by Jill Harris
The outcasts neglected their grooming and their black and white feathers became bedraggled. They fought, using their long beaks and powerful claws to stab and rake each other in the scramble for food. After a while, a ruthless leader emerged.
He used their anger to make them strong, and turned their grievance into vengeance. They smartened themselves up and stopped fighting one another. Now they were changed from a quarrelsome rabble into a team of fighters.
“There is no place among us for the weak, the slow or the hesitant,” whispered the big bird as every other bird strained to catch his words — he never raised his voice. “Each must prove his worth as we go forth to seize what we need. Where there is food, we shall have it. Where there is roosting space, we shall occupy it. Where there are nests, we shall raid them. Whoever stands in our way, we shall destroy. And any bird who does not prove his worth will be punished the first time and killed the second. Is that clear?”
“Yes!” screeched the birds.
“Louder!” whispered the big bird.
“YES!” came the harsh scream. It filled the sky and other creatures in the air shivered while those on the ground crept to safety.
But the bird with the twisted claw trembled. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the others. He slid his eyes around looking for the small bird whom he sensed was also afraid. Their eyes met but they looked away swiftly.
He remembered the first time he had seen him, hunkered miserably in the bony tree where he, himself, had flown for refuge, still numb from the incident with his mother.
“You have to go now,” she had whispered desperately. “Before the lightening. They’ll kill you if they find you’re still here.”
“But this is my home,” he whispered back. “I was born here. Where can I go?”
“Somewhere else.”
“What about Pretty?”
“She’s a female. Only the males have to leave.”
Confusion and dread made his heart beat faster. Where would he find food and water? Where could he roost at night? No one would take him in, he knew that. They were hated, magpies.
“Go! Now!” she hissed. “There’s still enough darkness left.”
“I don’t want to leave you.” His voice trembled.
She hopped closer. He saw her familiar shape just visible against the stars. She lunged and knocked him hard off the branch. He staggered sideways, his useless claw scrabbling for grip, and fell. As he flew away he let out a cry of despair.
Now feelings were a luxury he couldn’t afford as he tried desperately to earn his place in the team of outcasts, all, like him, pushed out of their families. The outcasts hunted alone and in a pack. No small animal was safe from their gripping claws and cruel beaks. They swept through patches of bush and drove the birds before them into the waiting clutches of their fellow outcasts. They found cast sheep and pecked at their eyes. They sought out the old and the defenceless.
And all the while the big bird circled above the action, watching intently. Afterwards, those who had not been fierce enough or fast enough, were brought before the others and punished. A few were killed by the big bird himself, who then ate his fill.
When the worst of the winter had passed and the wind came from the north-east, the flock rose like a smudge of smoke against the white, pearl sky, and climbed higher and higher before wheeling west across the range towards the sea.
“Thanks be,” murmured all who saw them go, and the news spread across fields and bush as fast as cloud shadows racing over the land.
3.
A Game of Floop
BRON and Sil had the arena to themselves. They perched near the top of the pohutukawa tree and discussed the rules.
“We launch from the usual place,” said Bron. “Fast dive as far as the dead totara, then steep turn left and up, double loop, dive again towards this tree, pull up right, double loop, dive again and land in the manuka thicket.”
“You reckon you can slow down enough to land in a bush? Even Bek wouldn’t try that on.”
“You scared or something? We nearly pulled it off last time. At least there’s no wind today.”
Sil remembered the headlong crash into the thicket and the feathers he’d lost. “It’s all very well for you,” he grumbled. “I’ve got to look all right for the competitions and I got into trouble over those feathers.”
“You are scared!” said Bron. “Never mind, little fella, I’ll go first.”
Sil lunged at her but she hopped quickly along the branch and cackled and wheezed at wing’s length.
“Tell you what,” said Bron. “We can leave out the second lot of loops and just land on this tree for starters. Second time round we do the whole thing.”
“You’re on,” agreed Sil. “I’ll go first.”
“Hey, what about girls first?” said Bron.
“Oh, yeah,” said Sil, “girls nothing!” and he was off.
He flew up the glade towards the big berry tree, which lifted its head above the others. He kept an eye open for other tuis. The tree didn’t belong to any one family — it was too big and too important. Everyone shared the berries, but not at the same time. You took your turn until another family drove you off. Even though the berries wouldn’t come till later, he wasn’t taking any chances.
A family from the next bay was there. Sil knew them slightly from last year’s competitions. He glided in closer. “I’m just using the tree for a floop launching pad,” he called.
They made no effort to chase him off so he landed on one of the highest branches. The sun caught his black feathers and turned them green and bronze. He flexed his wings and tail and stretched out his head. A passing breeze stirred the white feathers on his throat. The great tree seemed to sway and creak of its own volition. What’s it telling me, he wondered.
Sil felt like the king of the bush up here. He was excited and scared about the dive. You never really knew what Bron was feeling; she was always so determined to do things better than anyone else. His mother called her a thorough tomboy. Most of the boys wouldn’t include her, but neither would the girls. “She’s rough,” said Bel, “and she doesn’t want to talk about things.” But Sil liked her. She gave everything a go. She said just what she thought. And you could count on her. “You’re nearly as good as a boy,” he would say when he wanted to wind her up.
He looked down the corridor curving between the bush, noticing the branches reaching into the blue-shadowed pockets and sunlit bends. Just as well the sun would be behind him — a sudden, blinding dazzle could spell disaster at that speed. His eyes followed the course to the pohutukawa tree where Bron was waiting. The straighter he flew, the better; but he would need to veer slightly to avoid the branches. Shafts of sunlight altered the perspective and made it tricky to estimate the distances. They should be doing this first thing in the morning, he thought. He noticed insects flying across the great void of the corridor and felt hungry.
“Get a move on!” Bron’s voice reached him thinly.
Sil breathed in deeply and flexed again. He breathed out slightly and pushed off hard. Immediately the wind forced his wings against his sides and stung his eyes. The bush was a green blur and branches rushed at him. He veered right too sharply and felt himself rocking almost out of control. He managed to straighten up as he plummeted, faster and faster. All the air was forced from his air sacs. He was running out of time and the dead totara was in view.
He strained to spread his tail feathers and wings against the rush of air. Nothing happened. The dead tree flashed by in a white blur. His eyes watered and he couldn’t breathe. He no longer cared about beating Bron, he just wanted to stay alive. He stretched his head out and up and felt a slight lessening of speed, just enough to move his right wing away from his body. His tail feathers began to spread, and with terrifying slowness the headlong rush was checked. He forced his beak sideways and the rest of his body gradually followed. He levelled off briefly before the momentum carried him up into a fast, dizzy loop, then
he was plunging again.
The pohutukawa tree was just below him, with its broad, rough branches. Perhaps the thick foliage would slow him and he might be able to grip the bark. What had Bek told him about coming in to land at speed? “Use your tail as a brake and force the lower edges of your wings in towards your body and tilt the upper edges out. And keep your beak up.”
Sil headed in towards the tree. His wings and tail would hardly obey him and he was still travelling at speed when he hit the tree. His claws scrabbled desperately at a branch and somehow gripped. His legs felt as though they were being pulled out of his body and twigs gouged into his breast and head. But he was safe. He clung to the branch, trembling violently, his eyes closed tight.
When he opened them, Bron was perched close by. “Are you all right? What happened?”
Sil just stared. His head was still spinning. “I couldn’t slow down,” he said at last. “I couldn’t get my wings to work. It felt as though they were glued to my sides. Once you’ve started you don’t get time to work out what to do.”
“You came straight down like an arrow,” said Bron. “You started too fast instead of building up to it. Maybe we need to put in more loops sooner. My turn. Show you how to do it, okay?”
“Don’t!” said Sil. “It’s really scary — and dangerous. You don’t realise how out of control it is. You can’t even breathe.”
“Yeah, but I’m better at flying than you,” she said. “And I’m not so heavy, so I won’t speed up so fast. I’ll launch more gently. Don’t you see, I have to give it a go, otherwise we’ll both be too scared to play floop again.”
Suddenly a loud whirring filled the air and one of the tuis from the big berry tree swooped in next to them.
“You stupid, young idiot!” he snapped at Sil. “You could have killed yourself with that dive. Your wings haven’t grown enough to tackle something as dangerous as that. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”
Sil hunched his head down and Bron stared at the bird. The older tui looked more closely at Sil. “You’re Young Silver Song, aren’t you? You won the junior competition last summer. What are you up to, taking such risks? A voice like yours doesn’t come along every day. You should be looking after it. I’ve a good mind to fly you back to your tree and tell your father what you’ve been up to.”
Bron looked up. “It’s my fault,” she said. “I set the rules. I don’t think Sil would have done it if I hadn’t teased him about being scared.”
“He’s quite big enough to be sensible for himself. You should have started from lower down and built in a lot more loops. And you should have zigzagged down. How much landing practice have you done?”
Sil found his voice. “Heaps! We often come here to practise. We always launch from the big berry tree. We usually come in to land on the dead tree halfway down, but this time we wanted to go further. And it’s not Bron’s fault. I didn’t have to go first.”
The big bird was looking a little more friendly. “You need to wait for your next moult before tackling something like this again. Your feathers will come through stronger and longer and, essentially, it’s about being able to spread them out even when the air is forcing them shut. It was a good move to lift your head and point in the direction you were trying to go. That saved you from a very nasty accident.”
The bird checked the angle of the sun. “They’re waiting for me up there,” he said. “We have to get home. Promise me you’ll go straight home and no more fooling around. And tell the truth about those scratches on your head. Go on, off you go.”
4.
The Hideout
SIL and Bron flew down past the manuka trees and out of the arena. Sil still felt wobbly and his legs hurt. At the macrocarpa tree they landed among the tough, feathery leaves. Sil felt safe. This was where he sorted himself out.
But as they made their way towards the centre of the tree, Sil felt an anxiety he couldn’t pin down. It seemed more important than usual to make sure they weren’t seen. They perched close to one of the massive forks. Here in their secret place, wherever the wind came from, it was sheltered. The thick foliage hid them. This high they were beyond the range of smaller birds and cats. They could just see the pond and, best of all, no one knew about the hideout.
But was that really true? Again Sil had the strange feeling that something was different — something worrying that floated just out of reach. He stared around him. What was he expecting to see? I’m imagining things again, he thought, and turned his attention to finding something to eat.
As the two birds busied themselves hunting for insects, the dark green foliage shifted and sighed around them, giving them glimpses of the sea. The great tree creaked and murmured to itself.
Sil looked across to Bron with bright eyes. “You stupid, young idiot!” he mimicked. “You could have killed yourself with that dive.” They started to giggle.
“That bird was a pain in the tail!” said Bron. “None of his business what we were doing. They treat us like babies, some of those grown-ups. If my father hears about it, he’ll blame me for leading you astray.” She grinned. “Poor little Silly bird!” She dodged Sil’s beak “You had a go and I didn’t. It’s not fair. When can we try it again? Whatever you do, don’t promise your parents you won’t play floop again.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Sil. “But Pip’s got a way of pinning you down.”
He looked at the shadows on the road below. “Shucks! I shouldn’t be here! I was on nest guard ages ago. I’m off.”
They touched raised wings. “Seeya!”
Sil flew strongly upwards before wheeling off over the brown house. The puppy was fooling around on the lawn and the man was digging the garden. A large black and white bird sat on the fence watching the turned soil closely. That must be a magpie. Sil had never seen one before and wondered what it was doing in the valley. He won’t take any risks with that puppy around, he thought. Those worms will live to see another day.
He was late home, with scratches on his head that his mother would see instantly. He rehearsed explanations in his head as he flew. “I misjudged a landing.” That was partly true but she’d want to know exactly what happened. “Tor had a go at me in the bottlebrush tree.” She might check that out with Tor himself. “I was attacked by a falcon.” She’d want to know all about the fight.
No, he’d settle for the first and provide more detail only if pressed. With luck the bird from the next bay wouldn’t say anything.
As it happened, Mem was so annoyed with him for being late that she just snapped at him and said she and Bel would come back when it suited them, and he’d just have to go hungry till they returned. She had no idea where Bek and Pip had gone, she said, or when they’d be back. Then she and Bel were off, swooping down towards the sea.
Sil liked being on his own. He sat where he could see the half-finished nest. Mem had put it where a broad branch forked, with leaves bunched around to make it invisible from most angles and sheltered from the wind. It was above the family branches, away from the constant coming and going, but with the same great view. The fork made a platform which would be useful for feeding the babies and as a safe launching pad for the fledglings. He knew his mother was building another nest, too, “just in case”, as she put it without going into details.
Mem was smart, and this nest was coming along well. She was lining the foundation of manuka twigs with the black hair from a tree fern and weaving in little spots of colour using feathers and human stuff she’d picked up from park and beach. It wasn’t so long since he himself had nestled in such soft warmth, looking up at the outline of head and wings against the sky. He remembered how the little puffs of white on the throat disappeared when the head bent towards him with its full beak. How many days old was he then, he wondered, and how long afterwards was the storm?
How many eggs would there be this time? Bek had been one of three, though the only one to be hatched alive. He and Bel had both survived though it had been touch and go. Bel ha
d hatched several hours ahead of him and she never let him forget it. Maybe one of the new clutch would hold another singer. They would know before the hatching because they would hear the chirping inside the shell. He’d made a great deal of noise before he was born, Pip had said.
He wasn’t altogether sure he’d like having another singer in the family. He admitted to himself that he quite liked the attention and, despite all his complaining, he enjoyed the singing and wanted to be a good — no, a fine — singer.
A flash of white caught his eye further up the glade. He watched for a while but saw nothing more. He was left feeling uneasy, as though he himself was being watched. He’d had that feeling quite recently — but where? He didn’t like puzzles, especially when he was on guard. He sent out the family’s call. If another bird was anywhere near, they’d realise they were getting too close and send back their own call. You didn’t fly into another family’s space without being invited. If you did it by mistake, you apologised and flew away. It was good manners and it kept the peace.
But there was no answering call and no further movement. After a while Sil stopped thinking about it and turned his mind to his new song. He was getting into a big and risky project. There was a lot to do. He’d have to find out more about humans’ music — he wasn’t sure how yet. It wouldn’t be easy to stop Tor, or anyone else, from hearing what he was doing. How could he break through the suspicion about humans long enough for the audience — and the song-judges — to listen to the song properly?
Despite all his misgivings, Sil was sure of one thing. He didn’t want to do the same old thing, even if he did it perfectly. He was bored with all those spectacular runs and the jumps from deep, throaty, grating noises to chiming bell notes. That’s what the audience would want, he knew, but not him. He wanted to break through into something completely new.
