Swordbird

by Nancy Yi Fan

  At first glance he seemed rather weak for his kind, yet when the slavebirds took a close look at him, they noticed that his agile legs and lean frame looked strong, able to endure. He had a speck of red among his black neck feathers. Despite his bedraggled, thin, and dirty appearance, there was something in his big, shining eyes that warmed the onlookers’ hearts.

  “Miltin?”

  The robin nodded, and the corners of his beak twitched into a smile. He looked so confident that everyone knew he should be the chosen one.

  Glipper peered at the robin and grinned. “Miltin, I have a feeling that you are going to have quite some adventure.”

  Outside, the wind whistled.

  The supreme pleasure a tyrant

  can gain is to torture others.

  – FROM THE BOOK OF HERESY

  3 SQUAWK, SQUAWK, SQUAWK

  Turnatt perched side by side with his captain, Slime-beak, drinking chestnut beer and wine and talking in a newly built room of Fortress Glooming. Magnificent blades and ancient weapons glistened on the walls, soft cushions adorned chairs of red cedar, and silken curtains draped the windows.

  The hawk lord glared at his captain over the rim of his silver goblet. “You’d better finish the construction of my fortress in eight weeks,” he threatened, “or I’ll pull your feathers off to make me a duster!”

  Slime-beak cringed. “I-I’m afraid finishing is almost impossible, milord.”

  “What?” The flames of anger that blasted from Turnatt’s eye seemed hot enough to burn Slime-beak to a crisp. “You remember, when we first came here, you and I sat down and talked? Right there and then, with your beak flapping like an old shoe, you said it would be finished in early spring. Well now! It is close to summer, and you’re still nagging me about needing more time. What in the world of crazy captains is your reason?”

  “Well…w-we’re short of wings now, mi-milord. Many of the slavebirds h-have been sick.” Slime-beak’s voice crackled in fright as he spoke.

  Because Turnatt knew that was the truth, his anger subsided a bit. He still growled slightly as he talked. “Flea-screech will bring back more slaves soon. There are cardinals and blue jays nearby. They’ll make good workers. Kill the sick slavebirds as soon as we have new ones,” he commanded, setting down his goblet. The silver reflected the rising sun and became blood red. “And tell the scout, Shadow, to come here.”

  “Yes, milord, yes, milord.” Slime-beak made his exit with springy, clumsy hops. The crow captain’s wings were tilted awkwardly as he walked, and the pungent smell of alcohol surrounded him like a thick mist.

  As soon as Slime-beak’s clawsteps faded, Shadow glided in. He was a striking raven with amber eyes instead of black. Turnatt mentioned the blue jays and cardinals to him.

  “Some cardinals and blue jays, you said, Your Majesty?” Shadow bowed his head respectfully and closed an amber eye. He seemed to melt in a puddle of darkness as he twirled the edge of his black cloak fancifully with a thin, bony claw. “Aye, sire, they’re north of us, not too far by the wing. We stole some food from their pitiful camps. Now each of them believes the others are thieves.” The scout reopened his eye and peered at the hawk. Turnatt growled his approval. Shadow beamed as he was offered a mug of beer, and he accepted it with ten times more flair than Slime-beak had. Sipping silently, he answered with words Turnatt would like to hear. “I will check on them again today and bring back some white grapes to make fine wine for you, Your Majesty. You are too noble for such a drink as beer, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, yes,” Turnatt urged. The effect of the liquor was starting to make the hawk lord drowsy. “Create even more disturbance and confusion for the cardinals and the blue jays. The more the better! Then they’ll be weaker when we attack!” The hawk’s eyes misted slightly. “Now go, Shadow.”

  The raven scout dipped his tail in salute and left, his amber eyes shining with eagerness. He uttered a flattering remark as he left: “You are the mighty conquerer, Your Majesty. Farewell.”

  As soon as the scout faded into the shadows of the hallway, Turnatt pictured a score of cardinals and blue jays in his power. Yes, he would whip some of them himself. Maybe he would pull feathers off a blue jay to make a fan and torture a cardinal with fire, watching his feathers get scorched… All the birds, his own! His own! Squawk, squawk, squawk. That’s what the birds would cry for mercy.

  Turnatt laughed out loud. “Squawk, squawk, squawk…” he mused, speaking to himself. “Yes, they deserve that.” From a shelf nearby he took out a tome entitled the Book of Heresy and started to stroke the cover lovingly.

  Outside the door Tilosses was eavesdropping, still wearing the apron as assistant to Turnatt’s cook. He had pressed a teacup to the door and drawn his ear close to it. “Oh, yes,” Tilosses said with a soft chuckle. “That’s what Turnatt will say after he finds out that the slavebirds have escaped. Squawk, squawk, squawk.”

  What does fighting bring us?

  Fear, hatred, misery, and death.

  – FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  4 THE BATTLE OF THE APPLEBY HILLS

  Without a word Skylion dashed out of Glenagh’s study to organize his troops. Already the yells of the cardinals were very close.

  “Seven to guard the food store, ten to protect the eggs and the weak birds! The rest of you, quick, form three rows, and go outside with backs to the trees! Hurry!” he hollered. The quiet halls were suddenly alive with action and noise. The blue jays took off from different perches and flew in quick formation to their assigned posts.

  Skylion drew his sword and burst from the shadows of the leaves out into the daylight. “Attack! Bluewingles forever!”

  They were greeted by the flashes of the cardinals’ swords and loud yells.

  “Power of the sun! Sunrise, charge!”

  The silent morning was instantly filled with clangs of metal. The cardinals circled warily, looking for the blue jays’ weak positions. The blue jays were cautious too, and whenever they sensed that the cardinals were aiming at a particular place, they sent more birds to fight there.

  At first the blue jays’ defenses seemed to be holding. But then a lean cardinal managed to slip through into the food store and back out again, unnoticed by others. He had a bag in his claw. Stolen food! Skylion spotted him. With a roar he charged upon the cardinal, and the cardinal waved his sword in response. They parried each other’s moves, their figures almost lost in the whirl of silver that was their blades. Finally, Skylion sliced the rope around the neck of the bag, and the sack dropped into the grass below. Relieved of his heavy burden so suddenly, the cardinal lost his balance. For a moment his defenses were down and his neck was exposed.

  Instinctively, Skylion raised his sword. Yet something in him stirred… The noises around him faded away into silence. Peace is more important, Skylion. Glenagh’s voice haunted him, and he could almost see the elder shaking his head disapprovingly. The blue jay leader felt weak and unsure. He couldn’t-just couldn’t-bring down his sword upon the young cardinal. The cardinal closed his eyes and tensed his neck, waiting for the blue jay’s blow…

  The noises of the battle returned. Skylion quickly shifted the angle of his blow so that the flat of the blade thumped on the cardinal’s shoulder.

  The cardinal opened his eyes and locked them for a second with Skylion’s. There was surprise in his eyes, and perhaps some gratitude. Then he was gone, disappearing behind the other battling birds.

  The blue jays held out stubbornly. Fighters from both sides were getting tired. The blue jays were light and agile in build, while the cardinals were muscular and heavy-framed. Slowly, very slowly, the blue jays drove the cardinals back toward the Line.

  There the cardinals decided to hold their ground and retreat no more. The battle would be decided on the tallest mound of the Appleby Hills. One minute the blue jays seemed to be winning, but the cardinals gained advantage in the next. The red mingled with the blue, fighting, beating, and yelling at one another.

  Shado
w, Turnatt’s scout, hid in a tall tree nearby, smiling cruelly at the fighting cardinals and blue jays. “It’s better than I thought!” he crackled. “Wait until His Majesty hears about this!”

  Aska had left the Bluewingle camp quietly that morning, before the attack by the cardinals. She was a pretty blue jay, with glossy feathers, a sweet voice, a graceful figure, and eyes that were like deep pools of dark chocolate. She sighed. The whole thing was too confusing for her to understand and to accept. The fights and battles. How did the cardinals ever become our enemies? We were good friends a month ago. Why not now? She missed seeing her best cardinal friends. She missed playing on the Appleby Hills, where the sun shone brightly and dandelions carpeted the ground, making the hills golden as far as the eye could see. It was now cardinal territory, and the blue jays stayed away. She missed the taste of the cardinals’ special raspberry pies with golden, honey-covered crusts and sweet, sticky fillings.

  The more Aska thought, the dizzier she became. Sitting alone on a quiet branch did not help. She looked around. A small creek gurgled peacefully nearby, and the fragrance of the early spring flowers drifted to her nostrils. The scene would normally make Aska happy, but not now.

  The blue jay, catching an uplift, rose unsteadily into the air. Thoughts whirled in her head as she flew in the direction she thought was toward home. She shut her eyes for a second to clear her thoughts. When she opened them, she found herself staring at shadows that floated in the air. The shadows moved toward her.

  Flea-screech grumbled unhappily. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal for four days. He and five soldiers had been sent out to capture woodbirds, but they had found nothing. He knew he would be punished if he came back with nothing more than half-starved soldiers.

  Living on thin acorn soup and dandelion roots was not the kind of life Flea-screech wanted. In despair he kicked the mossy ground. By chance a wad of moss hit another crow on his beak, muffling his surprised gurgle. Flea-screech stared angrily at the soldier, and the soldier stared back, each thinking of his own misery.

  Flea-screech’s thoughts were interrupted by an excited whisper: “Sir, there’s a blue jay flying not far from here who could be easily surrounded and captured!”

  Seconds later, the crows flew off toward the flying blue speck. It wouldn’t know what the shadows were until it was too late.

  “Help!” Aska screamed as she realized what was happening. Darting this way and that, she flew in complex patterns and then sped away, careless of her direction. The crows tried to surround her. She knew that they were bigger and heavier than she was, so she flew her fastest through thick, mazelike groves and bushes. The crashes and yells of pain told her that her plan was working. But the crows kept following.

  Fueled by her fright, she flew even faster. There were at least three birds behind her, or possibly even five. Aska shuddered at the thought. The dense bushes wouldn’t last forever, she knew. They ended only ten feet away. As she burst out into open air, another crow tried to block her path. She yelped in surprise and, seeing no other way to avoid a collision, zoomed under the bird. The dumbfounded crow shrieked with rage.

  “Oh, you sly blue jay!” Aska heard the crow cry. “Soldiers!” he yelled over the loud whooshing of their wings. “Chase that blue jay south toward Fortress Glooming! We’ll have it cornered!”

  Aska flew through strange and murky territories, neither blue jays’ nor cardinals’. She peered about for good places to hide. Her wings were getting sore from the flight. Oh, somebird help me! she thought, taking no notice of the rain that bounced off her shoulders and dampened her feathers.

  “You tricky blue jay! I’ll get you, me and my crew will!” The voices pursuing Aska were getting louder as the crows drew closer. After ducking under a bush and hearing the crows crash into it, Aska saw a startling scene, a half-built fortress towering over a great stretch of young birches and cedars, the height of a typical old pine tree. As her eyes swept down, she saw stone blocks piled on the ground, waiting to be used to build another wall. Through the rain she could make out a small patch of tall grass just beyond them. Gathering all her strength, she darted between the grass stalks, breathing hard. She heard the loud whoosh as her pursuers whizzed past, still yelling and howling.

  Aska’s feathers were damp, too damp for her to lift her wings and fly without difficulty. Her breath came in short gasps. The rain made a rhythmic sound on the grass leaves above her head. What was she going to do now?

  The road to success is full of thorns.

  – FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

  5 THE WOODBIRD IN THE GRASS

  Just as Aska encountered Flea-screech and his soldiers, the slavebirds were given a little break because rain threatened to fall. No soldier wanted to get wet standing guard as the slaves worked.

  Tilosses poked his head through the wooden bars of the slave compound and glanced at the gray sky. Quickly ducking in as a cold wind chilled him, the old sparrow sighed. Would the rain keep Miltin from carrying out his plan?

  Tilosses quickly looked up, beckoning Miltin over with a nod. The old sparrow told the robin all he had heard while eavesdropping on Turnatt’s conversations with Slime-beak and the scout, Shadow.

  “They are going to kill us when the fortress is finished,” Miltin whispered to himself. He thanked Tilosses for telling him the news and then fell silent, deep in thought.

  The slaves waited anxiously, having small and pointless conversations. Rain beat down on the wooden roof of the slave compound, making a dull rhythm as well as many bothersome drips that created wet spots on the dirty floor. Plip, plop, plip, plop. The wet spots became muddy puddles and finally small pools of brown water. The birds paid no mind. The rich smell of earth and worn wood filled the air. Miltin sat huddled in a corner with rags for blankets. He lowered his gaze and studied a pool of water intently. The puddle rippled every time a drop of water fell into it. Soon most of us will be killed, he thought. Many of the woodbirds in the forest will be captured by cruel Turnatt, just like the big mud puddle swallowing the small drops of the water from the roof. No! We can’t wait passively to be killed; we can’t allow new birds to be tortured and pinioned… The woodbirds can’t be captured! They are our only chance! He jumped up.

  “I’m going to ask Slime-beak for permission to gather wood now,” he said in a calm voice. He scanned all the birds in the crowd. Glipper gave him a wing tip-up. Tilosses nodded. The rest of the birds were looking at him. As unruffled as possible, Miltin spun on his heel and marched out of the slave compound.

  “Wow, I don’t know how he’ll do it, but he’s taking some risk,” a slavebird commented. “If he’s caught talking to a native woodbird…”

  Tilosses was anxious too. He wished luck to the robin with a worried smile.

  The rain was beating down harder than ever, creating a foglike curtain that concealed nearly everything. Turnatt growled unhappily, staring at the window and glancing at the door. The rain had halted work on the fortress. It made everything damp and forlorn. Turnatt nibbled at a roasted salmon that had gone cold within minutes. He washed the unappetizing meat down with white grape wine. The hateful rain! Anger boiled up in the hawk lord. He looked around, disgusted, and tightened his grip on the salmon carcass. The hawk growled again. He tossed the fish at the door just as it opened creakily. The salmon missed its target and hit Slime-beak full on the beak with a loud smack, causing him to stumble. Turnatt whipped his head around, his eye glaring. Slime-beak realized as he peeled the fish from his face that this wasn’t a good moment to talk to the hawk lord. But as he brushed sticky scales from his feathers, he knew that he couldn’t simply walk away. He was trapped.

  Turnatt let out a deafening yell of rage. All of his feathers stood up on end, making him look larger and more terrifying. Slime-beak shuddered slightly. He began to edge back through the door.

  “What business do you have here, you rubbish of a crow?” Turnatt thundered. “To make trouble, eh? I’ll send you to the torture rack before sunset.
That will teach you who’s in charge!” The mere mention of the rack chilled Slime-beak’s blood. He stared helplessly at the ground.

  “W-w-what did I do wrong, milord?” the crow captain squeaked out as he nervously twiddled with a piece of salmon tangled in his neck feathers. “I told Bug-eye to put the slavebirds on half rations and double work, made the soldiers run five laps every morning, and had them pay tribute to you as you told me to, milord. I made sure the old slavebird on kitchen duty wasn’t up to anything and I-”

  Turnatt scowled. “Silence, crow!” he boomed. The whole place shook with the impact of the piercing voice, and the crow captain stopped picking at the fish, only to whimper in fright. His small, beady eyes were darting around nervously. Turnatt continued: “I hear that you and your birds have been slacking too much. The soldiers are too lazy and fat! And now you’re planning to let a slave outside to gather firewood. Have you ordered a soldier as an overseer?”

  “N-no, milord…but he has t-to check with me before he g-goes, milord-”

  “Oh, you crow! Haven’t you got any brains?”

  “Milord! Even if he escapes, it’s just one slavebird!”

  “No, no. I don’t think you’ve got any brains at all! What if the slave finds the native woodbirds? My plans will be ruined. Ruined! To think that you are a captain! Why, crow, you’re not even fit for a soldier. Find that slave! Go out in the rain and be his overseer! One more false move and you’ll feel the consequences of such actions, worthless crow!” The words were nearly enough to make Slime-beak faint from dread. But he was too frightened to fall.

  Lord Turnatt stared down at the crow captain. His eye narrowed into a glowing golden slit that hypnotized the crow. “Well?” the hawk demanded. “Get!” All of a sudden Slime-beak felt his feet again. With an unexpected burst of energy, the crow dashed off on wobbly legs, stumbling twice, with the hawk’s voice still ringing in his ears.