked! We are being attacked!”

  Birds are born to have wings;

  wings are symbols of freedom.

  – FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  2 SLAVEBIRDS’ PLAN

  Turnatt’s horde had flown from the warm southwestern region to Stone-Run with about forty slavebirds. Because crossing the White Cap Mountains was trying and treacherous and food shortages occurred on the way, only thirty-eight slavebirds survived the trip.

  A month before, the slaves had lived free among their own tribesbirds. Now they dwelled in the leaky, half-rotten slave compound, with their legs chained to a stone wall. The building’s walls were wooden bars that gave off awful splinters, and it seemed as if they would collapse at any moment. Above, rotting hay and logs were bound together for a roof, with holes here and there to see the sky; below was the bare ground, always uncomfortably moist. As the mild spring brought showers and damp winds, the slaves were allowed to build a fire in the slave compound. The birds wore nothing but rags on top of their mud-caked feathers, and as they huddled around the fire, they shivered.

  Tilosses, an aged sparrow who had not lost his sense of humor, started the discussion.

  “It has been several weeks since we were caught and brought to this filthy place. Ladies and gentlebirds, we have no other choice: If we wish to see our homes and families again, we must escape!” Tilosses paused to make his speech more dramatic. “Escape may not come easily like a grand supper delivered to us; nevertheless, we can find a way if we work at it. That Turnatt may be dangerous, but sometimes he is as careless as a fly. Pah! Why, his name sounds like Turnip!” Hearty laughter followed. “We all know that we need to escape somehow, not remain here to rot. The question
is, how?”

  Across the campfire a burly flycatcher called Glipper spoke up. “If just one of us escapes, we might have a better chance. The native woodbirds in this forest would help us if we can send a message to them.” There were murmurs of agreement.

  “Well,” a nuthatch said, “the woodbirds would help us, but how can we reach them? The guards are too numerous, and that slave driver, Bug-eye, seems to be everywhere at once. It’s really unsafe. How could anybird slip out of the fortress to contact the woodbirds?”

  A jaunty goldfinch blurted, “I know how! Trick the captain. Make him think you’re helping him. Convince him to let you gather firewood every day outside the fortress. He’ll trust you after a few days. Then find a woodbird to help!”

  “Good idea!” said Tilosses.

  Glipper shook his head. “Chances are, nobird would be allowed outside alone,” he declared. “There’s little possibility of success, with all the risks and hazards.”

  “But there still is a possibility, however small, so we should try it,” somebird in the crowd murmured.

  Tilosses spoke. “Who will take the risk?”

  “A bird who is wise, persuasive, and innocent. These are the right qualities,” chimed the goldfinch, cocking her head to one side.

  The silence stretched for a long time. A twig crackled in the fire. Who will do it? Who? Who? The question hung in the air.

  “I will!” The voice of a young robin piped up from the crowd of slavebirds. Heads turned to see the speaker.

  Though all the slavebirds knew the robin’s name, they had no more knowledge of him beyond that. He was quiet, rarely speaking to anybird.